How To Seduce A Duke

Cherie.

She could never have imagined such a predicament as she now found herself in.

She thought that when she and Rogan had returned to the Saloon Theatre, they had had a fair chance to convince the vicar of their mistake and persuade him to destroy the license and pretend that the wedding had never occurred.

It might have taken a generous donation to the church, but they at least had had a chance, since only a few minutes had passed.

Such was no longer the situation.

When they’d reentered the Saloon Theatre and inquired about the whereabouts of the vicar, they’d promptly been informed by Lord Lotharian that Mr. Archer had gone.

From what Mary could gather, the vicar’s sister had rushed into the saloon only moments before, upset and agitated, her eyes full of tears because her headstrong daughter had run off to Gretna Green with the household’s handsome young footman.

The vicar quit the Heroes’ Fete at once, and now he and his sister were in desperate pursuit of the runaway young couple.

In just a few minutes, Rogan and Mary would be in pursuit of him as well.

Mary opened a handkerchief and scooped into its middle a boar’s hair brush, horn comb, a clutch of hairpins, and a few small pots and bottles from her dressing table. She tied the handkerchief into a small bundle and whirled around to call again for Cherie.

But the maid was already behind her, pulling the half-packed portmanteau from beneath the tester bed, where it had been left when Mary had thought to return to the country.

Cherie opened the case, then hurried to the clothespress and returned with two chemises, pantaloons, and stockings. She plucked the toiletries from Mary’s hand, settled those inside, then belted the portmanteau closed.

She turned her dark, questioning eyes up to Mary.

Mary sighed. “The duke and I were married this evening.” She held out her hand and showed the maid the golden ring encircling her finger.

Cherie smiled brightly and nodded her head excitedly.

“No, I am not happy. It was a mistake. Neither of us wanted this, and so we are leaving to find the vicar and see this farce of a marriage put to an end before it is too late.”

Cherie reached out and ran her tiny index finger over the golden wedding ring. The maid lifted the ringed hand and laid it atop Mary’s heart.

Mary looked from the ring glittering on her finger to Cherie’s intense, chocolate-brown eyes.

Her throat suddenly felt raw. She made to lower her hand to her side, but the little maid pressed it back to her heart.

“No. It was a mistake.”

Cherie did not remove her gaze from Mary.

“I am not in love with him.”

Mary tried to reach past Cherie to grab the leather-wrapped handle of the portmanteau, but the maid caught her arms and held her still.

She took up Mary’s hand and, for the third time, set it atop her heart.

Mary’s eyes began to burn. “It doesn’t matter what I feel anyway, Cherie. Even if I did love him,” she said, her voice shaking, “our joining was not meant to be. To him, I am naught but a country miss, far beneath his notice.”

The maid lifted her tiny hand to Mary’s cheek. It was all that was needed to send a tear plummeting down her face.

Mary grabbed the portmanteau and turned for the door. She stopped before taking a single step.

Rogan’s huge form darkened the entire doorway.

Without an invitation, he walked straight into her chamber, which was quite shocking to Mary, but then, he was her husband.

Lud, her husband.

At least for a few more hours. Or days. Certainly not for weeks.

He took the portmanteau from her. “Is there anything else you need for the journey? We must away.”

Mary’s gaze flitted about the bedchamber until it lit on her father’s book of maladies. She snatched it up, in the event a headache on her wedding night just didn’t suffice. “Just this.”

Then, as if she felt she might never come home again, Mary pulled petite Cherie into her arms and hugged her good-bye.

More than an hour had passed, neither of them speaking, when Mary realized they had not collected Rogan’s clothing from his home on Portman Square.

The silence bothered her like an insect buzzing around her head. When she could endure it no more, she decided to mention his oversight. “You haven’t any change of clothing.”

As if her voice was an affront to the hush of the cabin, he turned his face from the window, and his gaze impaled her.

“I do not consider you beneath my notice.” His words were precisely spoken, as though he’d practiced them countless times.

She dropped her eyes beneath his unyielding gaze. He had heard her when she’d been talking to Cherie. Oh, my God.

“At the very least, you might need nightclothes,” she added, hoping to redirect the uneasy conversation.

“I do not wear nightclothes.” There was such a sharp edge to his voice that she flinched.

“Oh.” She lifted her eyes and turned her gaze out the window, suddenly anxious to escape his overwhelming presence. “Nor do I,” she muttered, hoping to shatter the tension between them. But she heard no laugh, no muted chuckle. Nothing.

“Mary, look at me,” Rogan finally said. He reached across the aisle and grasped her hand. “Look at me…please.”

His touch forced her attention.

She did as he asked and looked up. A burst of bronze within his dark brown eyes seemed to glow in the light of the carriage lantern.

But what she saw there in his eyes was not at all what she had expected. There was no shadow of anger residing there, only naked regret.

Tenderly, he ran his thumb along her bare hand. “I was wrong, Mary. I erred in my every thought about you, my every presumption, my every prejudice. I should have listened to what my heart told me. But I didn’t.”

He leaned his head back and gazed at the ceiling. “For years, I have shielded myself, and of late even my brother, from the pain of giving my affection, my heart, to someone who did not care for me but rather for my title and my position.”

Rogan lifted his head from the rest and looked at her, his eyes dark and liquid. “I doubted everyone’s motives, no matter the situation, distrusted every woman.”

Mary felt her heart clench at the emotion in his words, in his eyes. She rose and sat down next to him. Hesitantly, she reached up and rested her hand comfortingly on his shoulder. “Who hurt you? Who did this to you?”

He stiffened then and shrugged her hand from his coat. “No one hurt me. I learned a valuable lesson, that’s all.” He set his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands.

Mary was very still and silent. She wanted to comfort him.

She stretched out her arm and touched his shoulder again. “Who did this to you?” she repeated.

Rogan turned his head and looked at her. “She didn’t hurt me. She hurt my father. She pretended to love him, pretended to love me. But shortly after they married, she showed herself for who she truly was. Her affection, her kindness, her love-it was all an act. She only wanted his money. That’s all she ever wanted.”

“Your stepmother?” she asked hesitantly.

Rogan nodded and turned away to look out the window at the rolling countryside. “She hurt him, hurt him badly.”