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

by Mason, Nina

  The question caught him off-guard. “Do you write?”

  “I scribble a wee bit.”

  How had he not known this? “May I ask the subject of your scribbles?”

  “I write poetry,” she said, surprising him again. “‘Tis not very accomplished at present, but I thought –or rather, hoped—with time and practice my talent might develop.”

  “You amaze me, Maggie. I had no idea you were a budding poet. May I see some of the verses you’ve penned?”

  Her face went white and she touched her throat. “Oh, no. I would be beyond mortified. As I said, ‘tis not accomplished. I only mentioned it in the hope you might support the endeavor—the way Margaret Cavendish’s husband did.”

  He gave her a hard look. “The Duke of Newcastle was a rarity among men of my rank.”

  She returned her gaze to his and held it. “I have deduced as much for myself, husband, and confess my sincerest wish you might count yourself among that rare breed of noblemen.

  “I have no objection to you writing poetry, Rosebud, or to your publishing your verses should they improve enough to warrant the attentions of a respectable press.” Given his druthers, he’d much rather join the Duke of Newcastle’s camp than the Duke of Castlemaine’s. “Now, shall we get on with your lessons? Time is of the essence and we cannot afford to waste a single moment.”

  She lowered her gaze. “Yes, of course.”

  “Good.” He cleared his throat. “Now, you should know that, in addition to the memoir in your hand and the other books you mentioned, the Duchess of Newcastle also published her observations on experimental philosophy. If I were to tell you she championed vitalism and faulted the philosophies of Aristotle, Thomas Hobbes, Rene Descartes, and Robert Boyle, among others, would you have even the vaguest notion to what I referred?”

  Worry swam in her eyes. “I’m afraid not, though I am a wee bit familiar with Aristotle.”

  “Let us begin then with vitalism.” He leaned against the desk and folded his arms. Clearly, they had a great deal of ground to cover. “Do you know the definition of the term?”

  She lowered her gaze as her cheeks pinked. “No.”

  His bride really was a lovely rosebud, especially when she blushed. He admired her pleasing visage for a heartfelt moment before clearing his throat. Though he wanted her fiercely, he must first honor their bargain. She deserved a proper education and he deserved a properly educated wife.

  He spent the next few hours providing an overview of the various philosophical schools of thought through the ages, starting with pre-Socratic and ending with rationalism—all whilst battling the desire to ravish her. Was that why women were not admitted to universities? Because their professors and fellow scholars would be too distracted by their attractions?

  She grasped things as quickly as any novice scholar of his gender would have done. She was clever. Of that, he’d never had any doubt. He’d seen plenty of evidence of her superior intelligence—one of the reasons he’d married her.

  After he’d told her as much as anyone could reasonably be expected to absorb in a day, he sent her off to the kitchen to fetch their mid-day repast.

  Whilst she saw to the food, he wrote out detailed directions to the tailor. In addition to Robert’s requirements, Maggie would need several mantuas—the draped robe-style gowns preferred by the fashionable ladies of the court.

  Letter finished and dispatched, he redirected his attention to the afternoon lesson, deciding there was no time like the present to introduce his wee Rosebud to the joys of le vice anglais.

  After lighting a candle, he crossed the room and pushed the hidden lever to enter his flagellation chamber. As the bookcase swung out from the wall, he shielded the candle and stepped into the narrow passageway. From his chamber, he liberated a length of silk cord and a riding crop before returning to the library. Thereupon, he re-sealed the entrance, extinguished the candle, and placed the items inside a desk drawer.

  Ascending the ladder once more, he slid to the treatise he sought, eased the book out of its place on the shelf, and ran his fingers over the title tooled into the leather cover. On the Use of Flogging in Venereal Affairs and in the Office of the Loins and Reins.

  The tome, first published in 1629 by a German physician, offered reasoned, anatomical explanations for the sexual arousal caused by flogging and caning. According to the good doctor, striking the “loins”—the hips and buttocks—stimulated the “reins” or kidneys—the seat of desire and carnal longing.

