by Mason, Nina
Praise for Devil in Duke’s Clothing
“An amazing read from start to finish.”
–Eclipse Reviews
“This is one of my favourite reads so far this year and I wholeheartedly recommend it to lovers of erotic historical romance.”
–A Reader’s Review
“An exquisitely beautiful yet intriguing story encircled by a world of unrest far more real than we want to acknowledge.”
–Unwrapping Romance
“An amazing, well-written, hot read that I simply couldn’t put down.”
–Sabina’s Adventures in Reading
“The description of the characters is so detailed it is like looking through a picture album at them. And the story line is not only exciting but HOT!!!”
–Immortal Reviews
“Wow, did Ms. Mason bring it. It’s a historical romance, but it’s smoking’ hot.”
–Bound by Books
“A truly good book!”
–The Ardent Reader
“Had me hooked from page 1 till the very end! I absolutely love historical romance and this did not disappoint!”
–Just One More Romance
The tawdry tale of the Duke and Duchess of Dunwoody continues…
Maggie Armstrong, the long-lost illegitimate daughter of the heir presumptive to the throne, is bedeviled by her husband's limited definition of fidelity. After observing him in a ménage à trois at the court of King Charles II, she is determined to bring him around to her way of thinking—
by any means necessary.
Robert doesn’t mind being punished for his transgressions. Rather, he enjoys being whipped, especially by his beloved bride. Unfortunately, her heart might not belong to him alone. His younger brother, who he’d sent abroad to clear the way for himself, is coming home sooner than expected, and Maggie’s feelings for Hugh may not be as dead as her husband had hoped.
Both duke and duchess soon learn, to their peril, Hugh Armstrong is not the honorable man they’d been led to believe. Insanely jealous of his brother’s situation, Hugh will stop at nothing to strip Robert of all he holds dear—including his life.
But the real danger for Robert and Maggie is not the villainous marquess, but the growing friction betwixt Catholics and Protestants in Restoration Era Great Britain.
Can their love survive the trials that await them?
Books by Nina Mason
The Queen of Swords
The Tin Man
Devil in Duke’s Clothing
The Duke’s Bedeviled Bride
The Duke’s Bedeviled Bride
Royal Pains: Book Two
Nina Mason
This book is dedicated to all the women who bravely live their lives in the shadow of breast cancer.
Copyright © 2015 by Nina Mason
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be produced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Acknowledgements
For their support and encouragement along the way, I thank my family.
For helping me iron out any story issues, I thank my beta readers: Anne Rindfliesch, Patty Hanson, Rosemary Hendry, Patricia Statham, Meaghan Royce, Tricia Pariso Anderson, Mary Lou Hoffman, Pam Swan, and Carrie-Anne Driscoll
For her help with Juliette’s French, a heartfelt merci beaucoup to Monique Daoust.
Preface
The year 1680 marked the start of what came to be dubbed The Killing Time in the border shires of Scotland. The targets were the Presbyterians who’d signed Covenants pledging their loyalty to their religion and Jesus Christ over the crowned head of state—a treasonous act in the eyes of the British government.
The divide between church and state was already wide and deep by the time Charles II took the throne twenty years earlier. The gorge enlarged after the newly restored king reneged on his promises to the Scottish Presbyterians who’d supported his bid to reclaim the throne.
Presbyterian ministers were forced to sign an oath of allegiance, presenting them with a stark choice: accept the new situation or lose their livings. Up to a third of the ministry refused to sign. Many voluntarily abandoned their pulpits rather than wait to be forced out by the government. Most of the vacancies occurred in southwest Scotland, an area particularly strong in Covenanting sympathies. Some of the ministers took to preaching in the open fields in “conventicles,” often to thousands of worshipers armed with axes and pitchforks.
The Scottish Privy Council attempted to mend the rift with “Indulgences” allowing ministers to return to their churches as long as they remained silent on the issues dividing church and state.
Rather than ease the dissention, these measures pushed the Covenanters to the brink of open rebellion. The summer of 1679 saw the assassination of the Archbishop of St. Andrew’s, bloody skirmishes between government troops and Presbyterians, and a public renouncement of the Stuart regime.
Responding to these seditious acts, the Scottish Privy Council authorized the immediate execution of any Presbyterian caught bearing arms or who refused to swear fealty to the crown and renounce the Covenant when asked to do so. The oath devised for this purpose was meant to weed out the disloyal by giving as much offense as possible.
John Graham of Claverhouse, a royalist and career soldier, was commissioned to implement the Privy Council’s orders and wasted no time in doing so. Numerous Covenanters were shot dead, some along the roads and others in their own homes in front of their wives and children. These brutal attempts to bring order led the Presbyterians to change John Graham’s nickname from “Bonnie Dundee” to “Bloody Clavers.”
Meanwhile, back in England, the cauldron of Catholic hatred, stirred by fear-mongering politicians bent on blocking the succession of the king’s brother, had reached the boiling point.
