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

by Mason, Nina

  “Would you prefer I left you to it?”

  Please say you would not.

  Desire kindled in his greening gaze. “If you want the truth, I would prefer you took off your clothes.”

  “Are you sure you are up for it?”

  He moved the hand he still held down his body to his crotch so she could feel he was hard beneath the bedclothes. “You tell me. Though, given the state of me, you will have to take the lion’s share of the task upon yourself.”

  “Anything for the cause,” she said, grinning with delight.

  Wasting no time, she got to her feet, stripped to her shift, and went around to the other side of the bed. She lifted the covers, planning to crawl under, then changed her mind and pulled them back. As she let her gaze roam over his naked physique, desire coiled hot and tight in her womb.

  Climbing onto the bed, she bent over him and kissed his bellybutton. She moved upward, kissing as she went until she reached his mouth.

  He put his good arm around her and she dropped onto him and spread her hands over his shoulders. They kissed affectionately for a while, their lips meeting and parting, their tongues touching and entwining, their teeth nipping now and again. Enjoying each other and the renewed closeness. If there was a more wonderful mouth to kiss in all the world, she could not imagine such a thing.

  “Mmm,” he half muttered, half moaned.

  “Mmm,” she wholeheartedly concurred.

  “I have missed you, Rosebud,” he said against her mouth.

  With the arm around her, he drew her over him, and she lay atop him, savoring his warmth and scent.

  “I have missed you, too.”

  He kissed her again and moved his hand down over her bottom to spread her legs on either side of his own.

  She pushed herself up so she was kneeling astride him with her hands flat on his chest. Lifting her hips, she eased onto his erection, taking him deeply into her body.

  He tipped back his head, pressing deeper into the pillow, and made a low growling sound she found at once primal and enflaming.

  His good hand came up and tugged at the drawstring on her shift. “Take this off. I want to see all of you.”

  Without ado, she pulled the shift off over her head and threw it away from her. “Better?”

  “Much.”

  Heat flashed within her, burning her from the inside out. She lowered her face to his and captured his mouth. As their tongues clashed, she moved her hands over him, propelled by a burning desire to feel the reality of him beneath her fingers. She needed him, wanted him, wanted to crawl inside his skin, inside his soul.

  To be one with him, body and blood, in blessed conjugal communion.

  Impelled by her hunger for him, she fed on the sweetness of his mouth, taking it into her like nourishment. He was her sustenance, her strength, her Rock of Gibraltar. When she kissed him this way, all the bad in the world faded away. There was only him. Only them. Only love.

  He cupped her breast, thumbing the nipple.

  ’Twas as if he tugged a string attached to her clitoris. She raised her body up, to the brink of separation, and then came back down on him with a grinding flourish. She repeated the move again and again until she was riding him with the metered rhythm of a Bach concerto. Slow, steady, deliberate, and utterly mesmerizing.

  Determined to give the effort everything she had, she squeezed her internal muscles each time she went up and circled her hips each time she came down.

  Up, squeeze.

  Down, circle.

  Up, squeeze.

  Down, circle.

  He was so hard for her and she was so wet for him. Wet and wound as tight as a clock’s mainspring ready to snap with the next turn of the key.

  Under her he was just as tightly coiled. She could feel his muscle spasms, hear his ragged breathing, and see the dark clouds of ecstasy gathering in his hooded gray-green gaze. She knew he was close when, forgetting his wounded arm, he grabbed her hips with both hands and dug in his fingers. Then, he drove upward with a strangled cry and stayed there, breathless and clenched, whilst he spilled into her.

  She joined him the next second, exploding around him in an orgasm that left her dizzy and panting.

  When the pleasure dissipated, she sat up and looked deeply into his eyes. God, how she loved him. He was all man and yet so gentle and vulnerable beneath his brave veneer.

  A firestorm of emotion swept through her, threatening to overwhelm her.

  He had returned to her.

  He had been faithful to her.

  He had avenged her.

  “I love you, Robert,” she said, still winded. “To the depths of my soul.”

