How To Seduce A Duke

Rogan’s heart lurched in his chest. “Bloody hell, Quinn! If you were trying to unseat me, you very nearly succeeded.”

Quinn cleared his throat. He removed his hat and tipped his head forward, turning Rogan’s attention to the trio of wide-eyed, stunned misses.

Fools. They must have crossed from Davies Street without paying any heed to oncoming riders. And now they were standing in the middle of the crowded street, still as statues, less than a foot before them.

The tallest of the three women glared up at Rogan from beneath the faded silk brim of a most ridiculous beribboned hat. Her amber eyes flashed angrily.

For the briefest moment, her mouth twisted, then opened, as if to give him a suitable dressing down. Then her expression suddenly changed-to one of distress. Abruptly, she looked away.

Rogan was about to call out to her when she caught up the gloved hand of the copper-haired beauty closest to her and guided her small party quickly from the center of Oxford Street down the flagway in the direction the two men had come from.

“Where was your mind? You might have trampled them.” Quinn turned in his saddle and watched the three women make their way through the bustling crowds and down the street.

“They obviously walked straight into the road without paying any attention to oncoming horses. Even had my horse trod upon one of them, I daresay the fault would not have been solely my own.” Rogan turned his skittish mount in a circle and joined Quinn in gazing upon the women’s retreat. “Did you see the way the tall one looked at me? Like she bloody well thought I had the pox, or worse.”

“No, I did not notice. I was far too occupied with stilling your damned horse.”

Rogan tightened his reins and stood in the stirrups for a better look as the young women stalked past the shops lining Oxford Street. “There was something familiar about her look, don’t you agree?” He dropped back into the saddle.

Quinn exhaled. “No doubt. I know you have adopted a respectable mode of living since assuming Father’s title, but after years of roguish adventure, it is not inconceivable that you somehow wronged the woman in the past.”

Rogan huffed at that. “Not that one. Oh, she’s comely enough to be sure, but did you see her clothing-and good God-that hat? Straight from the country with nary two shillings in her palm, I’d say.”

Quinn grunted at the comment but didn’t reply. He nudged his horse and started again toward Hyde Park.

“Come now, you cannot seriously wish to continue on,” Rogan called out, but his brother did not stop. “Look at the sky.”

Quinn settled his beaver hat and pushed it lower upon his head. “You can come along, or return to the house, Rogan, but I will continue on. She will be there, I know it, and this time, we will meet.”

Rogan shook his head and turned his mount around. He drove his heels into his horse and drew alongside his brother a moment later. “So, this woman you seek in the park…you think she is the future Viscountess Wetherly?”

“I do not know. We have not properly met. But she may be.”

“Why the race to the altar? You’re certainly not a wrinkled maid withering on the vine. You’re a hero, awarded a grand title for your valor. You’re handsome, young, and moneyed. You have everything to live for-and yet you wish for shackles?”

Quinn’s expression grew solemn. He jerked his horse to a halt and did not speak until Rogan did the same. “I wish it because I do not want to wait to be happy, to have the life I desire. At Toulouse, I learned how position and rank can suddenly mean nothing. How I could clink glasses with a friend one night, then dig his grave the next.”

Quinn gave a long sigh as he lifted his lame right leg and withdrew his foot from the stirrup, allowing the leg to hang limp. “If war taught me anything, it was that life is to be lived, Rogan. And for me, that means a wife and children. And I don’t intend to put it off any longer.”

Rogan nodded resignedly. How could he argue with that logic? His younger brother had seen more death during his years on the Peninsula than he himself would in a lifetime. He didn’t begrudge Quinn the idyllic life he dreamed of. Lord knows, after all Quinn had endured on the Peninsula, he deserved it.

Only the blissful married life he sought didn’t really exist, no matter what Quinn believed.

But that was a discussion for another day.

Rogan straightened his back and smiled. “Well then, Quinn, we shall find your lady-as long as we get back to Portman Square before the sky opens upon us.”

Quinn hooked his hand beneath his knee and maneuvered his boot back securely into the stirrup. A mischievous smile curved the edges of his lips. “We best make haste then.” He leaned low over his mount’s neck and brought down his heels hard. “I’ll see you at the gate, old man.”

Rogan chuckled, then drove his steed hard toward Cumberland Gate. How pleasingly diverting it was that Quinn, injured as he was, actually thought he could reach the park before he would.

The wind rose up as Rogan spurred his horse down Oxford Street, catching the lip of his new beaver hat and flipping it from his head. He heard the splash as the topper likely landed in a muddy puddle, but he never bothered to look back.

He had a race to win.

A damp breeze raked through his thick hair, and his coattails rode the wind behind him.

Within a short minute, his horse charged past Quinn’s. Rogan whooped in triumph. He turned to look at Quinn. “No one ever gets the better of the Black Duke!”

Quinn drove his mount harder until the two horses were nearly neck and neck. He laughed as his bay galloped past Rogan’s. “No one?” the fair-haired brother shouted back.

Rogan grinned and snapped his short whip against the horse’s right haunch. The bay shot into the lead once more. “No one-and that includes you, dear brother.”

Fat drops of rain splattered the ground around the Royle sisters as they reached Cavendish Square in Marylebone Park. A raw, mossy scent rose up into the air as the earth soaked in the droplets.

Elizabeth excitedly positioned the missive before Mary’s eyes. “We’ve arrived. There it is, do you see? Number Two, straight ahead.”

“So I see.” Mary did not move from her place on the flagway, even though the tempo of the rain had increased twofold within the past minute.

“You may dawdle here if you like, Mary, but I do not wish to see my new morning frock ruined by the rain.” Anne charged up the narrow walk to the steps that led up to the grand house. As she reached the first step, she turned and looked back at her sisters. “At least you are coming, Lizzie, aren’t you?”

Elizabeth turned her gaze to Mary, then reached out and pushed a damp sable lock from Mary’s cheek. “Please, sister. I know you believe this may be naught but a lark, but I have to know if this Lord Lotharian can tell us anything about our births. Please come with us. You are most clever and will divine the truth faster than Anne or I ever could. Please.”

Mary gazed up at Anne, who now stood with her hand menacingly poised about the brass doorknocker.

“I’m going to do it-I am going to knock this very instant.” Anne lifted the heavy ring. “You two are going to look quite the ninnies when the door is opened and you are still standing in the street, wet as river carp.”

Elizabeth turned a pleading gaze upon Mary.

She had walked all the way here, had nearly been killed doing so. Might as well go inside. “Very well,” Mary said, “but if this little adventure yields nothing to support your fanciful story of our births, you must promise me you will give up your investigation and concentrate on your futures.”

“Oh, what a goose you can be sometimes,” Elizabeth laughed. “You know we can never agree to that.” She grabbed Mary’s hand and hurried to the door, arriving just as Anne slammed the brass hammer down twice upon its base.

Before Mary could offer even a syllable of reply, the door swung open and a portly manservant ushered them inside and out of the rain.

The house appeared quite grand from the outside, but it was only once they were inside that its true enormity could be realized.