by Mason, Nina
“I could fill a book. Your husband was as bad as the rest of the king’s Merry Gang—worse, some would say, since he was known to engage in le vice anglais with his favorite whores and courtesans.”
“The English vice?” she asked, piqued. “I do not take your meaning, Sir. To what do you refer?”
“Flagellation, Your Grace—to put it indelicately.”
Maggie wanted to say no more upon the subject of her husband’s penchant for whippings, lest she give something away she would later regret. Plus, her bladder felt near to bursting.
“My Lord Woodcock, would you be so good as to direct me toward the necessaries?”
“‘Twould be my pleasure.” He turned toward the door. “Go back into the foyer and around the corner. You will find there a commode-fitted chair behind a screen for the more modest among our company.”
Maggie’s curiosity got the best of her. “Pray tell, where do the immodest among us relieve themselves?”
“On the staircases, mostly,” he replied. “So do watch where you step.”
Maggie, mildly appalled, excused herself and followed his directions. She found the screen in short order, along with, to her great vexation, a lengthy queue of other ladies. Her bladder was far too full to endure the wait, so she set off toward her bedchamber as fast as her delicate brocade slippers could carry her.
She’d only just reached the staircase when someone—a male someone—called out behind her.
“My dear Duchess, are you unwell?”
Maggie’s breath left her. It could not be. Pray, let it be anyone but. Even Lucifer would be preferable. Heart pounding and bladder throbbing, she rounded on the speaker with a pasted-on smile.
‘Twas indeed Himself (the king, not the devil), standing at the foot of the stairs in all his regal splendor. Accompanying him were two bug-eyed, tri-color spaniels.
She started to curtsey, but stopped herself. She’d had an imprudent amount of ale and felt tipsy. What if she lost her balance and fell down the stairs or, worse, lost control of her bladder? It might be common practice to relieve oneself upon the stairs of the palace, but surely not under the gaze of the king.
“Your Majesty.” Her deferential curtsy made her bladder scream for mercy. “How kind of you to inquire after my health. I promise you, I am perfectly well. I simply require something I have forgotten in my bedchamber.”
He had the relaxed, heavy-lidded look of a man in his cups. His swarthy countenance appeared sunken and jowly. His large, dark eyes drooped at the corners in a manner resembling the panting dogs at his heels. His full, curling mouth was rather sensual in its way, though slightly puckered with age. What he lacked in youthful good looks he made up for in swagger. The man had sex appeal and knew it.
“There’s a commode chair in my apartments, the entrance to which can be found at the top of the staircase,” he said with a knowing smile and a sweep of his arm. The cuffs protruding from the wide velvet cuffs of his coat were long, ruffled, and trimmed with fine lace. “If that is your need, you are more than welcome.”
Maggie silently chided herself. Why had she not feigned illness when she had the chance? Now, she was caught. As desperately as she needed to make water, and as generous as the king’s offer was, she knew perfectly well what the whore-swiving, bastard-spawning monarch wanted from her. If she accompanied him into his royal apartments, she would not emerge unmolested.
If his reputation were not enough to convince her, the lustful gleam in his eye made his intentions abundantly clear.
On the other hand, she burned to know how he’d ruled on their marriage and since Robert seemed in no hurry to illuminate her, perhaps she could obtain the verdict straight from the horse’s mouth.
“That is prodigiously kind, Your Majesty, but—” She stopped there, unable to contrive a reason not to take him up on his offer without giving offense.
Insulting the king would add to Robert’s troubles and she could not contribute to his ruination. She might be angry but she was not vindictive. Spiting her husband would bring about her own ruin as well.
Seeing no way out of and some advantage in her predicament, she accepted the king’s offer.
He took her through the guard hall and several more rooms before they reached his private bedchamber. In the corner stood a highly carved chair with a deep apron she presumed concealed a chamber pot.
The king politely turned his back as she arranged her garments for the task at hand. When she had finished her business, she smoothed down her skirts, took a deep breath to calm her nerves, and stepped away from the chair with her head held high.
“Better?” His Highness rounded on her with a lecherous grin. He’d shed his elaborate coat, but still wore his ruffled shirtsleeves and long waistcoat—confirmation he meant to have his way with her here and now.
“Much,” she said with a small curtsy. “Many thanks, Your Majesty.” She moved toward the door. “Now, I really must return to the banquet before my husband comes looking for me.”
With a laugh, the king hooked her around the waist, spun her against him, and bent to steal a kiss.
