by Nina Mason
Leaving Robert’s side with considerable reluctance, she hurried to the door of the dressing room, presuming Duncan had settled within for the night. Her alarm spiked when several increasingly insistent knocks drew no response. Upon entering, she found the valet’s cot empty and the coverings undisturbed.
Worrying her lip and wringing her hands, she endeavored to calm her frantic mind enough to consider her options. She daren’t leave Robert for the duration required to go for the doctor herself, and, knowing what manner of sickness afflicted the duke, no servant would come within shouting distance of their apartment.
Deciding her best option was to enlist someone as a courier as quickly as possible, Maggie scrawled a note to be delivered to Dr. Wakeman by whomever she might come upon first. Surely, given the direness of her need, no one with half a heart would refuse her this favor.
Leaving her incoherent husband behind with the unheard promise of a speedy return, she raced down the corridor in the direction of the kitchens. Just as she approached the entrance to the chapel, one of the doors swung open. When the supercilious gentleman she’d met in the chapel stepped directly into her path, Maggie did not know whether to feel grateful or alarmed.
Reminding herself beggars could not be choosers, she pulled up and held out the note. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I am in urgent need of assistance. My husband has taken a turn for the worst, you see, and requires his doctor posthaste.” Through the tears in her eyes, she met the man’s hard gaze. “Might I impose upon your Christian charity to undertake the errand on my behalf?”
To her enormous relief, he took the note from her hand. “By all means. I shall go at once and return with all due haste.”
As relief washed through Maggie, she blinked up at him. “I am exceedingly obliged to you, Lord—oh, dear me. ’Twould seem I know not the name of my champion.”
He bowed at the waist. “I am John Sheffield, the Earl of Mulgrave—and deeply honored to be of service.”
As Lord Mulgrave set off on his errand, Maggie filed away the unfamiliar name and title for future reference. A dozen chimes from some unseen clock reminded her of the lateness of the hour as she hurried back to her apartment to await the doctor’s arrival. The time that passed brought equal suffering to them both. Though only an hour, it seemed an eternity, the duration of which was passed in sleepless pain and delirium on Robert’s part, and in the cruelest anxiety on Maggie’s.
At last, the doctor appeared, but gave neither of them the reprieve she craved. He simply bled several ounces from her incoherent husband’s arm before taking his leave with the promise of returning for another treatment in three or four hours.
“If he should hold on long enough to see my return.”
Fear’s icy hand closed around Maggie’s heart. “Is there a chance he will not?”
“He has taken an unexpected downward turn.” With concern gravening his features, Dr. Wakeman looked as grim as the reaper himself. “And it will not surprise me if he should fail to last the hour.”
Maggie clenched her fists, ready to strike out. “No. He cannot die. I forbid it. You must do more.”
“I have done all I can.” The physician woefully shook his head. “His fate rests in God’s hands now.”
And with those dreadful words still echoing in Maggie’s ears, Dr. Wakeman exited the apartment. Left on her own to prepare for the worst, Maggie passed the next few desperate hours on her knees, weeping, wringing her hands, praying for saintly intervention, and pleading with her husband to cling to life.
“Please, dear heart. Give not up. For your wife and son need you here with us a vast deal more than God could possibly need you in Heaven.”
Robert remained unresponsive. At intervals, Maggie, aggrieved to the point of madness, tried coaxing him to her breast, but to no avail.
Dr. Wakeman, though punctual on his return visit, did a poor job of hiding his surprise at finding his patient yet amongst the living.
Maggie, determined not to go to pieces in front of the physician, bit back her rising hysteria. “Is there truly no more you can do for him?”
“I could try the application of leeches as a last resort, I suppose,” he offered in a tone utterly bereft of confidence, “but fear the loss of more blood would only hasten his departure.”
The last vestiges of hope drained from Maggie’s heart. Her spirits now depressed to the utmost, she dismissed Dr. Wakeman and climbed upon the bed. Gathering her husband’s fever-ridden body into her arms, she pressed his cheek to her breast and rocked him as if he were a child.
“Oh, Robert. My poor heart is breaking.”
For what seemed an age, she cradled her insensate husband to comfort them both as grief wrapped its thorny vines around her heart. At one point she dozed off only to be awakened shortly thereafter by the tingles announcing the release of her milk. Opening her eyes, she found Robert sucking upon her left nipple, which he’d somehow found the strength to free from her stays.
Though she perceived this as a sign of improvement, she cautioned herself to remain circumspect, but light had already broken through the bramble ensnaring her heart. With hope fluttering in her chest, she bent over her husband in search of other signs of revival. Though everything she observed pointed toward improvement, she would not allow herself to put all her trust in her observations. Then, he opened his eyes and fixed his gaze upon her with a coherence she had not seen since the onset of his illness.
He was back, God be praised!
As her tears turned from sorrowful to joyful, she stroked his forehead and checked his pulse. Finding his fever gone and his heartrate strong and steady, she gushed, “Oh, my darling. Are you truly better…or does hope deceive my senses?”
He offered her the smallest of smiles. “Your senses speak truthfully. ’Twould seem God has answered my prayers—for some mischievous purpose of His own, no doubt.”