  His mouth hitched into a crooked grin, but his eyes remained serious. “I hope you still feel the same after I’ve disclosed my decision pertaining to our future.”

  His ominous statement plunged a knife of alarm into her heart. “Oh, God. What now?”

  “Your father wants us to come to Edinburgh, as he fears Dunwoody is no longer safe for us.”

  “And Edinburgh is?”

  “Hardly. But he has helped us defeat our enemies and ’tis only right we return the favor.”

  “But—what about Balloch and the duchy? What about the baby? What about Mrs. McQueen?”

  “What about them?”

  “What will become of them if we move to Edinburgh?”

  “The baby we shall take with us, obviously. And Mrs. McQueen, too, if she wishes to come along.”

  Besieged by the dread born of the fear of the unknown, Maggie rolled off him. He pushed up a little and reached to grab the bedclothes. Then, his complexion went ashen, as if he’d seen something shocking. Alarmed, she looked to see what had triggered his inexplicable response. To her horror, the whole of his lap was covered in blood.

  “My God,” she exclaimed. “You are bleeding.”

  “The blood is not mine.” He leapt out of bed and crossed the room in great haste. Throwing open the door, he shouted at the top of his voice, “Fetch Dr. Cockburn back here at once. I fear my wife may be having a miscarriage.”

  —THE END—

  (For now)

  Glossary of Unfamiliar Terms

  Now, for those without a device offering word definitions, I offer a brief glossary of some of the terms peppered through the story to add period flavor.

  Abigail: a lady’s maid.

  Concupiscent: sexual lust.

  Cunny: slang for female genitalia considered less offensive than “cunt.”

  Dildol: an earlier version of the word “dildo.”

  Doxy: whore.

  Flacon: a stout, sealable bottle common to the period.

  Fortnight: fourteen nights or two week.

  Gamahuche: a French word meaning “mouth on genitals.”

  Godemiché: a dildo

  Larking: a slang term of the period for a man making love to a woman’s breasts.

  Meschant: a villain or bad person.

  Petites linges: French for “small cloths,” a euphemism for condoms at the time.

  Se’nnight: seven nights; a week.

  Stoup: a cup or flacon for drinking.

  Swive: a coarse term for having sex; comparable to “fuck.

  Tarse: a slang term for “penis.”

  Tawse: the plural of Scots “taw”; a thong of a whip once used for corporal punishment of children in Scotland.

  Twattler(s): gossip(s).

  Wame: “belly” or “stomach” in Scots.

  Nina Mason is a hopeful romantic with strong affinities for history, mythology, and the metaphysical. She strives to write the same kind of books she loves to read: those that entertain, edify, educate, and enlighten.

  She is the author of The Queen of Swords, a darkly erotic Scottish paranormal romance/urban fantasy, and The Tin Man, a political thriller, both published by Vamptasy/CHBB.

  Devil in Duke’s Clothing is her first historical romance and Royal Pains is her first series. Starry Knight, book one in a second series
titled Knights of Avalon, will be released in August 2015 by Lyrical/Kensington.

  When not writing, Ms. Mason works as a communications consultant, doll maker, and home stager. Born and raised in Orange County, California, the author currently lives with her husband, teenage daughter, two rescue cats, and a Westie just north of Atlanta, Georgia.

  Don’t miss the tantalizing first book of the Royal Pains series, Devil In Duke’s Clothing!

  Innocence lost. Paradise found.

  Maggie York, a convent-raised foundling, knows the Duke of Dunwoody’s sexual tastes are a shade or two darker than most, but marries him anyway—partly because she has no other prospects and partly because, try as she might, she can’t seem to stop fantasizing about her dashing rake of a guardian. Two years ago, something she saw him do lured her from the garden of innocence into the orchard of fleshly desires–and she’s been hungry for more ever since.

