The Duke's Bedeviled Bride (Royal Pains Book 2) (9 page)

 
“Watch.”

Her eyes flew open. She met his intense gaze down the length of her torso. “’Tis better if I close my eyes.”

“Better for you perhaps, but not for me. I want to see the fruits of my labors reflected back to me in your eyes and expression.”
 

“Very well.” She sighed in surrender. “I shall watch if doing so pleases you.”

He set his mouth to her again, and she did watch, her gaze locked with his. As the pleasure built to a fever pitch, she twined her fingers in his silky, lavender-scented tendrils, eager to taste the tempting fruit hanging mere inches beyond her grasp.
   

He redoubled his efforts, his tongue and lips and teeth working in perfect concert, lifting her higher and higher on wings of unbearable pleasure. Then, she fell from the sky in a shower of sparks.

A roman candle.

Nay, a comet—bright and long-tailed, like the one seen a few months ago over Rotterdam.
 

She tangled her fingers in his hair, twisting, pulling, and holding him there as she writhed against his mouth, squeezing from his lips and the moment every last drop of heaven possible. He watched, eyes dancing, as she returned to earth, her feet finding solid ground. She smiled at him and stroked his mussed dark mane, her mind still floating amongst the clouds.
 

He opened his mouth and said something, but the squeal of hinges covered the words. The garden gate. Holy Mary. Someone was coming. As alarm shattered her bliss, Maggie looked to see who approached.

There came a man and a woman up the knoll toward where they lay beneath the cluster of trees. She squinted, straining to make out their features. They were nobly dressed in velvets and brocades and there was something familiar about the man’s posture and gait. The lady, unless Maggie was mistaken, was a stranger to her.

Maggie pushed up on her elbows with rising indignation, gaze glued to the approaching pair. She could not yet make out their features, but the gentleman wore a wide-brimmed hat trimmed in gimp and plumage, a fashionable periwig falling well past his shoulders, and a coat covering all but his stockings and shoes. Of his companion’s costume, she glimpsed a skirt of embroidered pink satin peeking out from beneath a fur-lined blue velvet cloak. The lady’s hair was the same shade of gold as Maggie’s. ’Twas quite common for neighbors to drop in unannounced, but to venture into their private garden unescorted seemed beyond the bounds of propriety.

The rustle of her petticoats called her gaze back to Robert. He was on his knees, hastily covering her lower half. He appeared to be ruffled, but far from distraught. Her gaze shot back to the oncoming couple. “Who are they? Do you know?”

“It surprises me greatly you do not.” Chuckling, he climbed to his feet. Offering his hand to help her up, he added, “’Tis none other than my brother, Hugh, of course. And the lady, I can only presume, is our new sister-in-law.”

Maggie felt as though she’d been struck right below the breastbone and, all at once, found breathing difficult. As she struggled for air, all of the feelings she’d thought sure were no more bubbled to the surface. Accepting Robert’s hand, she let him pull her to her feet, forcing a smile to cover the inner explosion. She did not understand. ’Twas not possible she still had feelings for Hugh when she loved Robert with all of her heart.

No, the feeling must be something else. Not romantic love, but sisterly affection. Yes, she told herself, she cared for Hugh as shamelessly as a sister cared for a brother.
 

Robert, keeping hold of her hand, tugged her toward the edge of the copse. “Make haste. ’Twill not do for them to judge us indecent.”

“Why should we care what they think?” Maggie protested. “We are man and wife. Newlyweds, no less. They should be happy to see we cannot keep our hands off one another.”

“Aye, well. Be that as it may, my brother is a bit of a prude—a fact you somehow failed to notice, along with the rest of his flaws.”

She wanted to ask which flaws he meant, but there was no time. They came through the trees face to face with their visitors. Hugh had grown more handsome, time having filled out his features and strengthened his jaw. He was also more stylish. He’d always followed fashion, but the time spent at the Sun King’s court had made him more aggressive in the pursuit of smart attire.

