by Mason, Nina
“The portrait. The note. Are they not from the lady the king wishes you to marry?”
Biting his lip, he helped her out of the closet and led her to the bed, where he sat her down, pulled the miniature from the pocket of his robe, and set it in her cupped hands.
Maggie studied the image, graveled. The portrait was of a man—a handsome gentleman with soft blue eyes, a cleft chin, and long, wavy hair the same color as hers. She knew the face. He was older now, but still recognizable.
She looked at Robert, now seated beside her on the bed. “Who sent it to you and for what purpose?”
“It came from the Carmelite sisters by way of Balloch. Mrs. McQueen, believing it important, sent it on to the palace.”
Maggie felt more confounded than ever. “I am at a loss. Why would the sisters send you a portrait of the Duke of York?”
“My dearest.” His voice was as soft as the fingers stroking her arm. “When your mother’s cuckolded husband gave you to the sisters, he gave them this portrait as well, telling them ‘twas your natural father. Evidently, the Duke of York had given it to his lover—your mother—as a token of esteem.”
Maggie touched the face painted upon the small ivory oval as Robert’s meaning soaked in. “The king’s brother is my father, making the king…my uncle!”
“Aye. And making all of a carnal nature betwixt you and Charles incestuous under the laws of church and state. The king might be immoral, but not so depraved as to knowingly swive his own niece—especially with the threat of public exposure hanging over his head.” A smile stole across the duke’s face as he added, “Do you not see? We have him by the royal clock weights, my darling. As long as he wears the crown, we are safe—and will continue to enjoy protection throughout your father’s reign as well.”
“‘Tis all too much,” she said. “My father is the Duke of York, the next king. I can scarcely wrap my mind around it. I have been so sure all my life he was a man of low birth.”
“And I have long suspected otherwise.” Her husband gathered her into his arms. “You are of royal blood, my darling Rosebud. A noblewoman by birth, not merely by marriage.”
She listened to his heart—and her own—as he stroked her hair. It felt so good to be in his arms again. So good and so right. Yes, there was darkness in him, but there was darkness in her as well—small wonder, she thought with a smirk, given her bloodline.
His hand came under her chin and tilted it upward. Their eyes met with a visceral charge. “I thought I’d lost you,” he said softly, contritely. “Thought I’d broken my own heart.”
Before she could formulate a reply, his mouth covered hers. She welcomed the kiss with a sigh of relief. This was her place of bliss, her heaven on earth, her Paradise—lost for a time and now found again.
As his lips coaxed hers apart, she slipped her hand inside his robe and twirled her fingers in his chest hair.
His tongue danced against hers, teasing, withdrawing, coming back again.
She walked her fingers southward, down the protruding bones of his ribcage and the flat muscles of his stomach until they came to rest in the soft curls at the base of his penis. Was he hard? As she reached to find out, he captured her hand and broke from the kiss.
“I need a wash first,” he said and kissed her hand.
Letting her go, he got off the bed, crossed to a table, and picked up a flacon of what looked to be claret. He filled a cup, but, instead of lifting the glass to his lips, he lowered it to his cock, which he submerged fully in the wine. She smiled at this, remembering the story she’d heard over dinner.
“If I’m not mistaken, you were arrested once for doing the same thing—on the balcony of a public house providentially named the Cock Tavern.”
Surprise brightened his eyes. “How did you come to know about that? No wait, let me guess. A pair of loose lips on a wood cock?”
She laughed. She’d missed him, missed his humor and the easy way they could talk openly about everything and anything.
Robert withdrew his penis from the wine and gave it a good shake before lifting the glass in the manner of a toast. “To the king’s health,” he said and drank it down. “Long may he reign.”
Maggie laughed. “You really are a shameless libertine, Your Grace, and I cannot quite decide whether I love you in spite of your dissolute ways or because of them.”
His gorgeous eyes twinkled and his beguiling mouth quirked into a smile. “So long as you love me, my darling, I am satisfied.”
