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

by Mason, Nina

  He looked resplendent. He also looked like Beelzebub come to claim her soul. In one hand, he gripped a sweating flacon of champagne, still corked.

  The smile he gave her almost banished her apprehension.

  Almost.

  His confident posture sagged ever-so-slightly when he saw her expression. “You do not look happy to see me, my wee Rosebud.”

  The endearment further eroded her distress. She swallowed hard and smiled at her handsome husband. He looked so harmless, so noble, so respectable.

  But then, as the sisters of St. Teresa’s so persistently drummed into her brain, even Satan could come disguised as an angel of light.

  Would he tie her hands? Belt her bottom? Slap her breasts? Bite her nipples? Invite his mistresses into their marital bed? Would he share his bed with them in the adjoining room?

  The possibility cut like a knife. She clenched her teeth against the sharp stab of pain and then chided herself for being thus affected. If she had any sense, she’d encourage him to take mistresses, not grieve over it, as ‘twould likely spare her the brunt of his debauchery.

  She shifted her gaze to the painting over the bed. It depicted a nude woman—a French courtesan, probably—on a settee with her bottom in the air and her legs parted. Would he arrange his bride like that doxy so he could take her like a dog? Would he bugger her up the bum? Did he bed men as well as women? Given the things she’d heard, and read, she would not put it past him.

  “Is the party winding down?” She turned back to him with a pasted-on smile.

  His gaze skittered over her, raising gooseflesh in its wake. “Nay, ‘tis still going strong.”

  Her brow flinched. “So late?”

  From his sporran—a great hairy thing sporting a bone closure and multiple tassels—he drew a watch on a chain and opened the decorative enameled cover. As he checked the time, he said, “The night is young, Rosebud. ‘Tis only half eleven.”

  Her heart became a honeypot. Why did he undo her so? She swallowed to fortify her courage. “When will the guests start to away?”

  “Not until we’ve done the deed, I’m afraid. Or when the wine has run out. Whichever occurs first.” He lifted the flacon he’d brought. “I procured this for us. Thought it might take the edge off your maidenly jitters.”

  The comment startled her. Was her unease so obvious? Even if it were, she could not believe he’d picked up on her distress. He’d been so busy with the wedding plans, she’d wondered if the party meant more to him than the marriage. Not that she believed for one moment their vows mattered a jot to him.

  She met his gaze head-on. “Why did you marry me?”

  Surprise flitted across his face and then vanished. “For the usual reasons.”

  “Which are?”

  “I need an heir to carry on my bloodline and the duchy, and you needed a husband who appreciated all you could bring to a marriage.”

  His words stung like an insult. “Surely, Hugh appreciated my merits.”

  “You would have discovered very quickly my brother puts little stock in the virtues of the fairer sex.”

  A blush scorched her cheeks, but she doubted he could see it in the soft glow of the candles. “Of what virtues do you speak?”

  “Hunting for compliments?” He stepped closer with a teasing grin that threatened to turn her battlements to custard. “Well, I suppose ‘twould not hurt to indulge you this once—it being our wedding night and all. But do not make a habit of it or you shall be sorely disappointed.” He came still closer, lifted her chin, and gazed into her eyes. “You’re lovely and modest and virtuous, Margaret. A budding rose covered in morning dew. Another man would pluck you too soon to wear in his buttonhole.”

  Her heart beat faster. “But not you?”

  His gaze held hers as his thumb brushed her cheek. “Nay, because I know you’ll be even more desirable under the care of an experienced gardener.”

  She’d not expected compliments any more than she’d expected his lips to find hers. Her heart broke into a gallop. ‘Twas the first time he’d kissed her—the first time she’d ever been kissed on the mouth by a man.

  His lips were deliciously soft and tasted of champagne. He opened wider, urging her to follow suit. When she complied, he ran his tongue around the inner rim of her mouth—an appeal for entry.

  Comingled fear and desire coiled at her center as she granted his request.

