Devil in Duke's Clothing (Royal Pains Book 1) (19 page)

Regret ballooned hot and hard behind her breastbone. Though still angry with her husband, she’d recovered her temper enough to be sorry for the things she’d said to him in the carriage. Even more, she regretted breaking her pearls. She’d done it to hurt him, which she’d accomplished, but unintentionally wounded herself in the bargain.

They were my mother’s, and as prized to me as you are, Maggie.

The words stabbed her heart, causing her to think again. Perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps he had deceived her apurpose. A man who cherished his wife did not ask her to bed other men—or plot to sleep with other women.

Tears of outrage stung her eyes. How could he ask this of her? She could never ask anything so cruel of him. Not in a million years. Because she loved him, though, at this moment, she could not fathom the reason.

Were she alone, she would throw herself upon the bed and weep into the pillows. But, as she was not, she must fight to keep her composure. She took a deep breath, threw back her shoulders, and took a turn around the room.

The grand bedchamber felt almost cozy with its cheerful floral bed curtains, tapestry draped walls, and painted ceilings. Sunshine streamed through the panes of the windowed alcove and a fire burned inside a carved wooden mantle, adding to the warm ambience.

“Is the queen in residence?” she asked the maid.

“No, my lady. Elsewise, you wouldna have her room.”

This startled Maggie and also rekindled her anxiety about the king. Did the queen’s room adjoin her husband’s the way hers adjoined Robert’s back at Balloch Castle? She glanced around, but tapestries covered every inch of the dark wood paneling.

She tried to imagine herself on the bed with the king atop her. Maybe if she closed her eyes and pretended he was Robert she could get through it well enough. She hoped so, because she really did not think she could give herself to a man purely out of compulsion. Yes, she’d felt obliged to Robert when first they were married, but now she understood the embers of affection already burned in some secret chamber of her heart.

Darkness dwelled there, too. Darkness called out of its hiding place by a man who would make a sacrificial lamb of his wife—assuming the king agreed to let the marriage stand. What if he had not? She’d be off the hook, but also a ruined woman. Where would she go? What would she do? Robert had offered to keep her on as his mistress, but could she agree knowing he might find cause to whore her again?

Maggie took a breath to cool her inner fire. It would not do to let the maid see how upset she was. Even if she was a duchess no longer, she would comport herself as if she were.

“Which of your lovely gowns do you plan to wear to the banquet this evening?” the girl asked.

Maggie looked her way. “I have no idea, given that, until this moment, I knew naught about the banquet this evening.”

Without her husband to advise her, she was at a loss.

“What do the other duchesses wear on such occasions?”

“Everything of the finest, my lady.” The maid smiled. “If ‘twas me going, and I was a duchess such as yourself, I’d wear the gold and silver gown.”

A silver silk mantua, ruffled organza and lace undersleeves, and a petticoat embroidered with real gold threads comprised the costume—Maggie’s favorite among her new gowns.
 

In the ensuing hour, the maid gave her a bath, helped her dress, and styled her hair in a profusion of ringlet curls crowned by a mantilla comb and small veil.

Just when Maggie felt ready to face her fate, there came a knock at the door. She held her breath. Please, let it be Robert come to beg her forgiveness. She was unequal to facing the evening on her own.

The maid opened the door on a strange man in a fashionable auburn periwig and green velvet suit of clothes.

Masking her disappointment with a smile, Maggie swept off her chair in a rustle of silk and went to greet her caller.

The man bowed to her. “Your servant, Duchess. I am George Woodcock, earl of Covington and an old friend of your husband’s.”

Hope rekindled in her heart with a hot spark. “Has the duke sent you with a message for me?”

“No, Your Grace.” He smiled tepidly. “I have come at His Majesty’s bidding—to escort you down to the Great Hall for the evening’s repast.”

She took Lord Woodcock’s offered arm, whereupon he swept her into the hall and toward the staircase. He stood considerably taller than she, had a lanky build, and smelled unpleasantly of liniment.
 

