Devil in Duke's Clothing (Royal Pains Book 1) (8 page)

Moving closer, she pressed her body against his and kissed his slack mouth.

“Who’s in my bed?”

“‘Tis my bed,” she said, fighting a smile. “And ‘tis your wife.”

“Do I have a wife?” His eyes were still closed but she could see mirth in his countenance—a heartening picture. “Oh, aye. ‘Tis coming back to me now. I did marry someone yesterday, did I not? What is your name again, lassie?”

“Margaret Armstrong, Duchess of Dunwoody,” she said with a pout. “As you know perfectly well.”

A smile stole across his mouth and his eyelids swept open. “Good morning, my beautiful wife. How did you sleep?”

“Like the dead.”

Though the truth, she was a corpse no longer. Her blood rushed through her veins like there was a fire somewhere. There was, now that she took note—a raging blaze deep in her reins.

“I’m glad to hear you slept well.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I thought you might be anxious.”

He kissed her mouth—softly, slowly, scrumptiously. She wanted to close her eyes, but was riveted by his gorgeous green gaze. Was it love she saw in his eyes? It seemed too much to hope for. His feet brushed hers under the covers, sending shivers through her.

“Your feet are cold,” he said. “Have you been out of bed?”

Guilt pressed down on her heart. He’d been so forthcoming with her last night, and she could not imagine he’d be so very upset by her peeking into his bedchamber. There had been naught inside he could wish to hide. Still, why take a chance on ruining his good mood?

“Only to use the chamber pot.”

“Talking of chamber pots, I have a screaming cockstand in need of relief.”

Her eyebrows shot up and her pulse quickened. “Do you?”

He chuckled and rubbed her arm. “You should know men often awaken with erections brought on by a full bladder.”

“Oh,” she said, mildly disappointed. “Do they?”

When he slipped out of bed and strode into his own bedchamber, her disappointment went from mild to severe. He coughed just before the sound of urine streaming on porcelain reached her ears. A few moments later, he returned, still gloriously naked. To her delight, he got back into bed and moved against her.

He placed feather-soft kisses across her jaw, her chin, and the corners of her mouth. “Oh, Rosebud,” he whispered. “I want you again. Do you think you could bear it?”

“Yes, of course.”

Both of his hands delved into her hair, grasped her head, and pulled her mouth against his. The kiss was forceful and demanding. He opened his mouth, opening hers, too, and gave her his tongue. As they devoured each other, he pressed his pelvis into hers, letting her feel his hardness. So, ‘twas more than the need to make water. He did want her as badly as she wanted him. She moaned, and wiggled against his cockstand. One of his hands traveled down her back to her behind, which he squeezed as he pulled her more firmly against him.
 

“Spread your legs.”

The moment she obeyed, he thrust into her. She gasped a little at the burn accompanying his zealous entry.

“God Almighty, you feel good,” he groaned against her mouth.

She wished she could say the same, but she could not. It hurt! Much worse than the first time. Her soul was safe. She did not enjoy this. How could any woman? He rolled onto her, still inside her, pushed up on his arms, and began to pound her like a ramrod. She turned away and bit her lip. Tears filled her eyes. She could not comprehend her own state of mind. A minute ago, she’d wanted him to do this and now she only wanted him to desist.

He must have sensed her tension, because he ceased thrusting and hovered over her, still inside her. “Maggie,” he said, “look at me.”

She could not. If she did, he’d see she enjoyed this not and find himself a lover who would. She bit her lip harder and kept her face turned away.

“Maggie, please tell me what is amiss.”

“It hurts.” The tears flowed. Curse her cunny for being so tight. She wanted him, she really did, but was too raw down there to bear it.

Pulling out of her, he rolled off. Rather than get up and leave, as she feared he would, he encircled her with his arms and kissed her cheek. “Forgive me. I should have known you’d be sore. In wanting you so much, I got carried away. But despair not, my darling. ’Twill get better. I promise.”

He gave her one of his radiant, bone-melting smiles and brushed the tears from her cheeks with his fingers. “In the meantime, there are other ways we can please each other. Or, better yet, let us rise, get dressed, and greet the day. If the sun breaking through the draperies is any indication, ‘tis fine out of doors.” He kissed her cheek and smoothed back her hair. “We can break our fast and, afterward, go for a ride…or, better still, a walk. I can begin your lessons by filling you in on the Armstrong family history, the duchy, and our relationship to the crown. There are many things you’ll need to learn before we appear at court and—“

 
“Appear at court?” She was equally excited and undone by the prospect. “Is that a real possibility?”

“‘Tis an inevitability, dearest. Within a fortnight, the king will summon us so he can bless our marriage and, well, also to get a gander at his newest duchess. He’ll also want to show off the work his architects have done at the palace. One of the wings was burned by that whoreson Cromwell and the king’s spared no expense to bring about its restoration.”

* * * *

Robert and Maggie broke their fast on gruel, mutton, oatmeal cakes, and ale, after which, he took her on the promised walk around the castle grounds.

Since he’d have to delay his bride’s erotic education until she recovered, he would have to be satisfied for now with
social
intercourse. He did not mind overmuch. They had said very little to each other in the eight years she had been his ward and he welcomed the chance to know her better.

“Tell me what interests you most,” he said, “history, science, or politics? Or would you rather I told you about my family, the duchy, and why the king saw fit to grant the titled estate to my father?”

“I will gladly listen to whatever you wish to tell me.”

