The Duke's Bedeviled Bride (Royal Pains Book 2) (17 page)

Not knowing his name might prove fortuitous, actually. The less she knew of him, the less shagging her could come back to bite him in the arse. He just hoped the missing pieces would return to him in due course.

“’Twould be better perhaps if I remained nameless.”

“Very well.” She stroked his arm through his shirtsleeve. “But I shall need some name to call you by, for the sake of convenience if naught else.”

“If you must call me something, make it John.”

“John? How common. Why not something romantic, like Romeo or Lancelot or even Lothario?”

“Because they all were unhappy.”

“They knew passion. And thus, I envy them.”

God help him. He’d entangled himself with a die-hard romantic. If he broke her heart, he’d never forgive himself.

“Perhaps we ought to forget the whole mad idea,” he suggested with a wave of his hand.

“Nonsense.” She bent over him to administer a swift peck on the lips. “When you are better, we shall become lovers. And in times hence, when I must see to my husband’s needs, I shall close my eyes, think upon the passion we shared, and be content.”

* * * *

Maggie endured another week of exploitation and servitude before she was able to steal a moment to write the planned appeal for help. Though the window of opportunity was small, she struggled with the task for several minutes—partly because she was unsure how to word such a request and partly because she knew the entreaty would indebt her to someone she’d rather owe nothing.

Much as she wished to avoid the acquaintance on moral grounds, she could think of no one else to contact. And, at the end of the day, she’d prefer to be beholding to an undeserving father than in the dark about the fate of her beloved husband.

Please God, let Robert still be alive and well!

She’d decided not to mention Hugh in the letter. What would she say? “Help, I’m being held prisoner by my husband’s evil brother?” Though true enough, such a claim would sound like the ravings of a madwoman.

Heaving a sigh, she brushed the stiff feather end of the quill pen back and forth across her chin. Now that she’d settled upon what
not
to include, she needed to decide what she ought to write, starting with the salutation. How did one address such a letter?

Dear Duke?

Your Royal Highness?

Dear Father?

Deciding “Dear Father” was probably the best way to compel his assistance, she dipped her pen in the bottle of ink and began to scratch out the words.

“I am in receipt of your letter,” she wrote below the greeting.

Now what?

I was pleased to receive it?
 

No, that did not ring true, but she could hardly express what she’d really felt and then go on to ask a favor.

“’Twas good of you to reach out,” she benignly wrote instead.

Why had he reached out? Did he truly wish to be a father to her? Did he truly care? She found it hard to believe either could be the case when he’d not tried harder to find her—if, indeed, he’d tried at all.

She pulled on her lip with her teeth. Maybe Robert was right. Maybe ’twould have made no difference in terms of her material comforts. But knowing she had a father would have made a tremendous difference in terms of her emotional well-being. Had she known there was someone out there who cared about her, she might not have felt so forlorn.

So utterly alone and abandoned.

Now, she resented his desertion. And the lack of moral fortitude that brought her into this world. She did not want to know him and yet, at the same time, she longed to know him. He was her father, her family, her blood.

“I would be happy to call upon you and your wife when next you are in Scotland,” she wrote, then scowled down at the words. Happy was not quite what she would feel, but the sentiment would have to do. For there was no time to start the letter over. In fact, she’d be lucky to finish this one before she was found out.

“In the meanwhile, I hope you will permit me to beg a favor…”

After hurriedly penning the rest of her request, she folded, sealed, and addressed the sheet before looking about for a safe place to hide the communique. ’Twould not do for Hugh to uncover her scheme before she’d had a chance to put her plan into play, especially since she had no back-up strategy.

The thud of approaching footsteps reached her ears just as she rose from the dressing table. Heart hammering, she raced to the bed, shoved the letter under the mattress, and returned to the dressing table.

She reclaimed her seat before the looking glass just as the door creaked open. A quick sideways glance confirmed her worst fear. The ill-timed intruder was indeed Hugh.
 

“What do you do in here so secretly?”

His accusatory tone accelerated her already racing pulse. “’Tis no secret. My hands have grown chapped—a consequence of my new chores—and I was applying the salve of comfrey I keep for the purpose. For your sake, of course, dear brother. Surely, you would not enjoy my touch half so much if my hands became rough and calloused from work.”

“How thoughtful you are.” His voice was steeped in a blend of sarcasm and suspicion. “But the salve can wait until I’ve shared my news.”

“News? What sort of news?"

“News of my brother.” He set a hand on her shoulder. “Prepare yourself, Maggie, for the tidings I bear are not of the pleasant sort.” He cleared his throat and took a breath as if preparing to make a public address—or, more aptly, an important monologue in a play. “Moments ago, I received confirmation of your husband’s fate. He was accosted, as I’ve long suspected, by highwaymen en route to London and—now, brace yourself—sustained multiple stab wounds. The result of playing the hero, no doubt, as he was always wont to do.” He shook his head, released a sigh, and met her gaze in the looking glass. “As much as it pains me to be the bearer of such grievous tidings, fate has chosen me for the role. Thus, the long and the short of it is as follows: you are now a confirmed widow and I have taken my brother’s place as duke. So, your vassalage has become a permanent state of being. Unless you’d rather return to the convent or go to Paris to earn your own way on your back.”

“I shall stay,” she said, smiling to hide the smoke of her smoldering inner embers. “For the time being, leastwise.”

If she did not stay, she could not correspond with her father or learn the truth about Robert. On top of which, she had no desire to become either nun or whore. Plus, she had nowhere else to go. Not that she believed for one second Hugh would let her escape so easily. He must know the moment she was free of him she would tell someone about his ill-treatment of her. Thus, his offer to let her go was naught but a game of some sort. A key offered only to be snatched away.