  Robert, who’d initially feared his unsettling response to his devotions might stem from demonic possession, was vastly relieved to discover a scientific explanation for the erotic pleasure he derived from being whipped.

  Chapter Six

  “You said your father knew Margaret Cavendish, but you never said how.” Looking up from her serving of game pie, Maggie met Robert’s intense gray-green gaze. “I should like to hear the story and what she was like to know.”

  They were still in the library, halfway through their mid-day meal, and Maggie’s heart pounded so hard, she feared it might burst from her chest. She’d never been this excited in the whole of her life. A chest of new gowns, a carriage ride to Edinburgh, a visit to the royal palace. She was nervous about meeting the king, of course, but still could not believe her good fortune.

  Life in the convent had been strict and severe. Life at Balloch had been easier, but still simple and quiet. She’d seen nothing of the larger world, but longed to.

  Plus, to ice the cake, Robert, whom she grew fonder of by the hour, would accompany her. He really was the most wonderful man. Sensitive, passionate, liberal-minded, generous. He also was a masterful lover and teacher. If not for his one glaring flaw, he’d be an ideal husband.

  Whatever you do, Maggie. Do not marry my brother.

  Pish. What did Hugh know about relations betwixt a man and a woman?

  “They met through Queen Henrietta Marie.” Robert slurped a mouthful of pie off the blade of his knife, as was the custom. “Please tell me you know who that is.”

  “Of course I do,” she said, expressing her affront with a frown.

  She might not know philosophy, but she did know the history of the English crown. The sisters insisted she memorize all the names of the kings and queens and the dates each occupied the throne. Henrietta Marie was the wife of Charles I and the mother of Charles II. She also was the sister of Louis XIII, making the crowned heads of France and Britain first cousins.

  “Was this whilst her husband yet lived?”

  “No,” he said betwixt bites. “Whilst she lived in exile in France. Margaret Cavendish was one of her maids of honor.”

  A maid of honor, Maggie knew, was a junior lady-in-waiting who served the queen. She did not know Margaret Cavendish had been one. She only knew a little about the duchess in later life, after she’d married the duke and wrote her books.

  “Did your father know her well?”

  Robert’s mouth quirked devilishly. “Not in the biblical sense, if that is what you ask, but well enough to know she was a terribly unhappy person.”

  This surprised Maggie. “Why? Did the queen treat her badly?”

  “Not at all. From what my father observed, the poor lass was bashful to a crippling degree and suffered from melancholia and nervous attacks.”

  “Oh, dear.” Maggie touched her throat under an onrush of compassion. “I am very sorry to hear it. You would never know it by her reputation.”

  “Indeed.”

  She picked at her pie whilst the duke ate his with gusto. Excitement about her lessons and Edinburgh had carried away her appetite. “When does the tailor come for our fittings?”

  “Early on the morrow.”

  “And when do we leave for Holyroodhouse?”

  “In five days,” he said. “We’re expected on Saturday and ’twill take two days to reach Edinburgh.”

  “So soon?” Sudden lightheadedness besieged her. “Will the tailor have sufficient time to co
mplete the order?”

  “I will pay him to hire helpers, if need be.”

  All at once, Robert looked miserable. Mention of the tailor had dampened his spirits, bright beforehand.

  She touched his arm. “Are you troubled by the royal summons?”

  “Aye,” he said. “There is a chance he might not sanction our union.”

  Startled senseless, she stuttered, “But, but—we have already consummated our vows!”

  “Unfortunately, that will hold no sway with the king, it pains me to say.” His gaze and expression remained downcast. “He very nearly dissolved his brother’s marriage to My Lady Hyde, and she and the duke had been lovers for some time.” He looked up from his plate, meeting her worried gaze. “The Duchess of York converted to Catholicism on her deathbed, turning the tide against her husband, the heir apparent to the throne.”