She made a little curtsey and offered her former suitor her hand. A shiver went through her as he pressed his lips to the back of it.

“Well, well, well,” said Robert beside her. “’Tis the Prodigal Son come home again. We must kill the fatted calf, invite all the neighbors, and make a real feast of the occasion.” Turning to his wife, he added, “What do you say to that, Rosebud?”

Hugh spoke before she could. “Would that you had a fatted calf to slaughter, brother. But, if things are as ever, you have only the half-starved variety whose meat is unfit for consumption.”

’Twas too true, but only men would discuss cattle at such a moment. “Will you not make the introductions?” She met Hugh’s gray-green gaze.

His eyes were so like Robert’s and, at the same time, so different. Her husband, for all his wildness, had a gentleness to his gaze his younger brother’s lacked. Why had she never noticed the difference before?

“Of course,” Hugh returned with a nod of the head. “Please forgive my appalling lack of manners. I was so dumbstruck by our reunion, I forgot myself.” Turning to his bride, he said, “This is Juliette, the new Marchioness of Castlerock. We were married a week ago in the presence of King Louis.”

Unsure of the protocol, Maggie dipped into a curtsy. “What a pleasure to meet you, my lady. You are very welcome at Balloch Castle.”

Hugh spoke to Juliette in French before turning back to the duke and duchess. “I’m afraid she has little English as yet. I had rather hoped my brother had taught you a sufficient amount of French by now.”

Maggie’s face heated. Robert had taught her a few French phrases, but none she planned to use in company. Smiling to hide the wicked thought, she inspected her new sister-in-law more closely.

Disquiet swelled within Maggie when she noticed Juliette resembled her in more than hair color. They had the same wide-set blue eyes and porcelain complexion, the same modest bust line and slender build. Had Hugh unconsciously chosen a bride who favored the one he’d been denied? And what of his alleged preference for men? Perhaps Robert had deliberately deceived her on that score.

Anger ignited deep in her belly. Just how many lies had her husband told her to get his way?

Before she could consider the matter further, Hugh offered his arm. Taking his elbow, she allowed him to lead her toward the gate a few steps behind Robert and Juliette, who were similarly arm-in-arm. Jealousy ensnared her heart like a thorny vine as she studied the pair. Had she picked the wrong brother? Not that she’d had much choice in the matter. Robert had been her guardian, her sole means of support, her only prospect save returning to the convent as an initiate—an option she did not care for in the least.
 

Besides, she loved her husband in spite of his deceptions.

“What do you think of my choice of wife?” Hugh asked.

She wanted to say how surprised she’d been to learn he’d taken a bride and how amazed she was by the striking resemblance, but she did not. Instead, she said the safer thing. “She is lovely in her person and seems quite amiable. I look forward to knowing her better.”
 

“I shall let you in on a secret.” He leaned in so close his breath tickled the sensitive folds of her ear. “There is more to the fair Juliette than meets the eye.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

He laughed. “’Twould be ungentlemanly of me to say, do you not think?”

She just smiled. Ever the trickster. Good old Hugh. How nice to have his cheerful soul back in Scotland, married or no.
 

“How did the two of you happen to meet?”

“We first clapped eyes on one another across a crowded ballroom,” he said. “To tell the truth, I thought she was you, come to Versailles in defiance of my brother. Or, perhaps I should say
hoped
she was you?”

Shock pricked her heart. “Did you?”

Holy Mary. He’d wanted her to come to him as much as she’d wanted him to come to her.

“Aye. I will not speak falsely, Maggie. I have feared for your welfare ever since I got your letter informing me you had accepted Robert’s proposal of marriage.” He slowed his pace, putting greater distance betwixt them and the leading pair. “Do reassure me, now that you’re able. Tell me he has not corrupted your virtue in more ways than a husband usually does.”