“Well, let us start with a brief history of the castle,” he said, pleased by her receptiveness. “Balloch started life as a tower house in the fifteenth century and has been expanded over the years. Hence, the many different styles of architecture. Up until about eighty years past, ‘twas one of the strongholds of Clan Armstrong, whose chieftains were hanged in a ruthless English campaign to neutralize the borderlands. The gardens were added by the previous owner—a Covenanter who took part in the plot against Charles the First, for which he lost his duchy and his head. My father, a fierce royalist who supported the first King Charles and the restoration of the second, was awarded the duchy the following year.”

Maggie smiled up at him in a way that made his heart swell with affection. Was he in love with her? If not fully so, he was definitely smitten enough to be both desirous and possessive of her. He also felt protective. If only he could contrive a way to shelter her from the meschants and twattlers at court.

He shook the thought away. Why spoil the moment with worries about the future? He needed to rein his thoughts as far away from the king as possible, but where to divert them? Politics would not do. Neither would history or religion. All three roads led straight back to King Charles. Science, then…or philosophy? Nay, both were too weighty and cerebral for such a glorious day.

“Have you seen aught at the theatre worth remarking upon?”

She gave him a look that made him feel like a knave. What was he thinking? Of course she’d not. Before coming to Balloch, she’d been accustomed only to the rigid and monotonous routine of convent life. Frivolities like plays and concerts were doubtless unknown to her.

“What about books? Have you read aught diverting of late?”

“I was thinking of reading
Paradise Lost
by John Milton,” she said. “Are you familiar with it?”

A feather would have knocked him to the ground. The contentious tome lay beside his bed at this very moment. “You might find it hard going, but you are more than welcome to borrow my copy. Only, pray, whilst we are at court, do not, under any circumstances, make mention of the book or its author.”

“Why not?”

“John Milton was imprisoned for his role in the execution of the king’s father,” he said. “And whilst Charles the son succumbed to Protestant pressure to pardon the scoundrel, I doubt he shall ever forgive him or the other conspirators he granted clemency to keep the peace. I know I should not, were I in his royal slippers.”

“What is Milton’s book about?”

“Adam and Eve, more or less, and how God came to create them and later expel them from Paradise. ‘Tis a retelling of the first few pages of Genesis, expanded by the author into a long and detailed narrative poem. Included in the verse is the story of Lucifer’s fall from grace and how, to enact revenge upon mankind, he tempted Eve to taste the forbidden fruit, which is knowledge.”

“Knowledge of what?”

“Everything there is,” he said. “Everything God knows.”

“How can you be certain the apple did not represent something else?”

He squinted at her, intrigued. “Such as what?”

“Such as fleshly temptation. What if the snake was a symbol for Adam’s phallus and the apple, instead of representing Holy knowledge, represented carnal knowledge?”

Robert stared at her, slack-jawed with amazement. What a mind she had, what critical thinking skills, what reason. He’d been right about female intelligence and his father had been right about her. She was a treasure in more ways than he could count.

She stared at him in earnest. “Do you believe women are lesser in our Lord’s eyes than are men?”

His eyes narrowed in bewilderment. How could she know Milton made such an assertion in
Paradise Lost
? “No, though it goes against the teachings of the church, so do not spread it around if you know what’s good for you.”

“What do you believe, Robert? With regard to the equality of the sexes, I mean.”

“Well, since you asked, I lean toward Margaret Cavendish’s opinions on the subject. Have you read her memoir?”

“Not as yet, but very much wish to do so.”

Her knowing of Margaret Cavendish impressed him. “I have a signed copy somewhere in the library,” he told her. “Remind me when we get back to the house and I’ll dig it up for you. Methinks you will find it much more illuminating than
Paradise Lost
.”

She let go his hand and took his arm. “What happened to your mother, Robert? How old were you when she died?”

“She fell from a horse and broke her skull when I was in my twelfth year.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, touching the pearls he gave her. “Mine died in childbirth, so I never knew her to miss her. Or my father. Was it hard to get along without your mother?”

“Aye.” He swallowed hard as the scar-covered void left by the loss of his mother tore open inside him.

As they walked the paths betwixt the boxwood-framed beds of fragrant flowers and herbs, she threw periodic backward glances toward the castle, where the sheet from their wedding-night bed hung from the tower window.

“Was it really necessary to display the evidence of our consummation for all to see?”

“Aye.” He regretted it troubled her. “How else will the good people of Dunwoody know our marriage might produce an heir to the duchy? It gives them hope for the future, my darling. If you do not bear me a son and heir, my title and the estate they depend upon for survival might cease to exist.”

She said no more on the subject as they continued their stroll. They walked in silence for a while, each lost in thought. Birdsong, the crunching of the gravel path beneath their soles, and the breeze-induced rustle of leaves in the outlying trees were the only sounds.

They came upon a bench near the end of the garden path and set down. He wore a belted kilt with sturdy boots and a deep-green velvet doublet.

She had on a simple linen frock, making her look austere, but still achingly beautiful.

He put his arm around her and she inclined her head against his shoulder.

“Where did you receive your education?” she inquired.

“At Christ’s College. Why do you ask?”

“Because you seem to know a great deal—and your speech sounds more English to my ear than Scottish.”

“Aye, well.” He chuckled. “Broad Scots was not encouraged at Oxford, nor at White Hall, where I passed the majority of my post-university years.”

A strand of her hair blew across his lips. He brushed it away as he bent his neck to kiss her curls, rendered wild by sleep and wind. The intoxicating scent of her filled his senses, reawakening his desire. He lifted her face and kissed her mouth, pleased to find her lips soft and responsive. He was even more pleased when her fingers slipped beneath his plaid and climb his thigh. He shuddered as sexual longing surged through him, potent and demanding.

He put his hands on her breasts, which, flattened under her stays, felt rather like a board.

When she seized his erection, he moaned into her mouth. Need stormed his body. God, how he wanted her, despite her infirmity.