Devil in Duke's Clothing (Royal Pains Book 1) (18 page)

For now, however, she had a vital decision to make: turn her back on her husband and never speak to him again or simply smite him with his own pillow. Electing for the latter—for the time being, at least—she lunged across the carriage, wrenched the cushion out from under his wounded backside, and thumped him about the head and shoulders with all the strength she could summon.

After she’d landed a few choice blows, he grabbed her wrists and pushed her down on the set, pinning her under his weight.

“Why did you stop me?” She fought his hold on her. “I thought you enjoyed being struck by women.”

“Not in anger.”

She scowled at him, her heart oozing resentment. “I have every right to be angry.”
 

“Aye, you do.”

Thereupon, he brought his mouth down on hers.

She fought him, tried to bite him, to free her wrists and land blows, but he was too strong. She kept fighting, body, mind, and heart. He was Lucifer made flesh, the devil in duke’s clothing. He had warped her mind, stolen her heart, and blackened her soul. So why did her cunny still long so desperately for his cock?

She combated her traitorous concupiscence, even as the pillars of her resolve crumbled. His lips were so persistent and persuasive she opened her mouth against her better judgment. His tongue entered, seeking hers. The desire to surrender clawed at her, hot and sharp. Fighting it with all her might, she snapped her head to the side and hid her face behind his screen of hair.
 

Lead me not into temptation.
Lead me not into temptation.

Given what he would have her do, how could she ever make love to him? She could not. Would not. He still held her wrists, but she no longer fought to break free.

“Get off me, you scurvy cur.”

“Maggie,” he said like a plea. “I would never ask this of you were there any other choice, but I must put the needs of the people who depend on me above my own. And, as my wife, so must you.”

“Fine,” she bit out through clenched teeth. “I shall spread my legs for the king if I must, but I shall never spread them again for you. Now get off me, you heartless whoreson, before I knee you hard enough in the cods to make them pop out your mouth.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he released her wrists, climbed off her, and set down on the other bench, wincing as his buttocks met the tufted upholstery. This demonstration of pain gave her more pleasure than it ought to have, but she wanted him to hurt as much as she did.

She sat up, smoothed her skirts and hair, and moved to the opposite end of the carriage. Out the window, a palisade of towers stood in the distance against a smoke-darkened sky. Edinburgh, the capital city. A se’nnight ago, she could not wait to see it and now its proximity only exacerbated her misery.

* * * *

Dread weighed heavily upon Robert as he stepped out of the carriage into the courtyard of Holyroodhouse. The palace’s pale stone face seemed to stare down at him like a fuming parent, making him feel small and frightened. Anger always affected him that way, especially when it turned cold. Bellowing, he could tolerate. Beatings, he could endure. But frosty silence exceeded the limits of his forbearance.
 

His mother used to go quiet when he’d disappointed her, as she’d done the day of the hunt. He’d wanted to go along and she’d forbidden it, claiming the outing far too dangerous for a lad of two and ten. He’d said terrible, unforgivable things to her, things that preyed on his conscience as she rode off with his father and the others.

Then, she’d taken a bad spill when her horse balked at a fence. For three days, she lingered in a coma, pale and quiet with her head wrapped in blood-stained white bandages. He’d knelt beside her bed until his knees were bruised and raw, begging her and God for forgiveness.

She’d died without granting him clemency.

“Your Grace?”

The salutation snapped Robert back to the courtyard. The greeting had come from a kilted guard in a black fur hat who’d appeared out of nowhere.

“Pray, follow me, if you would. His Majesty the King requests you attend him without delay.”

The heaviness on Robert’s heart became a boulder. This was not a good sign. Usually, the Merry Monarch took his time about greeting his guests, even the high-ranking ones.
 

When the guard set off toward the palace’s front entrance, Robert offered Maggie his arm.

She refused to take it—or meet his gaze. The boulder on his chest became a mountain.

Diable m’emporte!

Now he had two people’s anger to contend with, though he doubted the king would express his through quietude. What, then, might the monarch do? Robert’s courage withered as his mind catalogued the unpleasant possibilities.

The guard held the door as they passed through the pillar-flanked entrance. Multiple candles burned in the carriage lamps on either side, throwing eerie shadows across the enormous royal crest carved in relief above the door.

The palace’s interior was dark and gloomy despite the plethora of candles burning everywhere.
 

The king’s man led them through a series of long rooms with ornate plasterwork ceilings. French influences met the eye everywhere as they passed a proliferation of tapestries, ancestral portraits, and processional rooms, each more elaborate than the last.

The effect was intimidating, undoubtedly by design, and Robert feared for his head as they followed the guard up a grand staircase with stone steps and balustrade. An upward glance revealed plaster angels bearing crown, scepter, and sword.

They were taken into a large paneled room with a fireplace and told to wait whilst the guard announced them to His Majesty. Several minutes passed during which Robert’s nerves further unraveled and Maggie, keeping behind him, kept still. He was far too riddled with worry to try and draw her out.

Finally, they were admitted to the antechamber. Only the most privileged guests were admitted to the King’s Bedchamber. Despite the towering velvet-draped bed dominating the room, this was not where His Royal Highness slept.

The king sat in a chair near the fireplace in the raiment befitting his station: a knee-length silk brocade coat with large cuffs turned back to reveal the frilly shirt cuffs underneath. Breeches trimmed with ribbons peeked out from under the highly embroidered waistcoat. From his royal neck flared a rabat of needlepoint lace.

Charles sported his signature black periwig with tumbling curls, but had shaved his mustache since the last time they’d met, which was when? Robert’s desire to do the calculation was chased away by the king’s uncharacteristically grim expression.
 