She turned her head sharply to avoid his lips, which grazed her cheek instead of their intended target.
Charles reeked of strong drink and cloying French perfume. Tightening his grip on her, he said, “The duke will not seek you out. I have arranged a trade—as well as a distraction to keep him out of the way. Now, be a good royal subject and give me a taste of those tempting nubile lips of yours.”
Her hackles rose up in protest. If she kissed the king, there was no turning back. He said he’d arranged a trade with Robert, but had been imprecise about what her husband traded her for.
“I must confess to being ignorant of the deal you struck with my husband, for I’ve had no opportunity to speak with the duke since I left your chambers this afternoon.”
“Is that so? Well, in that case, let me be the bearer of the glad tidings. I have agreed to let your marriage stand. Or, perhaps I should say, I have conditionally agreed to sanction the marriage. Sealing the bargain now falls to you, my dear duchess.”
Maggie was as panicked as a rabbit in a snare. Her heart thumped and her mind spun. Was staying married to Robert worth the price being asked of her? There was no denying her husband was a devil. She’d seen the first signs that day in the housekeeper’s closet and she’d seen plenty more proof in the two years hence.
Could she put up with a man with such lax morals and degenerate tastes? While she made up her mind about Robert, she needed a diversion for the king. The portrait of the bare-breasted lady would do. Asking about her might not only buy time, it could also remind the king of his other obligations. Or, was Robert correct in asserting Charles felt no loyalty to any but his brother and himself?
“Pray, tell me who this beauty gracing your walls would be.”
He visibly puffed up with pride. “That would be the fair Louise de Kerouaille. Did you not see her beside me in the Great Hall? She most certainly took notice of you, and expressed an interest in making your acquaintance. I would be glad to make the introduction, if you are amenable. How happy ‘twould make me if the pair of you should become thick as thieves.”
Oh, dear. She’d only succeeded in wading deeper into the quagmire of court intrigues. She had not the least desire to consort with his mistresses—and wished even less to join their ranks.
“That would be an honor.” She forced a smile to masquerade the fiction. “I should be pleased to make her acquaintance.”
“Now”—he recaptured her waist—“what about that kiss?”
“Just one, Your Majesty,” she said, still hoping to escape. “But then I really must go. I am utterly famished and have no wish to miss the next course.”
“Even if your sovereign desires you to stay?” His arms and his gaze held her intently. “Now stop playing coy, duchess, and give me my due.”
His lips crushed hers, his tongue invaded her mouth, and his hands took firm hold of her de
rriere. Pulling her hard against the front of his breeches, he rolled his pelvis across her belly, making sure she felt his erection. “You see what you have done to me with all your glances and smiles? God’s fish! The way you slurped that oyster nearly made me come off right there in the Great Hall. Do not toy with me, Duchess. You begged for a taste of my scepter and now you shall have it.”
He spun her round, shoved her against a table of books, and grabbed a handful of hair at the back of her neck. Breath humid against her ear, he said, “I’ve been dying to set eyes on the minx who’d bewitched Robert Armstrong into forgetting what he owed to me. I should imagine being the wife of such a rascal to be aught but dull. Was it more than you bargained for, my dear, or has he trained you to satisfy his appetite for le vice anglais? Yes, duchess, I know all about the debaucheries at Balloch Castle. As does all of London.”
Maggie bit her tongue to stop the insult from spilling forth. A man who bred bastards like a rabbit had no right to point the finger of judgment at her husband.
Still holding her hair hard enough to hurt, he jerked up her petticoats, baring her backside to his view. A big, warm hand roamed over the mounds of her buttocks. “Ah, such sweet perfection.” His tone was husky with avarice. “I expected no less. Your husband has always had excellent taste in whores and horses.”
“I’m not a whore,” she protested under a flash of temper.
“Forgive me.” The king licked her ear, making her insides recoil. “I did not mean to suggest you were aught but a lady. Tell me, though. Were you a virgin when you married the scandalous young duke? He says so, but I know how deceptive the fair sex can be when it comes to their virginity.”
“I was,” she ground out. “Not that ‘tis any of your concern.”
His already dark eyes turned black. “On the contrary, my dear duchess. I take an interest in all of your husband’s concerns. The father earned my favor for his loyalty, but the son has yet to prove his value. Besides, it has been an age since I have ridden a newly broken filly. Most of my mistresses have borne so many children, their cunts have lost all elasticity. Swiving them, I daresay, is about as pleasurable as hanging my poor cock out a window.”
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 re
lief 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.