  Robert Armstrong, the duke, is a Roman Catholic whose extreme devotions as a boy colored his passions as a man. He’s also a slave to the times in which he lives–and to his king. Everything he is, everything he holds dear, depends upon staying in Charles II’s good graces. Unfortunately, Maggie isn’t who the king wanted Robert to marry. Now, to make amends, the duke must either whore his wife or be reduced to a penniless and unprotected commoner at a time when those of his faith are feared and hated throughout Great Britain.

  Whose interests will the duke choose to protect?

  Chapter One

  Maggie dashed at the tears spilling down her cheeks and peered with self-disgust into the looking glass on her elegant new dressing table. She might now be Margaret Armstrong, Duchess of Dunwoody, but beneath the tight satin bodice, voluminous skirts, and mass of tight curls, she trembled like the motherless child she’d always been.

  At any moment, the duke would burst in to demand his due. As his bride, she could not refuse him. Their marriage vows demanded her obedience and made her his chattel—property to treat or dispose of in any manner he might choose. If she denied his lusts, he could toss her out on her ear with as little qualm as his late father had taken her in.

  Desperation bloomed in her chest, making breathing difficult. Where would she go? What would she do? Starve on the streets, more than likely. She had no money, no relations, no one to look out for her welfare—not since dear Hugh set off for his Grand Tour of the continent.

  Nay, was driven off, more like.

  If only they’d been able to marry. But alas, their fledgling courtship was no doubt the reason he’d been sent away. She harbored mixed feelings about her favorite’s hasty departure. On the one hand, Hugh was kind to her and oft remarked on the fineness of her pale blue eyes, golden hair, and trim figure. On the other, his compliments were as passionless as his addresses.

  “Be wary of my brother,” Hugh warned before setting off “I’ve seen the way he looks at you and his unseemly predilections would shock one so innocent.”

  The Armstrong brothers were the proverbial angel and devil on her shoulders. As much as she wanted to listen to the angel’s good council, she found the devil’s enticements much more alluring.

  She did not believe Hugh about His Grace’s regard. Yes, the duke looked her way now and again, but only to find fault in her manners or appearance. Mostly, he was cold, critical, and extremely parsimonious with his compliments and smiles.

  He’d not called her his wee Rosebud in an age, much to her dismay.

  But, as he generously supported her, she could hardly let him sense her discontent. Disguising it required speaking only when spoken to, forcing herself to smile through her wounded feelings, and avoiding the man like the Black Death. As providence would have it, he was rarely at home and, when he was, she gave her guardian a wide berth.

  Except at meals, of course, but even then, they sat at opposite ends of a long table and exchanged only occasional glances and essential pleasantries.

  Then, last week, without hint or warning, he’d up and dismissed Mistress Honeywell. Maggie could not fault him for sacking the maid, who was lazy and of loose morals. She also was a rival for the duke’s attentions, which, as his bride, Maggie could not abide. Yes, she lived in mortal terror of his passions, but, oddly enough, she craved them just as violently.

  How two such contradictory emotions could coexist within one bosom Maggie could not comprehend. And yet, they did—in hers. Truth be known, the wicked part of her coveted the duke even as the pious part condemned his licentiousness. Ever since that day in the housekeeper’s rooms, she’d fantasized about him swiving her the way he’d swived Mistress Honeywell—though without the belting.

  Between stolen glances at dinner, she imagined him bending her over the table. In the evening parlor where they quietly read to themselves, she longed for him to make a move. In her lonely bed at night, she brought herself to raptures dreaming of him atop her, thrusting like a demon.

  ‘Twas not love that gave rise to such sensations. That could not be so. Love came from God and these cravings definitely had unholy origins. Every night before retiring, she fell on her knees and prayed for the strength to resist the devil’s pull on her soul.

  Woe is me! Why do I find so wicked a man so irresistibly beguiling?

  The duke’s proposal of marriage had shocked her senseless. It also thrilled and terrified her. As much as she wanted him, she also knew her covetousness where he was concerned would bring about her moral downfall.

  After accepting him, she wrote to Hugh in Paris, half hoping her angel might rescue her from the devil’s clutches. “Tell me what you know about your brother’s perversions,” she’d written.

