Devil in Duke's Clothing (Royal Pains Book 1) (21 page)

As Maggie blushed under the coarseness of his portrayals, his hand left her backside—to unfasten his breeches, she feared. Strong emotion roiled within her: offense, humiliation, and revulsion mixed with defenselessness, fear, and self-fury. If she had not flirted with the king to incite Robert’s jealousy, she might not be in this situation at present. Charles now had her over a barrel—well, a table, technically speaking, but ‘twas the same impasse. And if she made a fuss, she and Robert would lose everything, including, quite possibly, their lives.

Something poked the entrance of her sex. The royal scepter, ostensibly.

“God’s fish! Your cunt is as tight as a fist.”

He drew back, preparing to break through her defenses like a battering ram.

“Sire, what do you do in there? Who is with you? Why have you not returned to the banquet hall?”

The shrewish voice was accusatory and colored by a French accent.

The king grabbed Maggie by the shoulders, hoisted her up, and shoved her toward a sizeable wardrobe closet. “Hide yourself and make haste. ‘Tis My Lady Portsmouth. If she finds you here, there will be the devil to pay.”
 

Maggie climbed inside and, from her hiding place, listened as the king opened the door to admit his suspicious mistress.
 

“I am quite alone, I assure you,” he said in a sugar-dusted tone. “I had a bout of stomach upset, but it has passed for the most part. If you will grant me a moment to be certain, I shall attend you forthwith.”

Seconds later, the door opened and the king’s face appeared in the crack. “Our business is not yet concluded,” he whispered. “I shall seek you out later, after my jailer retires to her chambers.”

Maggie’s heart flared with indignation. Were all men such swiving, unfeeling swine? She would bear the king’s addresses as best she could—for the sake of the duchy—but would almost rather die. Her scalp still hurt from his hair-pulling. She shuddered in horror as she imagined what lay in store for her after his usual whore went to bed.

He’d no doubt bend her over a piece of furniture once more and hammer her poor cunny mercilessly as his hard, humid breaths assaulted her nape. Then, he’d spill into her—sowing his fertile royal seed in her womb—unless, of course, she was already with child by her husband, which she doubted.
 

Hours passed in the seconds it took for the king and his mistress to depart.

Maggie, weighed down by foreboding, quietly slipped through the door into her adjoining room, threw herself down on the bed, and let the tears she’d been biting back since yesterday pour forth like Noah’s flood.

Chapter Ten

From the moment King Charles left the Great Hall until his return half an hour later, Robert’s gaze remained glued to the door, despite the persistent efforts of his dinner companions to distract him. The king had exited mere moments after Maggie and, given the duration of his absence and the present unkemptness of wig and costume, the duke could guess what had occurred.

Grief and guilt played tug-o-war with his heart. Maggie had not yet returned to the hall. Where had she gone? Somewhere to lick her wounds, no doubt. His poor, put-upon Rosebud. The agonies she must be suffering had to be a hundredfold greater than his own—and he felt desolated.

Self-hatred ate at him like worms. To ease the pain, he reached for the pewter pitcher in front of him and refilled his cup.

As he drank down the ale, he became aware of a hand gliding up his thighs. The courtesan was relentless, no doubt by royal edict. Charles had almost surely dispatched her to keep him occupied.

The king had reclaimed his seat at the head of the table.

Their gazes met with a scorching intensity, reducing Robert’s heart to ash.

Poor Maggie. Had the king abused his license? ‘Twould not surprise, given his twisted morals. The Merry Monarch thought of naught but his own interests and pleasure. Others existed only to feed his ego and serve his purposes.

The urge to seek out Maggie smoldered in his wame. The yearning to go to her, to hold and console her was nearly unbearable. He downed another cup of ale to douse the fire. Offering succor was impossible when they were thus estranged. If he knocked upon her door, she’d only tell him again to go to the devil.

He scoffed at the thought, bitter. Given how hard the world rode him at present, the fiery pit of eternal damnation might provide welcome relief. Not that he deserved mercy for the position he’d put his beloved in.

He shot another hateful glance toward the king. Had Charles had his fill or would he demand a second helping? Judging by the courtesan’s ardent attention to the bulge in his ducal breeches, he’d say the king had plans for both duke and duchess—plans necessitating the newlyweds are kept out of each other’s way.

Robert’s hands fisted in frustration as the courtesan went on paying her addresses to his cock. Had Maggie stroked the royal scepter thusly? The thought made him contemplate regicide, so he flung it away. Still, he’d rather she enjoyed herself—however much it pained him—than suffer tortures she’d be haunted by until the end of her days.

His mind jumped back to their wedding night and the conversation they’d had about his tryst with Mistress Honeywell.
Are not all relationships betwixt a man and a woman unequal in power?
Aye, they were. And none more so than betwixt a male sovereign and a beholding female subject.

As much as he regretted his affair with the maid, ‘twas not as bad by half. Sally Honeywell had done her best to seduce him week upon week. Like rain on rock, she’d gradually worn him down. Maggie did not wish to have relations with the king. She would consent for his sake and the duchy’s, but for all intents and purposes, ‘twas not accord but coercion.
 

“My Lady”—he turned to the courtesan—“pray, desist. As pleasant as your ministrations are, my poor bladder is full to bursting. I must have relief and fear I shall never manage a piss in my present state.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” She obligingly withdrew her hand from his person.

Thank the Lord for small favors.

Now, when his todger calmed down, he’d slip out and relieve himself on his way to his room to collect his peace-offering. If Maggie rebuked him, so be it, but his conscience demanded he at least attempt to make amends to his exploited bride.
 