Chapter One
Edinburgh, Scotland, 1680
Maggie’s stomach knotted beneath the stiff whalebones of her stays as Robert claimed the seat beside her in the carriage. For a large man, he was as nimble as a fox—and just as sly.
He moved in so close, the smell of his hair—a soft, spicy bouquet of lavender and clove—permeated her senses, weakening her resistance to his charms, which were considerable. Black hair cascading over his shoulders in soft waves. Chiseled features worthy of Michelangelo. Full, luscious lips that begged to be kissed. ’Twas his eyes, though, that always turned her bones to tallow. Gray-green, deep-set, and rakishly alluring, those eyes of his could charm the petticoats off a paragon of virtue.
And she ought to know.
Because he was the devil who’d tempted her with his apple of carnal delights.
Her nipples tingled and hardened as he ran his fingers down her neck, across her collarbone, and over the swells of her décolletage. She swallowed, struggling to maintain her indifference as he trailed thrilling kisses down the places he’d touched.
She drew in a ragged breath and turned to meet his desire-hooded gaze. “You are not making it easy for me to stay cross with you.”
He lifted his head, revealing a devilish grin. “That would be the objective, dearest.”
The carriage’s plushly upholstered interior felt remarkably private considering the teeming streets of Edinburgh lay just beyond the golden damask covering the windows. What a shame the blinds did not keep out the stench of peat smoke, unwashed bodies, and waste along with the prying eyes of the citizenry. The city’s noises also intruded. Merchants hawking their wares, clopping hooves, jangling harnesses, wheels grinding on cobblestones, barking dogs, and crying babies amassed into an oppressive wall of sound Maggie found antagon
istic to her husband’s attempts at seduction.
She much preferred country to courtly life and could not wait to get home to the peace and quiet of Balloch Castle.
Scooting away from Robert in a swish of silk, she coughed into her ungloved hand. When he slid closer, she held her ground, refusing to give him the satisfaction of sending her scurrying. She would not play the mouse to his cat. When he reached for her, she captured his hand in one of hers, holding off the advance.
He entwined his fingers with hers, pulled her hand against the front of his blue-gray velvet coat, and held it there, imprisoned, before lifting it to his lips.
As he planted a lingering kiss upon each of her knuckles, her resolve began to crumble.
With her free hand, she pushed his hair behind his ears before moving in to brush her lips across his jaw. At his ear, she whispered, “You shan’t win my forgiveness by seducing me.”
Turning his head, he captured her mouth in a lip-smashing kiss whilst he ran his hands over her cinnamon-colored silk mantua.
Rather than resist, she ran her free hand up the nap of his coat and into his hair, holding his mouth against hers as she matched his intensity.
Robert groaned his approval before she pulled away, breathless and hungry for more, but still determined not to give in.
He moistened his enticing lips as he searched her face—for cracks in her armor, no doubt.
She turned toward the window and raised the shade. The pastoral view told her they’d left the city at last. With a sigh, she sat back, gladdened by the flat, rural landscape and fresh air. The pollution, noise, and constant jostling of Edinburgh had brought on a headache.
So had his short-sighted denials. He might not regard the threesome she’d witnessed at Holyroodhouse Palace as a violation of their marriage vows, but she most certainly did.
And so did Mistress Margaret, her domineering alter-ego.
“What would you say to a spanking?” she asked.
His whole face lit up. “Do you mean it?”
She gave him a smile. “A prelude, if you will, to things to come.”
“Will you use your bare hand?”
“What else?” She glanced about the coach’s interior for dramatic effect. “I see no paddle hereabouts. Nor switches.”
With barely contained enthusiasm, he stripped off his coat and unbuttoned his long waistcoat. She watched with breathless admiration as his long, graceful fingers eased each silk-encased button from its tightly stitched slot.
His hands were as beautiful as the rest of him. Yes, beautiful. Like a painting by Caravaggio or Raphael. Only better, because Robert was flesh and blood. And hers. For better or for worse. She planned to keep it that way, too—even if she had to beat her definition of fidelity into his thick male skull.
He took off the waistcoat, tossed it aside, and set upon the ribbons on the fly of his breeches.
She stopped his hand with hers before running her fingers along the velvet-ensconced ridge of his manhood.
A breath shuddered from his lips as he opened his thighs to invite her to do more.
With covetous fingers, she stroked his bulge until his breathing grew labored and her cunny tingled with the need for fulfillment. Withdrawing her hand, she sat back with a sigh. “Take down your breeches. But only as far as your knees. Then, I want you to lie across my lap.”
He did as she’d asked and, as he lay across her thighs, she ran her hands over his perfect buttocks, relishing the feel of their firm flesh and flocking of dark hair. Eager to leave her mark upon those comely pale cheeks, she raised her hand and brought it down hard.
Crack.