  His tongue swept in and brushed hers—an invitation to dance.

  She accepted, letting him lead. The ensuing oral pas de deux was even more exhilarating than in her fantasies.

  His arms locked around her, pulling her body against his. Thrilling heat flooded her body, warming her blood. She set a hand on his chest and absently fingered the metal embroidery on his doublet. He felt good. Robust and solid. Tall and warm. He smelled good, too. Like fire and wine and male flesh.

  He moaned into her mouth and pushed against her. Even betwixt her skirts and his kilt, his arousal was evident.

  She melted into him, heart racing and head spinning. She’d dreamed for so long of kissing him like this, but the reality was much better than anything her imagination could conjure.

  His hands were on her backside, large and possessive. He pulled her against him, pelvis to pelvis and pushed his hardness into her softness. Need lanced her with a force that left her breathless. She pulled away and ran her fingers down his arm to the champagne yet in his hand.

  “Should we not open this before it gets warm?”

  “Aye, we should.”

  He took the bottle to the dressing table, popped the cork, and found two ceramic cups somewhere. Being so particular, he’d no doubt seen to this and other details she would have overlooked.

  As he filled the cups, she swept her gaze down the back of his well-cut doublet and the pleated sweep of tartan curtaining his buttocks and legs. Sweet flurries of desire blustered through her loins. God, how she wanted him, but was still so afraid of what he might ask of her. Mayhaps he’d settle for normal relations tonight—whatever that entailed. But how to communicate her wishes without giving herself away? Besides, she’d absorbed so much erotic literature of late she hardly knew where to draw the line betwixt normal and perverse.

  He returned to her with a cup. The sparkling wine within twinkled in the soft candlelight. As she took a sip, the bubbles tickled her nose. Other parts tickled, too, but in a yearnful, aching kind of way.

  She moved to the bed in a rustle of taffeta, kicked off her slippers, and perched herself on the edge, heels on the bedrail. The headboard was the common iron sort with multiple bars. Easy to tie someone to, no doubt by design.

  A diamond pin sparkled from the knot at his throat. She dropped her gaze to the diamond ring on her left hand. ‘Twas lovely, but a simple gold band would have done perfectly well for Maggie York, motherless ward.

  “I do not yet feel like a duchess.”

  “Give it time,” he said with a bone-melting smile. “We’ve only been wed a few hours yet.”

  Fearful of falling too deeply under his spell, she swept her gaze to the gilt-framed nude over the bed. Who was she? Someone he knew at court?

  “Did you look through the books you borrowed?”

  His question tightened her stomach and snapped her gaze back to his. Candlelight flickered in his eyes, but ‘twas too dark to read the thoughts dancing there.

  “I did.”

  “Pray, tell me,” he said, his tone more curious than angry, “why did you borrow those books in particular?”

  She hesitated whilst weighing the consequences of giving a truthful answer. Once she told him, there was no taking it back, but she’d much rather air her fears than allow them to fester all the more.

  “I know about you,” she said at last.

  “Know what?”

  “That you take your pleasure in less than conventional ways.”

  “I see.” He gulped his champagne, still holding her gaze. “And how do you feel about that knowledge?”


  “I could not really say.”

  “And the books?”

  “I wanted to understand.”

  “But you do not?”

  “No.”

  “Then you ought not to judge until you do.”

  “I’m trying very hard to keep an open mind.”

  He took another drink. “Your mind is far from open.”

  “You presume to know what is in my mind?”

  “I can read it on your face and in your eyes. You think me wicked and perverted.”

  “Are you not?”

  He shrugged one shimmering shoulder. “‘Tis a matter of opinion, methinks. And perspective.”

  “Do you ever have coitus in the normal way?”

  “By normal, I presume you mean conventional—as in myself on top thrusting away without the least regard for my partner.”

  She flinched at his unvarnished description of the Holy Act of Creation. “Yes, more or less.”