Robert’s dread increased ten-fold, making breathing difficult. He stopped before the king and bowed deeply at the waist.

“Your Majesty. How pleased I am to see you looking so well.”

“Likewise, Your Grace.” The king held out his hand—the signal to approach.
 

Robert stepped forward, took the offered hand, which reeked of French perfume, and planted a kiss upon the back of it. “If it pleases Your Majesty, may I present my bride to you?”

“By all means.”

The king’s dark gaze shifted to Maggie and lingered in an appraising way her husband did not care for in the least.

Setting his hand in the small of Maggie’s back, Robert urged her forward and made the introduction in the proscribed manner. Rather than offer her his hand, Charles took hers and raised it to his lips.
 

“My dear duchess,” the monarch said, keeping her hand, “I can see why your young guardian was so captivated by your charms he forgot what he owes his sovereign.” He slid an icy glare in Robert’s direction, adding, “Now, if you will kindly excuse us, I have important business to discuss with your husband.”

A heavy sweat broke out on Robert’s skin as the guard escorted Maggie from the room. The king’s immediate dismissal of her did not bode well for their future together.
 

“Tell me something, my young duke. Do you ever find the time to read the Bible?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Perhaps not as often as he ought, though he had read the whole book at one point.

“Then, you are no doubt familiar with my favorite passage from Job,” said the king with a mirthless smirk.
^“
Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

“I am, Your Majesty.” Robert’s intestines knotted as he bowed his head in reverence. The threat, though veiled by scripture, was hardly subtle.
 

“Your father proved a loyal steward of my interests, for which I gratefully awarded him a prosperous duchy,” Charles went on. “You have yet to pay your dues for its continuance. Do I make myself clear?”

“Aye, Your Majesty. Perfectly clear.”

The king stood, rising to a height of six-foot-five in his high-heeled slippers.

Robert was nearly as tall in his, but still felt dwarfed in his exalted shadow.
 

“Then please tell me what in the name of God possessed you to defy my wishes.” The king’s voice was laced with anger. “Did I somehow fail to make clear my wishes regarding Lady Leticia?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

The king’s expression remained dour. “Who is this inconsequential chit you chose to marry instead? What are her claims of fortune and birth that place her above the bride of my choosing? They must be glorious indeed if you would hazard my condemnation to attain them.”
 

Robert knew how ridiculous his reason would sound even before he said it, but he had no other answer to offer. “Her only claim is upon my heart, Your Majesty Highness.”

“God’s fish!” The king expelled a sharp laugh and threw up his hands. “Your excuse is you are besotted? You should know at your age the changeable heart makes a poor foundation for a lasting union. Loyalty and duty to your sovereign would have been far firmer cornerstones.” Charles paused and regarded him with a pinched expression. “Since you read your Bible, you must be familiar with the parable of the foolish man who built his house upon the sand. How did the last bit go?” Looking ceiling-ward, the king pulled on his chin for a moment before returning his heated glare to Robert. “Oh, yes, I recall the passage now. ‘The rain fell and the floods came and the winds blew and slammed against that house; and it fell—and great was its fall.’”

King Charles turned toward the fire, set a hand on the mantle and absently kicked the grate with the toe of his shoe. “You are a Roman Catholic, I presume, like your good father?”

“I am, Your Majesty.”

“Has the marriage yet been blessed by a priest?”

“It has, Your Majesty.”

The king turned and met his gaze with obsidian eyes. “Was the lady’s hymen intact on your wedding night?”

Robert, suspecting the motive behind the question, withered inside. Being in no position to take umbrage, he could only bow his head and answer truthfully. “‘Twas indeed, Your Majesty.”

“And how long ago did you pluck her flower?”

“A se’nnight, Your Majesty.”

“I see.” The monarch looked pensive and again took to pulling on his chin for several eternal moments whilst Robert sweated like a pig under his heavy coat. “So…she was virgin-tight not so very long ago?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” His throat was so tight, it was hard to speak.

“I see.” The gleam in the king’s eye grew brighter. “And just how tight was she?”
 

Robert reached deep for his stoicism. He’d known what the king would demand before they arrived. He also knew they could not refuse without paying the heaviest of penalties.

“Very tight indeed, Your Majesty.”

“I see,” said the king for the third unbearable time. “As dissatisfied as I am with your insubordination, I am inclined toward letting the marriage stand—but only because Lady Leticia has already made her escape. There will, however, be a condition.”

Robert’s perspiring hands clenched under cover of ruffled cuffs. “And what might that condition be, Your Majesty?”

“That you make your amends by standing aside whilst I invoke my
droit du cuissage
.”

 
The request, though anticipated, lanced Robert’s heart. The French expression
droit du cuissage—
“right of the thigh” referenced a right some claimed ancient lords invoked to bed any lady they chose, married or not. While some scholars questioned the right’s veracity, he was not about to challenge the king’s authority.

He bowed his head in submission, feeling as if his heart had been flayed. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

“Good,” the king returned. “As we are in accord, you may go.”

As he turned in retreat, Robert made two silent entireties to God. The first was that Maggie would accommodate the king with as little fuss as possible. The second was that she would find it in her heart to forgive her husband for the untenable position he’d put her in. If she did not, he could flog himself to death and still have no relief from his shame.

Chapter Nine

After leaving the king’s bedchamber, the bekilted guard escorted Maggie a short distance to her own, where she found a maid—a plain, dark-haired lass who appeared to be close to her own age—hard at work unpacking her trunk. Robert assured her the keeper of the palace would assign someone to attend her, and she was pleased he’d been truthful—one of his few honorable qualities. He might withhold things from her at times, but she could not recall a time he’d been deliberately misleading.