He hissed and squirmed, poking her inner thigh with his cockstand. His response, coupled with the heady feeling of absolute power, provoked a rush of wetness betwixt her legs. If this was how the king felt most days, ’twas no wonder he was perpetually hard.
She took a moment to caress the stained flesh before raising her hand again. She brought it down, palm flat, on the other cheek, stamping thereupon a matching pink hand-print.
“How do you like your punishment so far, you deplorable excuse for a husband?”
“Exceedingly well.” His voice was hoarse and breathless. “Though, if you will allow some instruction, your technique can be raised to an art form.”
“Is that so?” She was genuinely intrigued. “Well, then. By all means, instruct away.”
“To begin with, the goal of erotic spanking is sexual stimulation,” he said. “Orgasm must be the purpose, not punishment. Thus, the slaps should be hard enough to bring blood to the region, but interspersed with caresses and gentle rubbing of the buttocks and genitals.”
“Is that not what I’ve been doing?”
“Aye, but I know your aim is vengeance rather than arousal, which undermines my trust, stripping some of the pleasure from the experience.”
He was right. Her goal had been to teach him a lesson, not bring him to climax. Perhaps she could reconsider her objective for the sake of marital harmony.
For the time being, leastwise.
“What else do I need to know to do it properly?”
“Take your time before starting,” he said. “Play with my buttocks. Rub, squeeze, and pinch the cheeks. Kiss, lick, and finger my anus, if you do not find the idea distasteful. Check my cock for hardness. Tell me what you plan to do. Anticipation is a powerful stimulant, Maggie. Exploit it to full advantage. When you feel me trembling with excitement, you will know I am ready to be spanked.”
“Then, what?”
“Generally, ’tis best to start with light slaps using a slightly cupped palm, fingers together.” Tilting toward her, he demonstrated the posture he’d described. “A hand such as this will produce a gratifying sound and redden the skin without excessive pain—to backside or hand.”
As he settled back down across her knees, she attempted to form her hand into the shape he’d shown her. When she’d achieved it, she brought her cupped palm down lightly upon his left cheek with a hollow-sounding smack. The result was exceedingly satisfying. Though redness bloomed in the spot she’d struck, her hand did not sting as before.
“By the by, you can graduate to a flat palm and fingers spread, but relaxed,” he said. “Such swats hurt the most. For best results, establish a slow tempo with an irregular rhythm—taking a moment to build tension betwixt each stroke. If I cannot anticipate when the next blow will fall, my arousal shall increase ten-fold.”
“How interesting. Is there anything else I should know?”
“Aye,” he said. “Take your time, strike only on the fleshiest area of the buttocks, and betwixt each swat, be generous with your touch—in ways that soothe and stimulate. Rub the spot you’ve struck. Stroke my cock. Fondle my cods. All the while, keeping in mind the number or severity of the spanks is not what will bring me to climax. That will depend upon how fully I submit to the experience. And for me to surrender control, I must trust you are committed to the same goal as am I—erotic enjoyment rather than remonstration.”
Could she set aside her anger and agree to the goal? Deciding ’twas worth a try at least, she spanked him, hand cupped, four times in succession—two blows per cheek.
He gasped and squirmed, affording her more gratification than she’d expected.
Resolving to enjoy herself now and claim her pound of flesh at another time, she rubbed the red hand prints she’d branded upon his flesh before sliding her fingers into his crack. God, how the forbidden fruit of his tight little anus called to her. She ran her finger in circles around his tempting sphincter before pressing the tip into the opening.
He clenched and groaned.
She pushed deeper, meeting moisture, pressure, and heat.
This was surprisingly arousing. Her cunny was already throbbing with need and she’d only gotten started. Removing the finger, she ran her hand down his hair-lined crack to his cods. Taking his sack in her hand, she bounced and squeezed the eggish innards before proceeding to his phallus. He w
as incredibly hard, but hardened all the more in response to her stroking fingers.
The feeling of power was utterly intoxicating. Returning her hand to his buttocks, she slapped him open-palmed twice upon the same cheek.
He winced under the resonant blows. “Sweet Jesus, Maggie. That stung like the dickens.”
So did her hand.
“Good,” she said, feeling deliciously wicked. “My intent was to cause you pain. You have been exceedingly naughty, as you well know.” She pinched him hard before adding in an admonishing tone, “And you shall address me as Mistress Margaret or suffer the consequences of your impudence.”
He laughed at her, the fool. “Is that a promise or a threat?”
“A threat, I assure you.”
“I see. And may I inquire as to how you plan to carry out said threat?”
Erotic excitement cascaded through her. She raised her hand high and brought it down upon his buttocks—once, twice, thrice in quick succession.
Beneath the sparse dark hairs, the buttes of his twin hillocks were now an angry shade of crimson. She set her hand upon the reddened flesh, savoring the heat summoned by her swats. A similar fever burned in her loins.
“Enough of this,” she said. “I want you inside me.”