  “Is that what you truly desire, Maggie?” His tone and expression were part beseeching, part disdainful. “That I should come to you when my blood is up, lie atop you, wiggle my todger in your cunt until I achieve my release, and then stumble back to my own bedchamber to sleep alone. Because, from where I sit, that is what passes for so-called normal coitus betwixt married people of our station.”

  She looked away from his gaze, at once embarrassed and titillated by his frankness. “The pleasures of the flesh are sinful.”

  “According to whom?”

  “The sisters who raised me.”

  He laughed, took another gulp of champagne, and wiped his mouth on the ruffled cuff of his shirt. “How else would they be expected to justify their unnatural state of celibacy?”

  Her eyes met his as her heart caught fire. “I would hardly expect someone such as yourself to see the error of his ways.”

  “You mean someone with enough intelligence to formulate his own opinions about such matters?” He held her gaze with equal heat.

  “No.” She scowled at him. “I mean a libertine who feels no qualm over trampling the fences of propriety.”

  He emptied his cup, picked up the bottle, and filled it again. Lifting the rim to his mouth, he sipped the champagne before licking it off his lips. Gaze still on the cup, he said, “How did you come to know about my habits? Who told you? My brother or your maid?”

  She bit her lip and twisted the toothy taffeta of her petticoat betwixt her fingers. The high, soft sound comforted her the way rubbing the binding on her blankets had those nights the sisters sent her to bed with a sore backside and empty belly.

  “I found out entirely on my own.”

  “How?” He drained his drink, snatched up the bottle, and refilled the cup. “As your husband, I insist you tell me.”

  Defiance reared in her chest like a distressed pony, but she hobbled it, afraid of angering him. “I saw you. In the housekeeper’s room. With Sally Honeywell.”

  “You spied on me?” His dark eyebrows shot up.

  “Not deliberately.” She looked down at her hands, still entangled in the silk of her petticoat. “I was looking for a bootlace when the two of you came in, and I could think of no way to extract myself without embarrassing all of us.”

  “So, like a fly on the wall, you watched me swive your maid?”

  “Yes.” Shame toasted her insides.

  “Did you become aroused by what you observed?”

  The question’s sharp point lanced her to the core. No gentleman would ask such a thing of his innocent bride. “Yes.”

  His unexpected laugh brought her gaze to his. “Why, you wee spy! And here I thought you so virginal. When the maids told me what they came across whilst moving your belongings, I was convinced they were having me on.”

  He came to her, bringing the bottle, and refilled her cup before claiming the spot beside her. She welcomed the additional alcohol to get through the next hour, but stiffened at his proximity. She’d been caught and there was no squirming out of her guilt.

  Moving very close to her ear, he whispered, “Did you touch yourself whilst you watched me with Mistress Honeywell?”

  She tensed all over as her chest became a pyre of shame. “I refuse to dignify your impudent inquiry with an answer.”

  “Very well,” he said. “What about when you inspected the books you stole from my library?”

  “‘Tis possible that I did,” she said meekly.

  “And the kiss we shared moments ago? Were your passions stirred in the least?”

  She rubbed the fine silk of her skirts, eager for the succor of their lullaby. “And if I should confess they were—how might you react?”

  “I would give you another, Rosebud. Here on the bed. And make our marriage official. In the conventional way, should that be your preference.” He kissed her cheek and sought her gaze, which she gave to him against her better judgment. “Or, if you will allow, I can show you how to reach the heights of ecstasy only attainable through the deepest trust and truest intimacy.”

  He touched her bare forearm, tying a knot behind her breastbone and raising goosebumps on her flesh.

  “Either way, we must merge our bodies to make the marriage real, so, drink up, my blossom, and tell me how you would like your husband to serve you his cock—cold and flavorless or hot and delectable? ”

  As she considered the merits of both choices, she drained her cup.

  He plucked it from her hand and set it with his on the night table, then got off the bed, removed his doublet, and hung it over the back of the vanity chair. Returning to her, he held out his hands.