* * * *

A new thought snapped Maggie out of her crying jag. Wiping her tears on her delicate sleeve, she took a breath to quiet her sobs and climbed off the bed. The only way to evade the king was to secret herself away somewhere he’d never think to look. But where? Only one place came to mind, though ‘twas far from foolproof. For one thing, she knew not the whereabouts of her husband’s bedchamber and, even if she should somehow suss out the location, the odds were not good he’d admit her. She had, after all, broken his mother’s pearls and told him she’d never have sex with him again.

The odds were even slimmer she’d find him alone—given how brazenly that doxy had been pawing him at dinner. He’d made clear his intentions in the carriage. If the opportunity presented itself—and it obviously had—he planned to get up to his old courtly tricks without delay.

Her whip hand twitched with the need for reprisal. Just wait until she got him home. She’d make him pay for what he’d put her through. She called to her mind a picture of him lying there naked and bound with a raging erection, hers to do with as she pleased. She had enjoyed whipping him more than she cared to admit. She’d enjoyed even more having her way with him repeatedly. ‘Twas an experience she’d like very much to repeat. ‘Twas also an experience whose recall affected her exceedingly.
 

She blinked the memory away and squeezed her legs together to quell her blooming passions. This was neither the time nor the place to be carried away by concupiscent fantasies. She could not stay where she was and reasonably expect not to encounter the king.

Keeping a wary eye out for the crowned satyr, she made it as far as the entrance hall, where the clatter of pewter and din of lively conversation told her the party was still going in force.

The fantasy—and the amatory ache it engendered—had softened her heart toward her husband. If she could find him alone, she might be tempted to throw herself upon his…mercy. Perhaps they could summon their carriage, steal away together under cloak of night, and use the time alone to salve up their differences in creative ways. Surely, the king would not give chase, especially with his French whore on the prowl.

Hope quickened her pulse when she glimpsed, from the edge of her eye, a flash of red velvet on the staircase leading to the opposite tower. Might it be Robert? She had not spied enough of the garment to be certain. Deciding to take her chances, she picked up her skirts and hurried after him, praying ‘twas indeed her duke and that she’d catch him up before the king caught up with her.

By the time she reached the staircase, the velvet-clad personage had disappeared. She went up anyway, hoping to spot him or her again once she reached the top. She did—but again, a mere tease of red velvet as the wearer turned a corner. Hurrying after him or her, she rounded the corner in time to catch a blur of crimson disappearing through a door. As her heart sank, she muttered a blasphemous oath.
 

Staying where she was, she took a moment to catch her breath and consider her options.

If she knocked on the door and the gentleman in red turned out not to be her husband, he might assume she’d come to play musical beds. If so, she might be worse off than if she’d appeased the king. At least swiving the randy monarch discharged a debt and protected the duchy.

She could refuse the gentleman, of course, but what if he would not be put off? From what she’d seen and heard so far, the king and all his men thought with their cocks—her husband included.

When the latch clicked, her heart skipped a beat. He was coming out again! Picking up her skirts, she dashed around the corner and pressed herself into an alcove to avoid being seen.

The door banged closed and, seconds later, the red-coated gentleman stepped into view. ‘Twas Robert, thank the saints! Too overcome to speak, she started to go after him, but, struck by sudden inspiration, drew back. She now knew the location of his bedchamber. If she hid herself somewhere within, the king could not find her nor could her husband turn her away.

* * * *

With a seed of hope taking root in his heart, Robert made his way to the bedchamber he’d deducted was Maggie’s. Since the queen had not come to Scotland, ‘twas the most likely place for the king to stow a new conquest. Having his quarry in an adjoining room would provide easy access without risking discovery by the ever-watchful Duchess of Portsmouth.

Hand in the pocket of his coat, he fingered the velvet pouch containing Maggie’s restrung necklace. He’d paid a premium to have the coachman collect the pearls and locate a jeweler who could see to the task right away, but he knew ‘twould go a long way toward appeasing his bride. She’d broken the necklace in anger—to cut him to the quick—and he deserved no less.

Please let restoring the gift to her be enough to soften her heart toward me.

He stopped before the door, lifted his hand to knock, and then hesitated. What if the king were within? What excuse would he make for calling upon his wife so late in the evening? It would not do for the king to suspect him of duplicity. Should his actions arouse royal suspicion, Maggie’s sacrifice would have been in vain. No, he must invent some excellent excuse for calling. What about the pearls? He could say he’d had them repaired, which he could prove, if called for.
 

Satisfied with his alibi, he rapped upon the door with purpose.

No sound came from within. Was she abed already?

He knocked again, slightly louder. She still made no answer. Was it possible she was not within? He tried a third time with the same result. Hopes dashed, he retreated with the intention of retiring for the evening.
 

He’d won and lost the woman he loved in the space of a fortnight and desired solitude to lick his wounds and devise a severe enough atonement to assuage his guilt and self-loathing.

If he could fashion a way to flog himself, he’d tear open the scabbed-over cuts and abrasions on his backside and suffer afresh the wounds she’d justly inflicted.

But, alas. He’d packed neither whip nor cane and there was no priest about to hear his confession and assign him a less corporeal penance.

Forgive me, Maggie, for I have sinned against your virtue.

She was right about him. He was a maggot. Nay, a pig who’d trampled her pearls beneath his feet. He deserved neither her forgiveness nor her love. He’d ruined her. Forsaken her. Prostituted her to keep his creature comforts. He should have left her to Hugh. His brother may have saddled her with a passionless marriage, but he never would have whored her. Not for all the tea in England.

Feeling desolate and inconsolable, Robert hung his head as he ascended the grand staircase leading to his tower room. As he reached the top, he found Sir Richard and the courtesan from the banquet waiting upon him. The sight of them deflated his already depressed spirits. He was in no mood for company of the sort they had in mind.

They took him by the arms, making him feel more trapped than well met.