How To Seduce A Duke

on the metal edge of the cushioned seat. Not that the clamp of four fingers would prevent her from being hurled from the phaeton if the duke took the next corner at such speed.

“Your Grace, please.” She saw him glance at her. “I believe your invitation was for a ride in Hyde Park.”

“It was.” His voice was barely audible over the roar of the wheels on the road.

“Then please rein in the horses,” she shouted frantically. “Else we shall never reach the park… alive.”

Blackstone laughed and pulled back on the reins. The horses, their sides already glistening and heaving from the exertion, slowed to a far saner trot.

Mary’s own breathing, however, was still at a canter. She laid her hand to her chest and did her best to steady her senses.

The duke pulled the left rein and angled his team to the side of the road. “If I frightened you, Miss Royle, I do apologize. I have only just acquired the conveyance and the matched pair. I was wondering how the phaeton would perform at a good clip, and I suppose I let my musings leap from my mind and into Oxford Street.”

“You are obviously far more accustomed to riding than driving.” Mary felt one eyebrow rise. “Mayhap I should take the ribbons. I likely have far more experience than you, Your Grace. Why, I drove a gig to church on Sundays. I began ten years ago.” She gave her head a confident nod.

Yes, it was a jab to his ribs. A necessary jab, however, if she wanted to survive this jaunt to Hyde Park.

“Splendid idea, Miss Royle.”

“W-what?”

Blackstone handed the reins over to Mary, then leapt from the phaeton to the road. He strode around the back of the vehicle, pausing beside Mary. “Just slide across the seat to the other side. I find it more natural to drive from there. You might as well.” He shooed her across the seat. “You offered, I accepted. You shall take the reins, and I shall relax and enjoy the view from this side.”

“But-”

He knocked his knuckles against the upper edge of the phaeton, then he flashed her a bright smile. “Come now. Do not tarry.”

Mary knew she had no choice.

There was only one small hitch to the situation.

She had actually only taken the gig’s reins twice. Once on a Sunday ten years ago, and then again when she had had to transport the reverend to give her father his last rites.

Blast.

With a slight snap of the leather reins, Mary urged the horses slowly, very slowly, down Oxford Street toward Hyde Park.

From time to time she heard a frustrated shout, or a string of lively oaths, and a moment later a red-faced hackney driver, an angry coachman, or a scowling drayman would roar past the phaeton waving a wild fist or whip in the air.

At first she attributed the rude rebukes to a pitiful lack of patience. Nothing she had done.

After the second or third hackney driver jeered at her as his vehicle overtook the phaeton, however, it finally occurred to her that perhaps she could free up the reins a little bit.

Still, she did not entertain this thought overlong. To her way of thinking, it truly did not matter how hard she drove the duke’s team, but rather how straight a course she could maintain, given her limited experience with a pair of ribbons in her grip.

Besides, if she walked the horses any faster, she knew the chances of losing control and toppling the phaeton were probably as high as if the duke had still been driving. Therefore, it seemed logical to her to handle the team conservatively.

At one point, from the corner of her eye, she observed Blackstone tipping his hat to a pair of ladies walking on the flagway beside the phaeton. Several minutes later, Mary caught a glimpse of the pair walking beside the phaeton again. Or rather…still.

No, this cannot be.

“Are those the same women we passed a few minutes ago? Surely not.”

“The women we passed?” He chuckled. “We never passed them. They have been strolling alongside the phaeton for some time now. You do maintain quite the leisurely pace.”

Mary felt her cheeks heat. “The street is busy this day. And, well, taking the reins of a gig is one thing, driving a high-perch phaeton clearly another, Your Grace.”

“Your Grace.” The duke groaned. “My dear Miss Royle, I realize that ’twas only this morn that I worried you over the proper way to address me, but every time I hear you refer to me as ‘Your Grace,’ I find myself looking over my shoulder for my father. Do me the honor, please, of calling me by my Christian name-Rogan.”

Mary blinked. “I do not believe I can manage that, Your Grace. After all, we hardly know each other. Blackstone, perhaps?”

“No, I think not. I hear Blackstone too often from the mouths of gentlemen at the track, or the clubs.” He reached across, gently took the reins from her hands, and clucked to the team. “Only Quinn calls me Rogan, and I own it has been far too long since I heard my given name roll softly from a woman’s lips. I rather miss that.” He snapped the reins, and the horses hastened to a trot.

A tremor raced through Mary’s body, and she stiffened.

Pressed against her as he was, the duke noticed her reaction. “I think you misunderstood my comment, Miss Royle.” He turned his face toward hers. He wasn’t even looking at the road.

“Have I?” Mary swung her head around and stared at the street before them. “There’s a hackney just ahead. Do take heed.”

But still he looked at her as he drove. “I only meant, Miss Royle, that my grandmother was the last woman to speak my name with kindness. And that was many years ago.”

Mary held her eyes wide and stared ever forward. She curled her fingers around the lip of the seat cushion again. “Surely there have been others…lady friends, for instance. The hackney. Oh, God. Look out for the hackney!”

“You are aware of my black reputation, Miss Royle. Some of what you have heard is naught but exaggeration and hearsay, but I would venture to say that other parts are true enough. And, I must admit, the story that I never favor a woman long enough for my beard to darken my face, well, that claim is not too many steps from the truth.”

The duke turned his eyes forward just long enough to swerve the team to the right and avoid plowing into the very-solid looking hackney. Then he leveled his gaze upon her once more. “Only those closest to me call me Rogan.”

His voice, so low and rich, hummed through her as deeply as the rumble of the wheels on the road. “I beg your pardon, but it hardly could be said that I have earned such a distinction.”

“But you will. I can feel it.” He smiled at her.

“I fear you must explain yourself, else I shall believe that you suppose too much.” A town carriage was crossing the road only twenty strides before the phaeton. “Please, Your Grace, do humor me by looking ahead. The street is teeming with vehicles.”

“My dear Miss Royle, my brother believes he may have found a kindred spirit in you. My every instinct tells me that you will forge some sort of connection with our family. We should be friends, at the very least. Do you not agree?”

Could this really be true? He wished to be friends? “Yes, Your Grace, I see your point. It is only logical to assume we will be in each other’s company quite often, so I agree, we should be friends.”

“So please, call me Rogan, even if only when no others will hear. Do it as a favor to me-your friend.”

“Very well, if you will do me the favor of watching the road before us.” Mary collected a deep breath in her lungs to prepare for the moment the phaeton would careen into the carriage.

“Very well, who?” A teasing grin sat upon his lips as the moment of sure impact grew more imminent.

“Very well-Rogan!” Mary closed her eyes. “Yes, I shall call you Rogan. And you may