  Unsure of his intentions, she gave him hers, but not without a twinge of reluctance.

  He pulled her to her feet, turned her volte-face, and set upon the laces securing her bodice.

  “What do you do there?”

  “Is it not obvious?”

  “‘Tis. And you clearly have considerable experience disrobing women.”

  He laughed. “You’ll be glad of my know-how soon enough. Unless you would rather I bend you over the mattress, lift your skirts, and give you a few good pokes before leaving you to yourself.”

  “I would rather you did no such thing.” Whilst the idea had a certain bawdy appeal, she wanted to at least look at her husband the first time they had coitus.

  Now unbound, the formerly snug bodice slumped on her figure.

  The duke pushed the sleeves off her shoulders and halfway down her arms before about-facing her. Stooping, he pressed his mouth to her décolletage.

  His lips were deliciously warm and moist against the bulging tops of her flattened bosoms. His hair tickled her flesh in a pleasing sort of way and smelled faintly of lavender.

  He moved upward, kissing her collarbone, her throat, the side of her neck, and her earlobe. After blowing in her ear, he whispered in a voice like velvet, “Why did you marry me, knowing what you knew?”

  A hot lump formed at her core. “Because.”

  He ran his tongue around the folds of her ear, sending delicious shivers through her. “Because why?”

  “Because you are a duke.” Mouth suddenly parched, she licked her lips.

  “And you dreamed of being a duchess?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  “I would prefer not to say.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it will make me sound small and petty.”

  His tongue’s explorations undermined her concentration. “Now I really must know.”

  She heaved a sigh of surrender. “Survival, “ she said, forcing the half-truth from her throat. “Since you insist upon an answer, I married you because you asked me to…and I had nowhere else to turn for protection.”

  His mouth returned to her neck and proceeded to kiss, lick, and nip her flesh, turning her insides to syrup.

  “Thank you,” he said betwixt kisses.

  “For what?”

  “Your candor.”

  Guilt crushed her chest like a boulder.
Yes, she’d married him to gain security, but she'd left out the part about lusting after him deep in her heart. She moved away, removed the full-sleeved bodice, and laid it over the bench at the foot of the bed.

  He came up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist, and kissed the back of her neck, setting her aflame.

  She spun in his embrace and looked at him. His dark hair tumbled in soft waves over his broad shoulders. His features were shadowed, making him look dangerous. The need she’d stuffed down for so long erupted from her core, thick and molten.

  Bringing his mouth to hers, he kissed and nibbled her lips as his hands untied the strings of her petticoat. It billowed to the floor, leaving her in only her fancy wedding stays and shift.

  “Now, ‘tis my turn.”

  Stepping back a wee ways, she pulled the diamond stick-pin from his cravat, loosened the knot, and unfurled the long strip of linen encircling his neck. Was it the same one he’d used to tie the maid’s hands?

  “Why did you dismiss Mistress Honeywell?” she asked, letting his neck cloth slip from her fingers to the floor.

  His beguiling mouth hitched into a crooked grin. “Had I known you’d seen me swive her, I could have saved myself the trouble—and a few sovereigns.”

  “I’m sorry for your trouble, but do not regret her loss. Truth be known, I never liked her—though I do not doubt part of my aversion stemmed from what I witnessed.”

  He lifted her chin, pulling her gaze to his. “Were you jealous, Rosebud?”

  “Not at the time, but afterward, I resented her relationship with you.”

  “There was no relationship. ‘Twas merely a one off.”

  Unsure what to say in response, she unbuttoned his collar, opened the front of his shirt, and slipped both hands inside. As her fingertips met the warm, hair-garnished flesh of his chest, she nearly swooned.

  How many times she had fantasized about touching him in this way. How much better he felt in real life—a pleasing quilt of smooth skin, solid bone and muscle, wiry hairs, and petal soft nipples. She pinched one until it grew erect.