by Nina Mason
“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.
“You feel good, husband” she said. “You are well put together.”
“It gets better.” He laughed.
“I know.” She blushed at the memory. “I saw everything you own that day in Mrs. McQueen’s closet.”
“And you married me anyway?”
“Oh, no. I married you because of it.”
The smile he gave her warmed her all the way down to her toes.
She swept her hands downward, shuddering when they touched the tartan draped around his hips. The wool was finely woven, soft. She brushed the apron, pleased to find he was aroused. So was she. Mightily.
Since that day in the closet, she’d pictured his hard phallus a thousand times—in her hand, her mouth, and her cunny, and now ‘twas at last within grasp. She bent to unbuckle the belt circumnavigating his hips, but, changing her mind, reached underneath the curtain of plaid instead.
He sucked in a breath as she ran her hands up the backs of his thighs. They felt exactly as she’d dreamed they would. Lean, hard, and flocked in bristly hair. Would his phallus feel the way she’d imagined, too?
Eager to find out, she moved her hands over the globes of his buttocks and around to the front—an erotic version of Blind Man’s Bluff. She touched the wiry curls of his pubic nest before brushing his fleshy staff. ‘Twas pliant on the surface but firm underneath, like a giant’s finger in a kid-leather glove. It jumped like an animal as her fingers grazed the head. She moved to the pouch underneath, taking its measure in her palm. ‘Twas surprisingly cool to the touch and felt every bit as odd as it appeared.
“Do you mind me exploring you like a topographical map?”
“Nay.” The word was husky. “Provided you believe in quid pro quo.”
“I am all for equality.” She swept her fingertips out the length of his phallus and over the fleshy dome. “When I saw you with Mistress Honeywell, I wondered how something so big and thick could fit inside something so small and tight. But it did fit, and seemed to give her ineffable pleasure.”
“I wish you had not seen us, despite the attending educational value.”
“Why?”
“Because I should not have done it.” His tone carried all the earmarks of genuine contrition. “Mistress Honeywell was in my employ. I should not have taken advantage of the unequal power relationship.”
She closed her hand around his shaft and squeezed, testing its hardness. “Are not all relationships betwixt a man and a woman unequal in power?”
“Aye, well.” He sounded breathless, which pleased her. “You make a good point, but it still does not excuse what I did.”
“Why did you do what you knew to be wrong?”
“Because, like most men, I reason too often with the wrong head.”
“You mean this one?” She pinched the knobbed tip of his phallus.
“Aye, Rosebud. Believe naught a man says when his prick is hard.”
“I’ll remember that,” she said, letting his go.
When she returned to her full height, he reached into h
er stays with both hands, pulled out her breasts, and circled both nipples with his thumbs.
They grew hard and tingly in an instant.
He bent to one of them, took the crown betwixt his lips, and flicked his tongue against the protruding pink button at the center.
She gasped as pleasure pierced her cunny.
Pulling his shirt loose at the waist, she ran her hands up over his chest, thumbing his nipples the way he’d done hers whilst he attended her other breast. “The nuns claimed ‘tis a sin to take pleasure from coupling. Even married couples should abstain unless they are trying to make a bairn.”
Rising to his full height, he looked into her eyes. “Maggie, my darling, what would you think of a father who gave his children irresistible toys and then punished them for playing with them?”
She looked at the floor. “I would think him cruel beyond belief.”
“As any sane person would.” He brushed her cheek, raising her eyes to his with a spark that sizzled all the way to her toes. “So why would God give us parts capable of giving such pleasure if he did not mean for us to enjoy ourselves?”
He had a point. A very good one. God could be a stern father at times, but his retributions stemmed from love, not meanness.
As he unlaced her stays, she fumbled with the buckle on his belt, remembering how he’d used it to raise welts on Mistress Honeywell’s bottom. Maggie still wondered how the maid could enjoy such abuse. “I do not believe I would enjoy being struck by your belt.”
A bone-melting smile bowed his lips. “Then I suggest you behave yourself. You might be a duchess, but you are still my wife to reprimand as I see fit.”
She grimaced. ‘Twas too true—and too cruel. He could beat her to death and no one would lift a finger. Not that she believed there existed any real danger he’d do something so dreadful, but it still seemed wrong and unfair. Why should women be less valued than men? She just prayed her new husband would prove to be more enlightened than most of his ilk. Yes, he had aberrant tastes in the erotic sector, but that made him a sinner, not a monster. Tonight, he seemed quite civilized. Genteel, even. And perfectly reasonable. Tonight, he seemed like the gallant young man who’d come to her rescue in the woods.
“Promise me you’ll never raise a hand to me in anger.”
He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed the tip of each one in turn. “Forgive me, Maggie, but I can make no such pledge.” Mischief twinkled in his gray-green eyes. “So I suggest you do all within your power as my wife to facilitate my felicity.”
Maggie flinched inside and bit her lower lip, considering what he’d said. “Punishment was not your aim when you struck Mistress Honeywell?”
He released her hand and licked his lips. “Hardly.”
“Then, pray, what was your purpose?”
“Pleasure.”
“I see,” she said tartly. “Hers or yours?”
“Both.”
However he might argue his case, she would never agree deriving pleasure from causing pain to be aught but perverse.
“Tonight, ‘tis my sincerest desire to consummate our marriage in the normal way.” She touched his linen-encased upper arm, feeling muscle, power, and solidity. “You left the choice to me, and that is what I choose.”
He lifted one dark eyebrow in a fashion befitting his rakish reputation. “And after tonight?”
She took a deep breath as she considered his enquiry. She’d indulge his erotic eccentricities to a point. Because she wanted him, wanted to give in to temptation, wanted at some deep-down, unexplored level to be converted to his liberal views on the pleasures of the flesh.
“I will make you a deal.” She boldly met his gaze. “If you will help me further my education, teach me the things only men are permitted to learn, I will submit to some of your less-reprehensible demands.”
Satisfaction warmed his features. “It has long been my belief ignorance, not inferior intelligence, is to blame for the inequality betwixt the sexes. So, I will agree to your proposal in hopes of proving my hypothesis.”
A wick of hope lit in Maggie’s heart, reigniting her hope of a husband who would help her spread her wings rather than locking her in a cage. “Shall we strike hands upon the bargain?”
Seizing her offered hand, he pulled her against his solid chest. “Oh, aye, Rosebud.” His mouth hovered temptingly above hers. “And seal the contract with a kiss.”
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Table of Contents
Praise for the Royal Pains series
Cover Copy
Books By Nina Mason
The Devil’s Masquerade
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Signore Dildo passage
Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Glossary of Unfamiliar Terms
Meet Nina Mason
Sample of Devil In Duke’s Clothing
Chapter One