The flame of hope in Maggie’s bosom with regard to her husband refused to be doused. “Will we be sitting with the duke at the banquet?”

“Heaven forbid, Your Grace.” He laughed jovially. “Husbands and wives never sit together—or dance together, for that matter—whilst at court. To do so would be looked upon by the whole company as exceedingly ill-mannered.”

That made no sense. How could sitting or dancing with one’s spouse be interpreted as rudeness? In no temper to press the matter further, she kept her puzzlement to herself.

At the foot of the stairs, the din of innumerous voices speaking at once swirled around her ears. Beneath the roar, musicians played—a flute and lute or mandolin? Distinguishing the instruments over the chorus of chatter proved difficult.

Lord Woodcock ushered her into the Great Hall. The combined heat of fire, bodies, and innumerous candles compounded the odors of clashing perfumes, strong ale, and human odors. Sweet Mother Mary, it hit her stomach in such a violent torrent, she nearly swooned.
 

‘Twas a good thing she had Lord Woodcock’s arm to steady herself. She took a settling breath and tightened her hold as he escorted her past dark Tudor paneling, Belgian tapestries, and gilt-framed portraits of dour-looking nobles. Those milling about the room were elegantly clad in the finest brocades and velvets. Her gown was equal to the best of them. Thank goodness the maid had advised her.

All was aglow with the golden light of a multitude of candles. She’d never seen so many in the whole of her life. Dozens upon dozens of tiny flames flickered atop the two tables running the length of the room and from massive chandeliers overhead. They even lined the window sills, where the reflection of their light danced in the leaded panes.
 

King Charles occupied the head of the nearest long table. Beside him sat a dark-haired woman with a plump, childlike face—one of his mistresses, presumably. He was all smiles for her and everyone else who approached. This raised her hopes. Surely, if things had gone badly with Robert, the monarch would not be in so cheerful a temper.

Speaking of her husband, where might he be in this teeming throng? She cast around for his red-velvet coat. There were many such coats, but none adorned the Duke of Dunwoody.

Disappointment punctured her optimism. She plastered on a smile to keep her countenance from visibly withering. If need be, she’d sleep with the king. However awful the royal embrace proved to be, ‘twould not be half so devastating as being separated forever from Robert.
 

Her gaze fell upon the gentleman heading the farther table. He had a handsome face, vaguely resembled the king in nose and chin, and wore fine garb and a long and curly golden-brown wig.
 

“My Lord Woodcock,” she said, leaning nearer his ear, “who is the noble-looking gentleman at the head of the other table? Do you know him?”

“I do indeed, Duchess.” He offered her an amiable grin. “That gentleman is none other than the king’s younger brother, the Duke of York.”

Maggie gave the man another sweeping appraisal. “He certainly cuts a fine figure.”

“Many of your sex would agree—the reason he has nearly as many mistresses as his brother.”

She endeavored to bring the things Robert had told her about the king’s brother to the forefront of her mind. “He will be king himself one day, will he not?”

“Indeed, my lady. Unless the Whigs in Parliament win the day.”
 

Maggie scowled at this, perplexed by his meaning. “Why do you say so?”

“The duke’s enemies at Whitehall are working even now to block his succession,” he replied, his head close to hers.

“On what grounds?”

“Popery. They live in mortal fear of having a Roman Catholic on the throne.”

How dreadful. Was the animosity toward those of her faith really so pervasive? And, more importantly, why? If she ever spoke to her husband again, she’d make a point of asking him about it.

“Is the Duke of York a Papist then?”

“That depends upon the day of the week,” he said with a jovial chuckle, “and whom you believe.”

As they moved down the king’s table, she continued scanning the crowd for her husband. Surely, he was here somewhere. The question was, where?

Lord Woodcock stopped behind two empty chairs and pulled one out for her. “These would be ours.”

Gathering her skirts, she set down. After pushing in her chair, he claimed the one on her left.