Well, let him play his games. She would beat him in the end.

“Your choice pleases me exceedingly.” He grinned wickedly. “For I have need of you at present.”

She could guess what he meant. “Even though I’ve only now learned of my husband’s death?”

Not for a moment did she believe Robert was dead. She would, however, go along with the farce to buy herself time.

“Does not the Bible tell us the best cure for self-centeredness is service?” he asked with a smirk.

Maggie nearly choked. She could not believe he’d just quoted Holy Scripture to justify his own scandalous motives. She nevertheless held her tongue. Pointing out his brazen blasphemy would only encourage further cruelty.

She forced another smile. “Why yes, brother dear.”

“That is better. Now, come to where I now stand and get down on your knees.”

What a heartless monster. If she had believed him about Robert’s death, she would be grief-stricken and still he would subject her to his repugnant demands.

At least she could say this: she no longer entertained the least doubt she’d married the superior of the Armstrong brothers. Robert might be twisted in his way, but he’d only ever been patient, kind, and loving toward her. She could not say the same of Hugh. Even back when he was courting her, his affection felt ingenuous, as if he were only acting the part of a lover instead of truly besotted with her.

Now that she knew the truth, his puzzling lack of passion made sense. He was a wicked, selfish, narcissistic creature who perceived others only as either obstacles or game pieces.

Obeying his order, she knelt before him, eyes closed and head bowed. Even if he allowed eye contact, she could not bear to look him in the face. He placed a finger under her chin and, when he made to lift her face, she let him, but kept her eyes shut tight.

“You could have been my wife,” he said. “But I was not good enough for the avaricious whore you’ve proved yourself to be.”

Mistress Margaret charged to the surface of her psyche, ready to avenge her. Maggie pushed her alter-ego back down. Defiance would accomplish little more than surrendering what little freedom she still enjoyed.

If she was going to fight back, she’d be wise to wait until she was assured of gaining the upper hand. And this was not that moment.

“Tonight, you will graciously entertain a guest of mine,” he told her. “My wife’s maid will come in shortly to help you prepare.”

She opened her eyes in time to watch him turn on his heel and leave her on her knees. She clambered to her feet, seething with indignity. Abusing her was not enough for him. Now, he meant to add to her humiliation by whoring her to his friends. She just prayed Robert would still want her—if and when he did return—after she’d been passed around the village like a quaffing cup.

Dread supplanted her outrage as her mind showed her images of the degradations that likely lay in store. She blinked the horrid fantasies away. No! Speculating upon the possibilities would only add to her already overwhelming wretchedness.

As her tears began to fall, the French maid came in bearing a stack of bundles. From the village tailor, judging by the surrounding paper and string.

“Take off everything,” she told Maggie as she carried the packages to the recessed bed.

While she unwrapped the parcels, Hugh’s valet came in with a bathing tub, which he set in the middle of the room. Right behind him came Mrs. McQueen with a pitcher of heated water.

After emptying the pitcher into the tub, Mrs. McQueen left, but the valet stayed as if expecting a tip.

Though this struck Maggie as odd, she bit back the urge to ask why he lingered.

“I told you to undress.” The maid barked the order without turning.

“I will not undress while he is here,” Maggie said, sticking out her chin.

The maid turned and fixed her with a stern expression. “You will do as you are told, m’lady, or suffer the wrath of the duke.”

Hugh was not the duke, she wanted to scream at both of them, but knew her protests would be in vain. With trembling fingers and a smoldering gut, Maggie began to undress. When she finished and was naked, the valet strode up to her, bold as could be, and ran his fat fingers down her body. She bristled under his touch, but said nothing.

“Not so high and mighty now, are we m’lady?” he jeered.

“Leave her be,” said the maid. “High or low, her virtues are not for the likes of you.”

“Feh,” he said, withdrawing. “If you ask me, all females, whatever their rank, are good for naught but a fuck and a suck.”

Maggie bristled at the statement as he stalked out of the room. Clearly, the manservant was cut from the same misogynistic cloth as his master.

Forgetting them both, she stepped into the tub. As the maid washed her down with a sponge, she did her best to bulwark herself against the abuses before her. If she built walls around her mind, she’d be better able to endure whatever they did to her.

When she was washed and dried, the maid helped her into the garments she’d brought from the tailor: a lace-trimmed corset of pale blue satin, several frilly petticoats, and a white taffeta dress and matching slippers. After hooking the front closures, the maid laced the corset up in the back.

The foundational garment was long and stiff and stoutly whale-boned with gussets to support the breasts. The more the maid cinched the lacings, the more the gussets lifted Maggie’s breasts until they stood straight out, nipples and all. At the same time, the constriction at the waist caused her stomach to bulge and her buttocks to jut out in crass invitation.

Female armor designed to disarm rather than protect the wearer, she thought. For whose benefit was she being thusly clad? Not her own, that was a surety.

“Who has the marquess invited this evening? Do you know?”

“I overheard the duke say he was expecting the baillie.”

A boulder of fear dropped on Maggie’s chest, threatening to crush her lungs. The baillie, an odious man named Alec Watt, was known around the village as a bully and a liar who regularly beat on his wife.

As the maid secured the laces, Maggie cast around for something to distract her thoughts from what lay in store. The dress on the bed caught her eye. ’Twas a two-piece ensemble, with a petticoat and French-style robe with a draped back whose neckline was cut too low to cover her breasts.

Her battlements rumbled like the walls of Jericho. Holy Mary. Hugh meant to parade her around in front of the baillie like a heifer at a livestock auction. Clearly, the man’s inhumanity knew no bounds.