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

by Mason, Nina

  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 m
oving 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.

  “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 li
ke 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 her 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.”