The well-dressed gentleman on her right introduced himself at once, but she registered little more than the facts he was a baronet and his wig was as black and curly as the king’s. She was too preoccupied by her visual hunt for her husband. Where the deuce could he be?

A sudden, devastating thought occurred. She slid a worried glance toward the king. Had he thrown Robert in the dungeon? Did the castle even have one?
 

As she leaned toward Lord Woodcock to ask, the king met her gaze. Her heart caught fire, heating her chest and face. She forced herself to hold his gaze and smile. Maybe, if she was obliging, he’d be more merciful toward her husband and their marriage.

The king returned her acknowledgement with a lingering gaze and an affable nod of his bewigged head. The lady beside him looked her way, too, but with considerably less cordiality.

Maggie touched Lord Woodcock’s sleeve to regain his attention. “My Lord, if I may, who is the dark-haired lady seated beside the king?”

Lord Woodcock claimed a pewter pitcher of ale and filled the stoup in front of her. “That would be Louise de Kerouaille, the notorious Duchess of Portsmouth. A favorite among the royal harem, though I cannot think why. Her person is unattractive, her personality scheming, and her politics oppose His Majesty’s.”

While sipping her ale, Maggie stole discreet glances at the small-eyed, baby-faced woman. She agreed with Robert’s assessment of her appearance—as well as Nell Gwynne’s. Squintabella fit the lady like a glove.

“Not much to look at, is she?” Lord Woodcock leaned in. “Presumably, she has other attractions which hold His Majesty’s interest, though perhaps not as firmly as she might prefer. I notice the royal eye roves your way a great deal.”

As Maggie tore her attention away from the couple in question, her gaze landed upon Robert, who, to her eye—with his handsome features, naturally wavy hair, and intense gray-green eyes—was quite the most dashing man in the room. He sat on the far side of the Duke of York’s table betwixt a gentleman in a chestnut wig and a buxom courtesan in a crimson mantua.

Jealousy besieged Maggie’s heart when the doxy brushed back Robert’s hair in an all-too intimate manner. As she endeavored in vain to catch her husband’s eye, she murmured under her breath, “What a shame I have no whip to crack to draw his notice.”

Yes, well. She’d remedy the lack as soon as they returned to Balloch. If she would be made to spread her legs for the king, her husband would be made to pay for her sacrifice with a pound of flesh.

A parade of servants entered the hall carrying platters piled high with oysters, roasted fowl, haggis, baked tarts, and mutton.

Maggie had never seen so much food in the whole of her life! As they set the food on the table, she drank in the appetizing aromas. Hunger instantly supplanted her anger. As eager as she was to dig in, she hesitated. According to Robert, protocol dictated she defer to her betters. The only rank higher than a duchess was a duke. Well, apart from the king, of course, but the platters before her lay beyond the royal reach. All who could partake refrained from doing so, eyes on her. She glanced from person to person, hopeful the grandeur of the attire of each might divulge his or her station.

To her dismay, each looked equal in elegance to the next.

A sigh of frustration seeped from her lips. If only Robert were here to advise her.

Lord Woodcock nudged her with his elbow. “After you, Duchess.”

Grateful to God and Lord Woodcock, she snatched a mincemeat tart off the pile and gobbled it down as quickly as the pastry’s scorching temperature would allow.

Her husband had yet to notice her—probably because he was having too good a time with his dinner companions. All three were laughing riotously whilst drinking ale and eating oysters.

Was she jealous? Hell, yes. Exceedingly. Was he flirting so shamelessly to inflame her ire? Well, if so, ‘twas working, the wicked libertine. Not that she intended to give him the satisfaction of acting the part of the wounded wife. As the saying went, two could play at this game.

King Charles strove even now to catch her eye.

When at last the duke looked her way, she raised her drink to acknowledge his notice before sliding her gaze to the king’s. Laying it on thick for her husband’s benefit, she blushed and batted her lashes at Charles. Another glance toward her husband told her the arrow hit its mark.