Devil in Duke's Clothing (Royal Pains Book 1) (3 page)

Except at meals, of course, but even then, they sat at opposite ends of a long table and exchanged only occasional glances and essential pleasantries.

Then, last week, without hint or warning, he’d up and dismissed Mistress Honeywell. Maggie could not fault him for sacking the maid, who was lazy and of loose morals. She also was a rival for the duke’s attentions, which, as his bride, Maggie could not abide. Yes, she lived in mortal terror of his passions, but, oddly enough, she craved them just as violently.

How two such contradictory emotions could coexist within one bosom Maggie could not comprehend. And yet, they did—in hers. Truth be known, the wicked part of her coveted the duke even as the pious part condemned his licentiousness. Ever since that day in the housekeeper’s rooms, she’d fantasized about him swiving her the way he’d swived Mistress Honeywell—though without the belting.

Between stolen glances at dinner, she imagined him bending her over the table. In the evening parlor where they quietly read to themselves, she longed for him to make a move. In her lonely bed at night, she brought herself to raptures dreaming of him atop her, thrusting like a demon.

‘Twas not love that gave rise to such sensations. That could not be so. Love came from God and these cravings definitely had unholy origins. Every night before retiring, she fell on her knees and prayed for the strength to resist the devil’s pull on her soul.

Woe is me! Why do I find so wicked a man so irresistibly beguiling?

The duke’s proposal of marriage had shocked her senseless. It also thrilled and terrified her. As much as she wanted him, she also knew her covetousness where he was concerned would bring about her moral downfall.
 

After accepting him, she wrote to Hugh in Paris, half hoping her angel might rescue her from the devil’s clutches. “Tell me what you know about your brother’s perversions,” she’d written.

His elder brother, Hugh reported in reply, was a scandalous libertine whose days at the king’s court in London had been squandered on drunkenness and whoring. Even now, at Balloch Castle, Robert maintained a secret chamber where he carried out his debaucheries.

“Whatever you do, Maggie, do not marry my brother.”

She did not see where she had a choice. She was Persephone in the clutches of Hades and she had no Demeter to negotiate for her release.

Left to shift for herself, she searched in secret day after day for the duke’s hidden den of iniquity. Unable to find any trace, she scoured the library for corroborating evidence. Surely, if His Grace had dark fetishes he’d have books delineating them.

She found several erotic novels, most in French, and a handful of books illustrating postures of sexual intercourse. All of these she smuggled back to her bedchamber for further study. They proved at once shocking and instructional. They also described more perversions than her virgin mind could have ever conceived.

* * * *

Precisely how innocent was his new bride? Robert stood at the door betwixt their bedchambers, fingers poised on the knob. That her maidenhead remained intact, he was almost certain. Before his father brought her to Balloch Castle, she’d lived at a convent. The only one with opportunity, besides himself, had been Hugh—and Maggie, if Robert’s suspicions were correct, was not his younger brother’s type. Besides which, Hugh, honorable to a fault, would never dream of defiling one of the servants, let alone an innocent under the protection of the duchy.

So, Maggie must be a virgin. Robert would place a sizeable wager on the fact. ‘Twas the state of her mind, given what the maids discovered earlier today whilst moving her belongings to the bedchamber adjoining his.

He’d noticed the books had gone missing, of course, but never suspected Maggie might be the thief.

Releasing the knob, he dragged a hand down his face. Since the day he found her weeping in the woods with a sprained ankle, his feelings had put down roots despite his best efforts to cut them out. She was but four and ten at the time. Marriageable under the law, but still too much of a bud to suit his tastes. His passions required a mature rose. Besides, he still had more wildflowers to pluck before settling down.

The fight to overcome his desire for her had been constant, demanding, exhausting. He kept his distance, withheld kindnesses, stopped calling her Rosebud. Then, Hugh began to court her. That, Robert could not allow. She deserved a passionate marriage with a husband who could appreciate all she had to offer. If she rejected him, then let it be someone else—someone to whom she could give herself with abandon—but not Hugh.

Maggie was too special to be placed upon a shelf like a fragile doll, never to be enjoyed.

He pictured her inside, still in her white satin wedding gown and his mother’s pearls, trembling with a mixture of nerves and anticipation. He’d told her new abigail not to attend her this evening. He wanted the pleasure of unwrapping his bride like a present.

In marrying Maggie, he had fulfilled his father’s deathbed request.
 

Keep Maggie on as your ward, my son. Look after her. Marry her if she’ll have you. She is better than you know.

He’d also fulfilled his heart’s desire.
 

Robert turned the knob.

The time to make the marriage official was at hand. He’d denied himself for too long already. Now to discover if the bride his heart had chosen was equal to his other desires.

* * * *

The click of the latch snapped Maggie back to the dressing table. So, the devil had come for her soul at last. Time to lie in the bed she’d made for herself—quite literally.

She took a breath, licked her lips, and checked her reflection. Her make-up was a mess, but her eyes were no longer swollen and tearful. In the candlelight, the fact she’d been crying might well escape his notice. She pinched her cheeks, straightened her back, and rose from the chair.

Swallowing to dislodge the lump in her throat, she raised her gaze to her dashing yet dangerous bridegroom.

He’d shed his sword and plumed velvet cap, but otherwise still wore his wedding costume: a belted plaid, the tail of which fell nearly to his ankles; a slit doublet so heavily embroidered in silver and gold it might have been armor; knee-high hose in a garish checkered pattern; and leather slippers. His dark hair fell in curls over his wide shoulders to the middle of his back.

He looked resplendent. He also looked like Beelzebub come to claim her soul. In one hand, he gripped a sweating flacon of champagne, still corked.

The smile he gave her almost banished her apprehension.

Almost.