  “Does the king have no heirs?”

  “Only illegitimate ones,” he said.

  Maggie’s eyes widened in astonishment. “The king has bastards?”

  “Aye,” he replied, “Believe it or not, he took one of his concubines along on his royal honeymoon—My Lady Castlemaine, who lorded over him, by all accounts—so she could give birth to their son. As we speak, her son is conspiring to displace his uncle as the king’s successor.”

  “Why? Is the Duke of York a tyrant?”

  He shrugged half-heartedly. “Not insofar as I know, but that is neither here nor there.”

  She blinked at him, her head swimming in confusion. She was in the dark when it came to politics, but wanted very much for her husband to light a candle for her. “Then what is the basis of the objection to his succession?”

  “The Protestants fear he will show favoritism to those like ourselves who share his papist beliefs—the way they did when Cromwell was in power.” Robert touched her arm and met her gaze with searing gray-green eyes. “While there is much I must acquaint you with before we reach the palace, I have something else in mind for the remainder of the day—something of a more venereal nature.”

  Looking away, he pushed the tray aside, opened the top drawer of his desk, and took out a large skein of drapery cording. He then withdrew the Venetian mask with the covered eyeholes. After setting the mask beside the cord, he returned to the drawer. What he removed next made Maggie cringe. A riding crop. Holy Mother Mary. Did he mean to whip her whilst she was bound and blindfolded?

  He rose from his chair and strode to the door.

  The click of the lock knotted her innards.

  Returning to her, he took her trembling hands in his and helped her to her feet. As he gazed deeply into her eyes, fear dragged its talons across her heart. How had she come to care for such a devil?

  “Have no fear,” he said. “I shall cause you no pain so early in your schooling.”

  Her throat constricted and her hands grew damp with nervous perspiration. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “If I told you, ‘twould spoil the fun.”

  The fun for whom? All at once, she felt like a Christian about to be thrown to the lions for Caesar’s entertainment. As much as she’d enjoyed their philosophical discussion, she now regretted the bargain she’d made with him.

  A bargain with the devil.

  He tipped up her chin and bent to kiss her. His mouth was relaxed, his lips soft and supple. The connection was brief.

  “I need you to choose a word,” he said.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “A word? Whatever for?”

  “We need an agreed-upon code word as a safety precaution. To make you easier and enable me to gauge your threshold for pain—until you develop the discipline to transcend your suffering.”

  She swallowed hard. Suffering? Pain? What had she gotten herself into? “You promised not to hurt me.”

  “Pleasure can come from pain, Maggie. The purpose of today’s exercise is to show you that.”

  Fear struck her heart like a chime. “I have been beaten before and derived no joy from the experience whatsoever.”

  “I promise you, this shall be different.”

  “I do not take your meaning.” Nerves atremble, she felt on the verge of falling apart. “Pray, explain yourself.”

  “Mortification of the flesh, Maggie. Confession of the Faith. Having been raised by Carmelites, you must be familiar with these concepts.”

  She was. All too familiar. Both referred to the religious practice of inflicting pain upon one’s self. Some of the sisters of the convent whipped themselves bloody to honor Saint Teresa of Avila, the founder of their order.

  Saintly ecstasies were all well and good, but when the nuns turned the whip on Maggie, she experienced naught but agony. “I consider it blasphemy to derive sexual pleasure from religious devotion.”

  “Because you believe sexual pleasure to be sinful?”

  “Partly.”

  “Even with your husband?”

  “Yes, if he confuses fleshly and spiritual ecstasy.”

  Disapproval clouded his gray-green eyes. “We made a bargain. Would you break your word to me?”

  That point, she could not contest. She had struck a bargain with him and, must in good faith honor her end of the covenant.

  “Fine,” she conceded, though reluctantly. “I’ll do as you wish, provided I have the aforementioned precautionary word.”

  “Then, pick a word.”

  She eyed him narrowly. “Do you promise to stop whatever you may be doing should I speak it?”