She gazed into his eyes, her heart bubbling over with joy and affection. “Let Him have his reasons, so long as I still have my husband.”
“Even with all his disfiguring scars?”
“We all bear scars, dear heart,” she said, stroking his scab-speckled brow. “Some are simply more visible than others.”
Her husband went back to nursing and, after drinking his fill, drifted off with his head upon her chest. Whilst he slept, she counted her blessings, his pockmarks among them. Perhaps if he were not quite so handsome, she could worry less about him straying from their marriage bed. Not that his face was his sole attraction—or that the ladies of the court would not readily spread their legs for any ill-favored man with wealth enough to make them comfortable.
Had Robert taken a mistress? If he had, he’d been remarkably discreet about the transgression, which, given the way other men of the court carried on—her father included—was probably the most she could ask for.
Her mind jumped back to the night she’d watched him take part in a ménage a trois with a lady and gentleman of her uncle’s court. He’d not penetrated either partner—to uphold his vows, he’d claimed at the time.
In her nativity, she’d been unaware that only intercourse constituted adultery—and had made him pay dearly for his perceived infidelity. Now, being older and better acquainted with the ways of the world, she counted herself lucky to have a husband who cared enough to consider her feelings. Or perhaps he merely feared her scorn. She was, after all, of a jealous nature and not above making him pay for his slights.
Still, she was grateful to be spared the pains other wives suffered when their husbands openly carried on with other women. Her father’s liaison with Catherine Sedley, the homely daughter of the handsome hellrake and poet Charles Sedley, being a prime example.
Despite all her father’s talk of restoring morality to the court, it appeared to Maggie he meant to install that sharp-tongued vixen at Whitehall as his first royal mistress—with no regard for how deeply such an action would aggrieve his queen.
How unfair was the world to her sex. In
the eyes of the law, married women were the property of their husbands, not people with rights. Thus, a husband could discipline his wife in any manner he saw fit without interference from the state—even if his methods should bring about her death.
With an ardent shake, Maggie evicted the troubling thought from her head. Now was not the time to decry the unfairness of her gender’s lot. She should be overjoyed her husband was recovering, not stewing upon things over which she held no power. Robert knew her views on the subject of adultery and, as far as she was aware, had done naught to earn her reproach.
As she lovingly stroked her husband’s braided hair, she allowed joy and gratitude to rinse away her suspicions until all within her breast was satisfaction, pure and strong. Well, nearly all. The possibility he might suffer a relapse still weighed heavily upon her heart. Thus, for the next hour, she kept vigil over him, listening to every breath and, at intervals, checking his brow for the fever’s return. By four o’clock, naught had changed—except for the better. Robert, still in her arms, had sunk into a quiet, steady, and by all appearances, peaceful slumber.
Her few remaining fears on her husband’s behalf now silenced, Maggie became aware of her own bodily requirements. So exhausted was she, her thoughts were muddled, and lack of food had made her weak and light-headed.
If she did not eat something soon, she would be of little use as a nurse. Easing Robert off her, she slipped out of bed and hurried toward the front door. Not wishing to be away from her husband one unnecessary instant, she resolved to settle for whatever portable fare might offer itself in the kitchen and bring it back with her to eat here.
Maggie, startled at finding Lord Mulgrave on the other side of the door, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in stepping back into the room.
He advanced upon her. “I have come to inquire after your husband’s health. I do hope the doctor arrived in time to avert the crisis.”
“Yes,” she said, flustered by the unexpected encounter. “And, God be thanked, he has taken a turn for the better.”
“It gladdens me to hear he is much improved—and I flatter myself I played a critical role in his recovery.”
“You did indeed,” she said, calming a little. “And I shall remain eternally grateful for the kind service you rendered me.”
“It pleases me to hear you say so.” He drew closer, grinning in a foxlike manner she favored not in the least. “For I have a favor to request in return.”
“I see,” she said crossly. “And what, pray tell, is this good turn you desire?”
“Only a kiss.” Leaning in, he puckered his lips.
Maggie could not believe his nerve—or his stupidity. On the rare occasions she’d ventured out of her chambers, the other courtiers cut her a wide berth. “You have no fear of contamination?”
“Nay, for I was engrafted a few years back whilst fighting in Tangiers.”
When he moved in again, Maggie resisted the urge to slap his face. She also bit her tongue to avoid divulging what she knew about him and Princess Anne. Information equaled power at the royal court, after all, and ’twould be foolhardy to squander her capital for no better reason than to disarm a rake.
Deciding on another tack, she said with all the rancor she could muster, “No true gentleman would use a good deed to barter such a scurrilous favor from a lady—especially a married one.”
His reaction to her insult was a smile. “He would if he knew the lady was not half as virtuous as she would have us believe.”
“You are mistaken, My Lord. For my character is in every way above reproach.”
“If that is so, you have made a poor choice in your husband.”
Maggie’s dormant suspicions about Robert’s fidelity shot up new sprouts. “Tell me what you know you of my husband’s habits.”
A wicked grin spread across his face. “I know enough to fill a library.”
Maggie’s curiosity got the better of her. “Tell me what you know and I shall give you what you desire—though only a quick peck on the cheek.”