He set down the glass and came toward her, his banyan hanging open to give her a glorious view of his masculine attributes. Desire blew through her with gale force. She was still in her gold and silver gown, though she’d lost her slippers somewhere betwixt armoire and bed.
He stopped at the side of the bed, kissed her soundly, and pressed her down on the mattress as he tugged up her skirts. He then withdrew and, looking into her eyes with an expression approaching reverence, he ran his hands over her stockings and up the insides of her thighs.
At the apex, he paused for a moment or two to tease her clitoris with a single finger before sweeping his hands back toward her knees. Ducking under her legs, so they were resting on his shoulders, he positioned the head of his cock at her entrance.
“I know I should not ask, but I must know. Am I the only man who has been here?”
“No,” she said. “The king got as far as you are now, but no farther.”
His earnest gaze found hers. “He did not enter you?”
“No.”
Throwing back his head, he laughed like a condemned man granted a reprieve. When he recovered himself, he returned his sobered gaze to hers. “May I know the reason?”
She could not resist the urge to tease him. “The royal scepter was too big to fit.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”
“No,” she said with a smirk. “We were interrupted.”
Robert’s brow furrowed. “By whom?”
“Squintabella.”
The duke, still looming over her, poised on the cusp of penetration, took a moment to look her over, his eyes brimming with affection.
She seized the opportunity to study him in turn, drinking in every detail as she painted a miniature portrait she could enjoy for years to come. His face was a dark angel’s, his skin glowed golden in the candlelight, and his hair cascaded over his shoulders in a dark waterfall she yearned to feel crashing over her.
What would the future with him bring? More erotic delights and royal intrigues? Greater knowledge? Motherhood?
“I deserve you not, my darling wife,” he said, bringing her out of her thoughts. “But that does not make me love you any less.”
“I love you, too,” she returned with tears in her eyes. “With all of my heart and soul.”
As her vital spark reached to join his, she arched her hips in invitation.
Graciously accepting, he sank into her depths in one long, smooth stroke, at once filling and fulfilling her wholly. The communion of opposites. Male and female, dark and light, sinful and sacred.
How they completed one another.
He moved within her and, before long, she was there, shooting to the stars and exploding like a skyrocket. Robert met her there and together they fell back to earth in a shower of sparks. He shed his banyan, crawled on top of her, and covered her neck and face with kisses.
She put her arms around him and held him tight so he could not slip away the way demon lovers were known to do.
“Are you happy, wife?” he whispered into her ear.
“Yes, husband. Prodigiously so.”
* * * *
The next morning, after seeing to Maggie and their travel arrangements, Robert went to the king’s private bedchamber to deliver the news. He waited some time whilst Charles played with his duchess and his dogs without the least regard for his caller’s time.
Robert grew more impatient by the minute. The carriage would be waiting and he was anxious to be off. He also was eage
r to share his tidings with the king so he and Maggie would be free from further interference.
As to the Duke of York, Robert deemed it best to let the king pass on the news of his brother’s hitherto unbeknownst progeny. If her father wished to acknowledge her, so be it, but Robert could not care less one way or another. Maggie had her husband’s title and love. What did she need with her father’s? The only thing he desired from the Stuart brothers was continued protection free of oppressive obligation.
Squintabella came out of the king’s private chamber, stopped before Robert, and gave his traveling clothes a discerning once-over.
“Are you leaving us so soon, Your Grace?”
“Aye, Duchess. The moment I have concluded my business with His Majesty.”
“Oh?” She arched a dark eyebrow. “And what business do you speak of?”
“That, with all due respect, is for the king’s ears only.”
“I sincerely hope ‘tis naught to do with that silly chit you married.”
Robert bit back the urge to speak his mind. If there was a chit in this scenario, ‘twas not his Rosebud. “As it so happens, my bride is precisely the reason I seek a royal audience this morning.”
“Please tell me you do not mean to squander the king’s favor over some inconsequential bit of stuff.”