His confident posture sagged ever-so-slightly when he saw her expression. “You do not look happy to see me, my wee Rosebud.”

The endearment further eroded her distress. She swallowed hard and smiled at her handsome husband. He looked so harmless, so noble, so respectable.

But then, as the sisters of St. Teresa’s so persistently drummed into her brain, even Satan could come disguised as an angel of light.

Would he tie her hands? Belt her bottom? Slap her breasts? Bite her nipples? Invite his mistresses into their marital bed? Would he share his bed with them in the adjoining room?

The possibility cut like a knife. She clenched her teeth against the sharp stab of pain and then chided herself for being thus affected. If she had any sense, she’d encourage him to take mistresses, not grieve over it, as ‘twould likely spare her the brunt of his debauchery.

She shifted her gaze to the painting over the bed. It depicted a nude woman—a French courtesan, probably—on a settee with her bottom in the air and her legs parted. Would he arrange his bride like that doxy so he could take her like a dog? Would he bugger her up the bum? Did he bed men as well as women? Given the things she’d heard, and read, she would not put it past him.

“Is the party winding down?” She turned back to him with a pasted-on smile.
 

His gaze skittered over her, raising gooseflesh in its wake. “Nay, ‘tis still going strong.”

Her brow flinched. “So late?”

From his sporran—a great hairy thing sporting a bone closure and multiple tassels—he drew a watch on a chain and opened the decorative enameled cover. As he checked the time, he said, “The night is young, Rosebud. ‘Tis only half eleven.”

Her heart became a honeypot. Why did he undo her so? She swallowed to fortify her courage. “When will the guests start to away?”

“Not until we’ve done the deed, I’m afraid. Or when the wine has run out. Whichever occurs first.” He lifted the flacon he’d brought. “I procured this for us. Thought it might take the edge off your maidenly jitters.”

The comment startled her. Was her unease so obvious? Even if it were, she could not believe he’d picked up on her distress. He’d been so busy with the wedding plans, she’d wondered if the party meant more to him than the marriage. Not that she believed for one moment their vows mattered a jot to him.

She met his gaze head-on. “Why did you marry me?”

Surprise flitted across his face and then vanished. “For the usual reasons.”

“Which are?”

“I need an heir to carry on my bloodline and the duchy, and you needed a husband who appreciated all you could bring to a marriage.”

His words stung like an insult. “Surely, Hugh appreciated my merits.”

“You would have discovered very quickly my brother puts little stock in the virtues of the fairer sex.”

A blush scorched her cheeks, but she doubted he could see it in the soft glow of the candles. “Of what virtues do you speak?”

“Hunting for compliments?” He stepped closer with a teasing grin that threatened to turn her battlements to custard. “Well, I suppose ‘twould not hurt to indulge you this once—it being our wedding night and all. But do not make a habit of it or you shall be sorely disappointed.” He came still closer, lifted her chin, and gazed into her eyes. “You’re lovely and modest and virtuous, Margaret. A budding rose covered in morning dew. Another man would pluck you too soon to wear in his buttonhole.”

Her heart beat faster. “But not you?”

His gaze held hers as his thumb brushed her cheek. “Nay, because I know you’ll be even more desirable under the care of an experienced gardener.”

She’d not expected compliments any more than she’d expected his lips to find hers. Her heart broke into a gallop. ‘Twas the first time he’d kissed her—the first time she’d ever been kissed on the mouth by a man.

His lips were deliciously soft and tasted of champagne. He opened wider, urging her to follow suit. When she complied, he ran his tongue around the inner rim of her mouth—an appeal for entry.

Comingled fear and desire coiled at her center as she granted his request.

His tongue swept in and brushed hers—an invitation to dance.

She accepted, letting him lead. The ensuing oral
pas de deux
was even more exhilarating than in her fantasies.

His arms locked around her, pulling her body against his. Thrilling heat flooded her body, warming her blood. She set a hand on his chest and absently fingered the metal embroidery on his doublet. He felt good. Robust and solid. Tall and warm. He smelled good, too. Like fire and wine and male flesh.

He moaned into her mouth and pushed against her. Even betwixt her skirts and his kilt, his arousal was evident.

She melted into him, heart racing and head spinning. She’d dreamed for so long of kissing him like this, but the reality was much better than anything her imagination could conjure.
 

His hands were on her backside, large and possessive. He pulled her against him, pelvis to pelvis and pushed his hardness into her softness. Need lanced her with a force that left her breathless. She pulled away and ran her fingers down his arm to the champagne yet in his hand.

“Should we not open this before it gets warm?”

“Aye, we should.”

He took the bottle to the dressing table, popped the cork, and found two ceramic cups somewhere. Being so particular, he’d no doubt seen to this and other details she would have overlooked.

As he filled the cups, she swept her gaze down the back of his well-cut doublet and the pleated sweep of tartan curtaining his buttocks and legs. Sweet flurries of desire blustered through her loins. God, how she wanted him, but was still so afraid of what he might ask of her. Mayhaps he’d settle for normal relations tonight—whatever that entailed. But how to communicate her wishes without giving herself away? Besides, she’d absorbed so much erotic literature of late she hardly knew where to draw the line betwixt normal and perverse.

He returned to her with a cup. The sparkling wine within twinkled in the soft candlelight. As she took a sip, the bubbles tickled her nose. Other parts tickled, too, but in a yearnful, aching kind of way.

She moved to the bed in a rustle of taffeta, kicked off her slippers, and perched herself on the edge, heels on the bedrail. The headboard was the common iron sort with multiple bars. Easy to tie someone to, no doubt by design.

A diamond pin sparkled from the knot at his throat. She dropped her gaze to the diamond ring on her left hand. ‘Twas lovely, but a simple gold band would have done perfectly well for Maggie York, motherless ward.