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

by Mason, Nina

  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.

  The maid helped her put the costume on before seating her at the dressing table. As the servant powdered and rouged her face and dressed her hair, Maggie gazed at herself in the looking glass, fighting to keep her tears at bay. Hugh needn’t sell her to a Paris brothel. He’d turned her into a French whore right here in her own home.

  Maggie followed the maid out of the room, down the dim corridor, and into the foyer, where Hugh waited at the foot of the staircase. Her stomach tightened when she saw he wore only a banyan.

  As the maid turned to go, Hugh offered Maggie his arm. She wanted to run, to scream, to scratch his eyes out, but she merely smiled and took the offered elbow. With each step they ascended, her chest grew tighter until she could barely breathe.

  At the landing, Hugh stopped, turned to face her, and tilted up her chin to look at her face in the light of the wall-mounted sconce just above. “You are looking pale, Maggie. Is there something I should know?”

  “If I am pale,” she said, keeping her tone light to belie the heaviness in her breast, “’tis doubtless the result of all the cleaning and washing I’ve been doing of late.”

  “There is a glow about you as well,” he said, still eying her suspiciously. “Is it possible you are with child?”

  As fear stabbed her heart, she opened her mouth to deny the supposition.

  His hand jumped to her throat and squeezed until she choked.


  She grabbed his wrist and fought to pry him off, but he only tightened his grip. Her vision dimmed and she staggered backward until her spine was pressed against the newel post.

  “None of your lies,” he hissed, his face mere inches from hers. “Do you carry my brother’s brat in your belly or not?”

  She tried to shake her head, but could not.

  “Never mind,” he said. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat, after all.”

  He let go of her neck, drew back his arm, and drove his fist into her stomach.

  Maggie heard a horrible whooping noise as the air left her lungs.

  As she doubled over, gasping for breath, he moved around to the side. Then, his leg shot out with enough force to knock her off her feet. Panic raced through her as her body became airborne. She made a wild clutch for the bannister, but missed. Darts of pain stabbed her head, ribs, and hip as she bounced her way down the flight. By the time she landed at the bottom, she’d been overtaken by oblivion.

  Chapter Ten

  Gemma Wakeman, the physician’s daughter, had proved herself closer to a miracle worker than an apprentice physician. After a se’nnight of constant care and herb-infused broth, her still-nameless patient was well along the road to recovery.

  Apart from the huge remaining lapses in his memory, of course.

  He still could not recall who he was or what had happened to him and was as yet too weak to get out of bed, though he could now at least sit up and feed himself. Mistress Wakeman still had to shave him and help him with the chamber pot, but that would change very soon.

  Too soon perhaps.

  He’d heard soldiers wounded in battle sometimes attached themselves to their female caretakers, and now he understood. Somewhere along the way, he’d grown quite fond of his nurse. But she would never mean as much to him as his Rosebud did. All his future hopes and dreams were pinned on making Maggie his bride. As soon as he inherited, he would declare himself and pray she accepted his proposal of marriage.

  If and when they at last tied the knot, he wanted Maggie to be his everything. If she could not be, he would take a mistress with whom to enjoy his vices, but his wife would always be first in his heart. In the meantime, he sowed his wild oats with women (and men on occasion) toward whom he felt naught but lust.

  Mistress Wakeman no longer fit that category, but neither did she surpass Maggie in his affections. And even if she could in time, she was promised to Jones the apothecary.

  Much as she loathed the arrangement.

  The poor lass had cried for two days together when her father informed her he’d secured the betrothal. On her patient’s available shoulder, much to his frustration. He’d come dangerously close to kissing her, too. How could he help himself? She was soft and warm and weeping. She needed comforting and smelled of fresh herbs and fresh-baked bread. When she’d looked up at him with those teary green eyes, he all but forgot his pledge to avoid romantic contact.

  Luckily, her father came in seconds before their lips met. Oddly, ’twas the only time since he’d been conscious Dr. Wakeman had come to check on him. The man obviously trusted his daughter’s physicking skills implicitly.

  Or could not be bothered to attend to a person as insignificant as himself.

  “You are mending nicely,” the gray-bearded physician had observed after looking him over and asking numerous probing questions. “I only wish your memory was repairing as quickly as your skull. When next I visit the palace, I shall make inquiries as to your identity. Perhaps the knowledge will help draw other recollections to the fore.”

  The patient had seen neither hide nor hair of the good doctor since, and was growing more worried and restless with each passing day. If the king tossed him out on his ear, where would he go? Home to wherever home was? He could not imagine that would set well with his father. He might not remember his own name or the name of the town in which he’d been born and bred, but he vividly recalled the shouting matches and being sent away to spare his old man further anguish.

  Unlike in the Biblical fable of the Prodigal Son, there would be no feast to celebrate his unexpected homecoming. On the contrary, his father would undoubtedly slam the door in his face.

  The sound of someone entering brought him out of his pre-waking ruminations. Opening his eyes, he found Mistress Wakeman at the foot of the bed giving him a careful once-over.