  “Aye,” he said. “At once.”

  “In that case, my word is mortification.”

  Fear slithered through her as he put the mask on her. Could she trust his promise not to hurt her? As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t quite.

  She started when he grasped her face in both hands and turned her head. His mouth met hers, lips parted, tongue at the ready. The kiss he gave her was hard, rough, and urgent, almost desperate, but not unenjoyable.

  He means to strip you naked, tie you up, and tan your hide with a riding crop. You should be running for your life, not sucking his tongue.

  Too intoxicated to flee, she stayed put.

  His fingers found the laces holding her bodice and set upon them with purpose.

  He drew back, letting her go, and continued to undress her, layer by layer, until she wore naught but the mask. His fingers swept over her flesh, giving her shivers and raising goose pimples. His touch was sure and sensual. He knew how to get what he wanted from a woman, how to bend her to his will. She was putty in his hands, soft and malleable.

  Get thee hence, Satan.

  He kissed her breasts and sucked her nipples hard enough to make her gasp as he pushed a hand betwixt her thighs. He stroked her folds, fingered her opening, and teased her bud until her reins throbbed with the dull ache of erogenous need.

  “Oh, Robert. Can we please just make love in the normal way?”

  “Do not speak except to answer me or invoke your safe word,” he said sternly. “Though know you will sorely disappoint me if you should feel the need to do so.”

  The voice belonged to the duke she’d known before. The man whose intimidating stares made her feel small and worthless.

  “I shall tie you now,” he said.

  Her body tensed as the silken ropes brushed her skin, wrapped round her, and constricted. They were no tighter than her stays, but restricted the movement of her arms. All her senses and every nerve-ending heightened at once.

  “Kneel down.” His tone was commanding.

  Feeling awkwardly off-balance, she lowered herself to her knees. The floor was carpeted, but still hard. What was he planning to do?

  Something struck her left nipple. The tongue of the riding crop. It stung, but not overmuch. Lavender scented softness brushed her shoulder. His hair. Moist warmth enveloped the aggravated nipple. His mouth. As he suckled her breast, she moaned with pleasure and frustration. She found him so appealing in so many ways. Why did he have to be so sexually depraved?

 
; “Why must you strike me?”

  He withdrew from her abruptly. “I suppose you believe me possessed of a demon.”

  “The thought has crossed my mind.”

  “I’ll have you know some of the saints were driven to the heights of ecstasy through self-flagellation.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but you are far from a saint, husband.”

  “I would never deign to make so bold a claim,” he said. “But neither would I confess to being in league with the devil. My pleasures may not fit your definition of conventional, Rosebud, but they do qualify as natural, whatever you choose to believe.”

  He sounded perturbed, filling her with dread. She ought to have better sense than to challenge her husband whilst in so vulnerable a position.

  “Have it your way.”

  “I intend to, believe me.”

  Snap.

  The bite of the whip on her bottom jolted all the way to her clenched teeth. She considered invoking the safe word, but bit back the urge. He was testing her mettle. If she failed, he would likely discontinue his tutelage and find himself a mistress who enjoyed being whipped.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “Not overmuch.” ‘Twas the truth. The sting had quickly subsided.

  He moved behind her and attended the spot he’d struck with his mouth, kissing and licking her wounded flesh in ways she found both soothing and disturbingly arousing.

  Jealousy plucked her heartstrings as her mind jumped back to that day in the housekeeper’s room. At the time, she’d envied only the maid’s curvaceous figure. Now, every liaison he’d ever had gave her pain. How many women had there been? Did she really want to know?

  No! The past was in the past and there was naught to be gained and a great deal to lose by dwelling upon it in the present. Besides, ‘twas unchristian to judge her husband too harshly.

  Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

  She was far from irreproachable. Had she not watched him swive and spank her maid? And not just watched but become sexually aroused by the spectacle! She’d also had covetous thoughts, pleasured herself, and invented sinful scenarios involving the two of them.