“Make it a lingering kiss on the mouth or I shall reveal naught.”
“Fine,” she said. “On the mouth, but swiftly and without tongue.”
“Agreed.”
Swallowing her disdain, she lifted her face and pursed her lips. The moment their mouths touched, he locked his arms around her back and held her against him, chest to chest. Infuriated by his trickery, she fought to break free of his vise-like grip whilst he endeavored to pry her lips apart with his tongue.
From somewhere behind her, she heard a sharp intake of breath. No, it could not be he. For Robert, though on the mend, was still as weak as a newborn kitten. It must, therefore, be Duncan the valet, who’d entered through another door. Still, ’twould not be good if he told her husband he’d seen her kissing another man. And how would she ever explain the deal she’d made with Lord Mulgrave without giving the appearance of being a distrustful shrew?
Eager to be free, she bit the brute’s tongue hard enough to win her release. As she wiped the slobber from her mouth, she turned toward the doorway, expecting to find the valet. There, to her horror, stood Robert in his nightshirt, clutching the doorjamb to keep himself from falling over.
“Bursting with pride, the loathed impostume swells,” her husband said, perplexing her as he wobbled on his legs. “Prick him, he sheds his venom straight, and smells.”
“Robert! Holy God. What are you doing out of bed?”
“Watching my wife make a cuckold of me, apparently. And with the infamous Lord All-Pride, no less.”
“Were you in better health, my lord,” Lord Mulgrave said, eyes narrowed and chest puffed out, “I would challenge you to a duel for your insult.”
“Were I in better health, I would accept your challenge,” Robert returned with a steely gaze. “And run you through for trifling with my wife.”
“I was simply thanking his lordship,” Maggie said, stepping betwixt them, “for doing me the favor of fetching the doctor when you took a turn for the worse.”
Robert’s incredulous expression might have been carved from marble. “By letting him shove his tongue down your throat?”
Panic swelling, she shifted her desperate gaze from Robert to Lord Mulgrave. “Tell him what happened. Tell him how you took advantage of the moment.”
With an oily grin, the earl turned to Robert, who seemed ready to fall down. “My Lord Dunwoody, I promise you your wife has been as faithful to you as you have been to her.”
Maggie held her breath as she waited for Robert to respond. What would he say? What would he do? And, more importantly, what did Lord Mulgrave know about the duke’s extramarital activities?
“For your information, Mulgrave,” Robert said with remarkable energy, considering his grip on the doorway trim, “I have never broken my marriage vows—and anyone who says otherwise is a liar who, not unlike yourself, delights in stirring up trouble for other people. Now, get the hell out of my chambers and stay away from my wife—or I shall see to it that you are banished from the court—and for good this time. For I cannot imagine the king would look favorably upon you importuning his daughter.”
It took every ounce of restraint Maggie could muster to keep from blurting what she knew about Lord Mulgrave and Princess Anne. She would tell Robert later, in private, assuming he forgave her enough to speak to her. She would not blame him if he held a grudge, for, had their situations been reversed, she would not soon pardon him.
Mulgrave, saying no more, left the apartment. After locking the door behind him, Maggie helped Robert back into bed. “Upon my soul, I only offered him the chastest of kisses and…” Unsure how to justify her actions, she let her voice trail off.
“Why did you agree to kiss him in the first place?”
Shame scorched the flesh of her face. “Because he offered to tell me things.”
“What sorts of things?”
“Things I should have asked you instead of letting my suspicions fester and get the b
etter of me.”
His eyes narrowed. “Suspicions about what?”
“Is what you said to him true—about our marriage vows—or were you just trying to sound noble?”
Maggie braced herself for his answer. She’d asked a direct question and knew he would give an honest answer in return.
“I shan’t lie to you. I’ve had ample opportunities to stray over the past five years.”
“But you have not?”
“Have you?”
“No. Not once.”
“Nor have I.”
“Because you fear my scorn?”
“Because I know how much it would hurt you,” he said. “And I’d sooner have my eyes put out with hot pokers than cause you unnecessary pain.”
Chapter Five
“Tell me all there is to know about Lord Mulgrave,” Maggie requested of Robert as she settled down beside him on the bed, “and fear not for one instant you have the least cause for jealousy.”
Robert let out a soft chuckle. Had he caught his wife in the arms of any man but Mulgrave, he might now be mad with possessiveness, especially when he was so insecure about his altered appearance. But he knew his wife to have far better sense—and taste—than to be drawn in by such a puffed-up windsock as John Sheffield, who’d been variously nicknamed “Numps,” “Haughty,” and “Lord All-Pride” by his detractors at the court of King Charles II.
“I know he is not at all well liked,” he told her as she snuggled against him. “And that he was expelled from court a few years past—after your uncle discovered the earl’s secret amour with the Lady Anne.”
“And now he is back at court.” Pushing up on one elbow, she met his gaze with a puzzled expression. “Why?”
“Because the king wants him here, presumably.”
“Why would my father want such an odious personage to be part of his court?”
“Because he believes Mulgrave, who could be counted upon in times past to promote your father’s interests, to be loyal.”