As she contemplated her answer, memories flashed through her mind. Robert tying her to the bed whilst blindfolded. Her caning him before having her way with him until both were too exhausted to move. Him taking part in a threesome at court. Her buggering him with the glass
Godemiché
whilst he was tied to a cross.

With each vision, her face grew hotter. If her purity had been tarnished, the deed had not been accomplished against her will.
 

“I know not what you mean,” she said. “Robert loves me as I love him.”

“My, what a fickle organ is the heart of woman.” Hugh patted the hand with which she kept ahold of his arm. “Not six months ago, I was convinced you loved only me.”

Robert might be right. Maybe Hugh was not quite the angel she’d always imagined. Love was, after all, said to be blind. If indeed she’d been in love with him once upon a time. Did those feelings yet dwell somewhere deep in her heart? Maybe. She definitely felt something, though she’d better take pains not to let Robert detect a preference. No, wait. On second thought, maybe she ought to go out of her way to provoke her husband’s possessive nature. Jealousy might be the very thing to inspire him to stay true to his vows.
 

Chapter Five

Later that night, Maggie lay abed, longing to hear Robert’s knock upon the door separating their bedchambers. She wanted him both to ease her passions and her curiosity about his brother’s allegation about Juliette. Alas, since their guests arrived, she’d not had a single moment alone with her husband to discuss the matter.

After returning to the castle, the gentlemen went off with the dogs to hunt wild fowl on the moor whilst the ladies, with the help of the abigail and valet the couple brought with them from France, unpacked what seemed an excessive quantity of cases and trunks.

Though they had no fatted calf to slaughter, dinner had nevertheless been a feast compared to their standard evening fare. The brothers had shot several muirfowl, which Mrs. McQueen roasted on a spit with a blend of herbs and served alongside oysters, stewed neeps, sheep’s-head broth, gravy potatoes, and fresh bread—rare treats one and all.

As special as the repast was, Maggie could not help feeling excluded. Whilst the others chatted away in French, she strained to pick out a recognizable word or two.

After the meal, the four of them played Lanterloo, a popular card game with French origins. Since Maggie was dealt no viable hands, she had plenty of time to scrutinize Juliette’s person across the table, but could perceive naught out of the ordinary.

Feigning fatigue after several rounds, Maggie left the three of them to the game, hoping Robert would comprehend her motive and follow. To her dismay, an hour had passed in the meantime and still he had not come.
 

She must have dozed off, for the next thing she knew, she awoke to a new day.

She was still alone—and now annoyed. Why had Robert not come to her in the night?

Sunlight shone through the leaded-glass window. Yesterday’s tryst in the garden drifted through her thoughts, redoubling her interest in locating her husband. Slipping out of bed, she pulled on her dressing gown and stepped into her slippers. The door dividing their bedchambers was ajar, so she peeked through the crevice to check if he was still abed.

He was not.
 

Disappointed yet still determined, she dressed quickly in a simple day frock and headed for the kitchen. There, to her dismay, she found only the kitchen maid with her hands in a tub full of dishwater. “Have you seen His Grace this morning?”

“Aye, m’lady,” the maid replied as she wiped her wet hands on her apron. “He set off about an hour ago to settle a dispute betwixt two of his tenants.”
 

“What about the marquess? Are he and his wife yet up and about?”

“Aye, m’lady. They’ve gone out for a ride.”

Maggie grabbed a bannock off the plate before her and nibbled the edge. Though part of her was disheartened by the desertion, another part welcomed the time alone. There was much weighing upon her mind and much more demanding her attention as Duchess of Dunwoody.

Retreating to her morning room, she took a seat at her secretary and shuffled through the waiting stack of letters. All had been opened—by Robert, presumably—apart from one. The stamped red-wax button sealing the letter made her chest feel at once hollow and heavy. She’d prayed every night since learning her father’s identity she might be spared the acquaintance.

But, alas, to her great consternation, here was a communique bearing the signet of the Duke of York. With trembling hands, she broke the seal and unfolded the sheet of fine paper.