How To Seduce A Duke

She smiled, then playfully shook her finger at him. “Back away, Blackstone. My chin is already quite red enough.”

Rogan tucked in his shirt, then caught her hand holding the mirror and raised it up before him so he could tie his neckcloth properly.

Or, at least as well as a gentleman unaccustomed to dressing himself could possibly do.

He had just finished when Mary caught the scent of frying rashers. Her stomach growled. “Shall we take breakfast before boarding the carriage?”

“Absolutely.” There was a glint of humor in his tone. “I shall need all the strength I can muster if I am to spend another day in the carriage with you.”

With a grin playing at her lips, Mary picked up her book, cape, and reticule, and watched Rogan as he shrugged his coat over his broad shoulders and picked up her valise.

She sighed quietly, willing away the wicked thoughts burgeoning in her mind. Such a gloriously formed man.

Rogan opened the door for Mary. As she turned her head to look at him when she passed through the doorway, her preoccupation with him hardly went unnoticed.

Mary walked straight into a gentleman who had picked that moment to pass their room.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon, madam,” he began, as he backed out of Mary’s path.

“The fault was mine, sir,” she interrupted. “Please do forgive m-me-” Mary felt the blood siphon from her face. “Mr. Archer!”

“Good morn, Vicar,” Rogan said, perfectly poised and bursting with confidence. “Just the gentleman we had hoped to see this day.”

Rogan stepped in front of Mary, who, it seemed, could not draw forth another word.

“Saints be praised, Your Grace!” The vicar hurriedly bowed. “What splendid coincidence, meeting you and Her Grace on the road.” He glanced at Mary and belatedly bowed to her.

“Not a coincidence at all. We tracked you through the night, inquiring whenever we stopped for fresh horses as to whether you’d passed that way or not.”

“Did you now?” The vicar glanced nervously behind him, down the passage.

“You are crushing your hat, sir,” Mary noted.

And so he was. Mr. Archer was wringing his hat as tightly as if it had been soaked all night in a washtub. His face glowed like a beacon, and a sprinkling of sweat dotted his forehead.

A heavy woman, nearly twice the weight of the vicar, shuffled up the passage toward them. “I’m coming. I’m coming, my dear.”

Rogan swept her with a curious gaze.

When the woman reached the vicar, she gave him a nudge. “Thank you for waiting for me.” She gave Rogan an appreciative glance but paid no attention to Mary. “Won’t you introduce me to your friend, Archie?”

The vicar could not quite hide the apprehension in his eyes. “Your Grace, Your Grace,” he nodded his head to both Rogan and Mary, “may I present my sister, Heloise.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” the woman chuckled. “Yes, I am his sister.” The neckline of her frock was fashioned daringly low and barely covered her breasts. Hardly appropriate for a vicar’s sister.

Rogan felt Mary’s hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see her eyes clouded with suspicion. “Sister?” she mouthed.

No, Rogan didn’t believe it either. But Mr. Archer’s true reason for traveling to Scotland was not his concern. “Dear sir, may we join you in the dining room? We urgently need to speak with you.”

The vicar grew visibly more agitated. “Oh, yes, well…we are in a dreadful hurry.”

“Sir, a great wrong has been done.” It was then that Rogan noticed the vicar’s unseemly garb. His coat was rich-blue kerseymere, and the waistcoat beneath, why, he’d be deuced if it wasn’t constructed of fine jonquil yellow silk embroidered with a line of hearts and diamonds.

Hardly the somber attire of a man of the Church of England.

Rogan drew his eyebrows close and studied Mr. Archer.

The vicar managed a tremulous smile. He glanced across at Mary, as if searching for a respite from Rogan’s concentrated notice. “Dear me, Your Grace, have you been injured on the journey?”

“Injured?” Mary repeated.

“He means your chin, Sweeting. It’s all scraped up and hot.” The vicar’s sister tapped her own with the tip of her index finger. Then she grinned and looked at Mr. Archer. “No, she hasn’t been hurt, dear brother.” She turned her notice back to Mary. “Have you, Your Grace?”

Mary looked mortified.

Rogan stepped between her and the offending woman. “Mr. Archer,” he said more sternly than he intended, “I will speak with you.”

The vicar expelled a loud sigh. He dropped his hat to the wood plank floor and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and began to groan.

“Mr. Archer.”

“Very well, I knew this would happen. I did.” He lowered his hands and scooped his rumpled felt hat from the floor. “Come with me. I have everything in my case.” He turned and started back down the passage.

Rogan looked at the woman, who started off instead in the direction of the staircase.

“Your business doesn’t concern me,” she called back to them. “I am famished and can smell the rashers and buttered toast from here.”

“This way, Your Grace,” the vicar said resignedly as he gestured to the door at the end of the passage. “I know what you’ve come for.”

Rogan slipped his arm protectively around Mary’s waist and led her to the vicar’s chamber.

When they entered through the open door, Mr. Archer was rummaging through a leather case. He withdrew a sheet of paper and handed it to Rogan.

“Here’s the license. I’d burn that if I were you.” He returned to the case and extracted a leather volume from it.

Muttering to himself all the while, Mr. Archer flipped through the lined and numbered pages until he found the one containing their entry. He took a small knife to the book and made to cut the page from the register.

“You can’t do that,” Mary gasped. “Destruction of a register is punishable by death!”

“Ah, learned woman.” Mr. Archer delivered the vellum page to Rogan. “And yes, you are correct. Had this been an actual register of a license of marriage, I could have been hanged.” He snapped the book in his hand closed. “But as it is, it’s only my household accounts register.”

“I-I do not understand.” Mary turned and searched Rogan’s eyes for an answer.

As Rogan fought to retain his composure and tamp down his raging urge to tear Mr. Archer limb from limb, he told Mary the insane truth of the matter. “It seems our Mr. Archer here is not truly a vicar.”

“Then we”-Mary’s voice broke almost painfully-“…we were never married.”

Rogan’s gaze shot to her eyes the moment he heard the regret and pain she had not been able to strain from her words.

She should have been happy, jubilant, joyous that she and Rogan had not been wed after all. But she felt none of these things.

Instead, she felt hollow. Tears trembled on her lashes. “I-I need to sit down.”

Rogan helped her to the plank chair near the doorway. Then he turned on Mr. Archer. “How did this happen? Who arranged for this?”

He grabbed the false vicar by the throat and slammed him against the wall. “Tell me now.”

Mr. Archer’s eyes bulged in their sockets, and a smothered whimper burst from his open mouth.

“Rogan, no!” Mary cried. “Please, let him speak.”

Rogan yanked back his hand as quickly as if he’d been burned.

Hastening his hands to his throat, Mr. Archer slid down the wall and sat on the floor, legs spread. “I-I told Lotharian it was madness. But he was sure it would w-work.” He looked across the room at Mary then. “And, judging by the lady’s pink chin, well, he might have been right.”

Rogan took a step forward. “What do you mean? You’d best explain yourself, Archer.”