How To Seduce A Duke

parlor.

He was such a fool.

He’d been so convinced that Quinn was the guinea-eyed wench’s target that he had not seen her greedy scheme to snare him coming.

Damn it all, but she was good.

So comely and innocent, yet so skilled in seduction that he had not been able to refuse her.

Hadn’t wanted to.

The way she’d made him feel, by God, he’d never wanted any woman so badly.

As he passed the settee, he stopped and dropped back into it.

Where the hell was Quinn? He had to tell him what happened. Had to confess.

Rogan set his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. But then, he could not tell his brother, could he?

For all he knew, Quinn might really love the chit-even if the clever country gel wasn’t even close to deserving his affections.

Rogan lifted his head from his hands and slammed his fist on the walnut tea table before him.

How could he have been so blind, so stupid?

He came to his feet and hastened to the open windows and peered out into the dark and deserted square so late at night.

It was nearly two o’clock in the morn. Quinn and Lady Tidwell had left the musicale hours ago. Just where the hell was he?

Rogan leaned back against the narrow portion of the plaster wall near the left window and banged the back of his head against it.

He’d spent the past two hours mulling over what had happened and his options.

But as far as he could reckon, he had but one course of action.

One that mightn’t break his brother’s heart.

One that might slip the notice of the on-dit columnists’ weekly smudges of ink.

One choice.

Rogan’s body slid down the wall, folding like an accordion fan. He closed his eyes, resigned to the truth of his predicament.

He had to marry Miss Royle.

Damn her.

He opened his eyes again when the clock in the passage tinged the sixth hour and he heard the click of the front door closing.

“Quinn? Is that you?”

He heard footsteps in the passage, then his brother peered into the parlor. “Rogan? What the deuce are you doing awake? Just came home yourself, did you?”

“No.” Rogan struggled to his feet. “I’ve been waiting here for you-for some time now.”

A dark red suffused the pale skin of Quinn’s cheeks. “Got me.”

Rogan was not in the mind to play fools’ games. “Where were you?”

“You’re a gentleman. Ought not ask such a question.”

“Where were you?”

“Damn it, Rogan. I am sure you know the answer.” Quinn moved his cane forward and walked stiffly into the parlor. “I was with her.”

“Lady Tidwell.”

“Yes. I am not proud of my behavior.” He clicked his way to the settee and sat down.

“Why not?” Rogan’s tone was harsher than he intended, but somehow it served him better if Quinn was already riled when he admitted his rakish deed.

“She is fragile. My God, she’s a widow.”

“Obviously, that didn’t deter you, Quinn.”

Quinn narrowed his eyes at Rogan. “Why so dark this morning? I would think, given your own proclivities, you mightn’t be so judgmental.” He exhaled slowly. “I have no doubt that you are already aware that Lady Tidwell and I left the festivities early.”

“I am. But that does not explain why you are slipping into my house like a thief before dawn.”

“She was feeling sad. The orchestra played a concerto that her husband had especially enjoyed.”

Rogan said nothing. He folded his arms over his chest and waited for Quinn to continue, lest he be set into the uncomfortable task of explaining his own base behavior this night.

“I took her to her home and tried to comfort her. She was inconsolable at first, but then she softened and warmed to my presence.”

“Oh, good Lord.”

“Deuce it, Rogan, I did not intend for my relationship with Lady Tidwell to progress. I am quite fond of Miss Royle. But…” His gaze shifted to the cold hearth and remained there.

Rogan sighed, feeling some modicum of relief.

Oh, he knew he should admit all to his brother now, while Quinn swam about in his own guilt. But he was who he was, after all. And what good would hurting his brother do anyone?

Met with silence, Quinn raised his eyes to Rogan’s. “I…I think I have feelings for her.”

Rogan straightened. “For Miss Royle?”

Quinn shook his head. “No, no. I thought I might have, that is, until I came to know Lady Tidwell this evening.”

“You can’t tell Miss Royle.”

“What? Why not? I must. It is the honorable road to take.”

“It might be the proper course, but it might also break her heart.” Rogan came to stand before the settee. “Have you not considered that she may be in love with you?”

“I have. I have considered it.” Quinn’s chest seemed to puff out heroically. “Which is why I must confess.”

“Confession will only ease your own conscience. It will not help her.”

“Then what, pray, do you suggest, Rogan?”

“Let me do what I promised. Let me stand for you. Let me court Miss Royle in your stead.”

Quinn shook his head in apparent disbelief. “What possible good could that do her, or anyone?”

“Why, I might win her heart.”

“Win her-what?” Quinn sputtered. “Why would you do this?”

For a moment, Rogan actually considered telling Quinn the truth. But only a breath later, he thought better of it. Confession would only ease his own conscience. “Because perhaps it is time I set aside my bachelor’s ways and find a wife myself.”

Quinn’s mouth fell wide open. “God’s teeth. I never thought I’d hear you speak those words!”

“Well, now you have.”

And soon, Mary will hear those words as well.

When the rising sun broke through Mary’s window and fell across her face, she awoke with a start.

“Glad to see you are finally awake.” Anne was seated in the spindle chair beside Mary’s tester bed, and Elizabeth was standing before the window, sweeping her finger across a roundel of condensation.

“What is the hour?” Mary rubbed her eyes.

“Almost seven,” Elizabeth replied, then opened her mouth and blew a burst of hot breath on the window.

“So early?” Mary pulled herself into a sitting position and pulled out a pin that dangled from her hair before her eyes. “I am aware that the two of you returned home early last night, but I did not, and I could have used more sleep.”

“Oh, we know you returned late.” Anne’s lips were pursed bitterly.

“We carried you to your room.” Elizabeth pressed her finger to the window and drew a heart. “Well, the Duke of Blackstone carried you here, and Cherie set you into your nightdress and put you to bed.”

Anne skewered Mary with the sharpest of gazes. “We could not believe what was happening, and so we stood back and watched. My word, Mary. The Black Duke laid you into bed. There simply must be a logical explanation for