  “Good morning,” she said when his gaze met hers. “How is the patient feeling today?”

  “Stronger,” he said. Then, fearing she might get her hopes up, he added, “But not nearly fit enough to manage aught too strenuous.”

  He hoped she took his meaning. Not that he found her disagreeable. Quite the contrary, truth be known. She was as lovely as a spring day and just as refreshing. At present, she wore a simple-yet-tight-fitting blue linen bodice, which showed off her comely figure in ways that tempted him to break his vow. He did not merely desire her, however. He liked her, liked her touch, her smell, her company, her sense of humor, her clever mind, and her sweet disposition.

  Aye, he was fond of Mistress Wakeman, but he did not love her as he loved his Rosebud. Though why his feelings for a lass who barely knew he existed should suddenly matter mystified him no end. Since he’d stupidly fallen for his father’s young ward, he’d shagged plenty of women without a second thought. So, why should he feel beholden now?

  Perhaps the head injury was to blame for this baffling change in him.

  “Do you require my assistance with the chamber pot this morning?” asked Mistress Wakeman.

  His lips compressed. Letting her get her hands on his cock was not a good idea, especially given his morning erection. “Thank you for your kind offer, but I believe I can manage on my own this morning.”

  “It gladdens me to hear you say so.” Her eyes noticeably brightened, rekindling his worries. “For it means you must be feeling more yourself this morning.”

  He swallowed hard. “Indeed, but still a long way from well.”

  She bent to retrieve the chamber pot and, after setting the commode on the table, made to pull down the bedclothes.

  He held them fast around his chin. Resisting her was hard enough beneath the shield of the blankets.

  “My heart belongs to another,” he blurted, still holding tight to the bedclothes.

  She gave him a wicked smile and tried to wrest the blankets from his grip. “Be that as it may, I ask not for your heart, my lord. Only your tarse.”

  “Aye, well,” he ground out as he fought her to keep himself covered. “In my case, the two are inseparable.”

  Dear Lord. Had he really just said that? More remarkably, he’d meant it, but still could not fathom the change in his ethics. He had always been up for it—without the least regard for his or the other party’s feelings. Or Maggie’s for that matter. He’d made no promise to his sister's friend. So far as he knew, she had not the least idea he carried a torch for her, and would probably laugh in his face when he finally mustered the nerve to declare himself.

  “I see,” she said curtly. “And, if I may be so bold, what changed in the past week?”

  “Naught.” He desired to be truthful without wounding her feelings. “I simply thought better of our arrangement. Now, would you kindly turn your back so I may do my business without an audience?”

  When she turned round, he took up the chamber pot, pulled down the covers, and relieved himself. Returning the commode to the table, he quickly drew the covers back over his lap. “I am decent once more. You may look now.”

  Rather than turn round, she walked to the fireplace and fingered the ceramic dogs upon the mantle. “It surprises me not that you have reneged on our agreement.” Bending to the dying fire, she took the poker from its place and jabbed the log, which answered with a flurry of sparks. “My father made inquiries at the king’s court yesterday. No pages have gone missing. When he described you to those he met, not one of them claimed an acquaintance.”

  He stared at her back in slack-jawed asto
nishment for several moments before he gathered enough of his wits to say, “But—that cannot be. I spoke the truth. I swear it. Insofar as I recall, I am a Page of the Bedchamber to the king. Did your father speak directly to His Majesty? Charles will vouch for me. I am certain of it.”

  She shot a glance at him over her shoulder. “My father does not enjoy access to His Majesty. Only Her Majesty, and even then, only when summoned.”

  “He could gain access to the king by bribing one of the pages,” he offered.

  She laughed rather harshly and poked the log again. “Now there is an irony if ever I heard one. He should bribe a page to see the king in order to ask if he is missing a page of your description." Turning, she met his desperate gaze with a stern one. “And what do you propose we use to make this bribe? Look around you, my lord. Do we appear to be rolling in money?”

  “I will give you the money.”

  “Unless you are a Leprechaun with a pot of gold stashed somewhere, I do not see how. When my father found you, you’d been robbed of all but your shirt, which, though finely made, was ruined by rips and stains.”

  He scratched his head, which still ached rather fiercely. Either she was putting him on or he’d gone stark raving mad. He was sure he was a Page of the Bedchamber at the Palace at Whitehall. Biting his lip, he tried to puzzle it out why his fellows might deny an acquaintance, but could come up with no reasonable explanation.

  All the while she watched him, her eyes brimming with suspicion.

  “I swear to you, I have spoken truthfully,” he said, feeling compelled to explain himself. “But there are significant gaps in my memory. I have no recollection of being attacked, for example. Though I must have been. For I see no other way I ended up in an alleyway, stripped and bloodied.”

  Her expression grew pensive as she settled in the armchair. After several moments of silent contemplation, she said, “My father did say a blow to the head could cause a person to lose time. Perhaps you’ve lost more time than the hours surrounding the attack. What is the last thing you remember doing before you came to your senses?”