  His elder brother, Hugh reported in reply, was a scandalous libertine whose days at the king’s court in London had been squandered on drunkenness and whoring. Even now, at Balloch Castle, Robert maintained a secret chamber where he carried out his debaucheries.

  “Whatever you do, Maggie, do not marry my brother.”

  She did not see where she had a choice. She was Persephone in the clutches of Hades and she had no Demeter to negotiate for her release.

  Left to shift for herself, she searched in secret day after day for the duke’s hidden den of iniquity. Unable to find any trace, she scoured the library for corroborating evidence. Surely, if His Grace had dark fetishes he’d have books delineating them.

  She found several erotic novels, most in French, and a handful of books illustrating postures of sexual intercourse. All of these she smuggled back to her bedchamber for further study. They proved at once shocking and instructional. They also described more perversions than her virgin mind could have ever conceived.

  * * * *

  Precisely how innocent was his new bride? Robert stood at the door betwixt their bedchambers, fingers poised on the knob. That her maidenhead remained intact, he was almost certain. Before his father brought her to Balloch Castle, she’d lived at a convent. The only one with opportunity, besides himself, had been Hugh—and Maggie, if Robert’s suspicions were correct, was not his younger brother’s type. Besides which, Hugh, honorable to a fault, would never dream of defiling one of the servants, let alone an innocent under the protection of the duchy.

  So, Maggie must be a virgin. Robert would place a sizeable wager on the fact. ‘Twas the state of her mind, given what the maids discovered earlier today whilst moving her belongings to the bedchamber adjoining his.

  He’d noticed the books had gone missing, of course, but never suspected Maggie might be the thief.

  Releasing the knob, he dragged a hand down his face. Since the day he found her weeping in the woods with a sprained ankle, his feelings had put down roots despite his best efforts to cut them out. She was but four and ten at the time. Marriageable under the law, but still too much of a bud to suit his tastes. His passions required a mature rose. Besides, he still had more wildflowers to pluck before settling down.

  The fight to overcome his desire for her had been constant, demanding, exhausting. He kept his distance, withheld
kindnesses, stopped calling her Rosebud. Then, Hugh began to court her. That, Robert could not allow. She deserved a passionate marriage with a husband who could appreciate all she had to offer. If she rejected him, then let it be someone else—someone to whom she could give herself with abandon—but not Hugh.

  Maggie was too special to be placed upon a shelf like a fragile doll, never to be enjoyed.

  He pictured her inside, still in her white satin wedding gown and his mother’s pearls, trembling with a mixture of nerves and anticipation. He’d told her new abigail not to attend her this evening. He wanted the pleasure of unwrapping his bride like a present.

  In marrying Maggie, he had fulfilled his father’s deathbed request.

  Keep Maggie on as your ward, my son. Look after her. Marry her if she’ll have you. She is better than you know.

  He’d also fulfilled his heart’s desire.

  Robert turned the knob.

  The time to make the marriage official was at hand. He’d denied himself for too long already. Now to discover if the bride his heart had chosen was equal to his other desires.

  * * * *

  The click of the latch snapped Maggie back to the dressing table. So, the devil had come for her soul at last. Time to lie in the bed she’d made for herself—quite literally.

  She took a breath, licked her lips, and checked her reflection. Her make-up was a mess, but her eyes were no longer swollen and tearful. In the candlelight, the fact she’d been crying might well escape his notice. She pinched her cheeks, straightened her back, and rose from the chair.

  Swallowing to dislodge the lump in her throat, she raised her gaze to her dashing yet dangerous bridegroom.

  He’d shed his sword and plumed velvet cap, but otherwise still wore his wedding costume: a belted plaid, the tail of which fell nearly to his ankles; a slit doublet so heavily embroidered in silver and gold it might have been armor; knee-high hose in a garish checkered pattern; and leather slippers. His dark hair fell in curls over his wide shoulders to the middle of his back.