“My good wife is far from a bit of stuff.” He fought to keep the lid on his temper. Rumor had it this presumptuous upstart was sent from Versailles to be the French king’s eyes and ears in the British court of his cousin. At the moment, Robert was inclined to believe it. Or else she simply had not the least sense of decorum. “And I would never dream of doing aught to offend my king.”
All monarchs I hate, and the thrones they sit on,
From the hector of France to the cully of Britain.
As if on cue, King Charles stepped into the doorway with one of his spaniels in his arms. He looked tired, unkempt, and wore a banyan. “What’s this I hear about you taking your leave? By my calculations, your accounts have yet to be settled.”
Robert stepped up to the king and held out the tiny portrait and its explanation.
The king set down the dog, took the objects from him, and examined them with care. Looking up, he turned to his mistress. “Pray, leave us. What the duke and I have to discuss is not for your ears.”
After she made her exit, with a harrumph that made it clear she took exception to being dismissed, King Charles invited Robert into his inner sanctum, shut the door, and stood there for several moments saying naught.
“The evidence speaks for itself, Your Majesty,” Robert began, interpreting the king’s silence as an invitation to say his piece.
The king held up a hand to stop him. “Your Grace, pray listen to what I wish to say.” Charles, looking grave, took a breath. “People say a great many unflattering things about me, but I hope that I am obtuse is not one of them. I have examined the evidence and believe it authentic. I also know, from my brother’s own lips, of the mother’s sudden demise and the inexplicable disappearance of the babe.”
His royal personage visibly shuddered as he added, “It mortifies me to think how close I came to committing incest. How grateful I am now to My Lady Portsmouth for her fortuitous interruption. In hindsight, it seems ordained by God himself that my efforts on your wife’s behalf were thus thwarted.”
“Aye, Your Majesty.” Relief washed over Robert like spring rain. Not only was his marriage safe from royal molestation, he now had the upper hand where the king was concerned. “‘Twas undeniably a blessing.”
“May I rely upon your discretion?” Charles arched a plucked eyebrow.
Robert bowed his head. “If I may rely upon your sanction and continued benefaction.”
“Of course,” the monarch readily agreed. “You are part of the family now, if that is any consolation.”
“‘Tis, Your Majesty. To be sure.” Robert backed toward the door, eager to escape. “And now, I ask license to take my leave. The duchess has had a shock and I should like to take her home forthwith to convalesce.”
“Yes, of course. Her reaction is understandable. Take her home and I shall speak to my brother directly. He’s a good man. Better than the Parliament gives him credit for. He has great affection for his children and I am confident he will do right by her.”
Robert, brimming with elation, lowered his gaze. “We ask for naught but continued good will from the both of you.”
“I appreciate your generosity, Your Grace. Truly. As will James.”
At that, Robert left the king and the palace and, with a nod to his coachman, stepped into his waiting berline de coupe. Maggie, looking utterly enchanting in a green silk brocade gown, waited within. He claimed the seat beside her, took her gloved hand in his, and lifted it to his lips.
As the carriage set off with a jolt and, he made love to her knuckles and digits with his lips.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
He nibbled the soft leather of her glove. “Exactly what I hoped would happen.”
“He will give us no more trouble?”
‘Twas as if the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. He ceased kissing her hand, but kept it snugly in his as he met her gaze. “Only the kind of trouble a niece and her husband can generally expect from a narcissistic uncle.”
“I am vastly relieved to hear it.”
He turned toward her and took her other hand in his. “Maggie, what about us? Are we all right?”
“Yes, Robert.” She smiled a little and batted her eyelashes. “But be forewarned, Mistress Margaret plans to punish you for your misdeeds the moment we return to Dunwoody.”
A thrill stole through him as a smile lifted the edges of his mouth. “I confess, I had hoped the minx might feel the need to do so.”
“Methinks I shall try the flogger this time,” she said with a dangerous look in her eyes. “It seems a shame to spoil something as lovely as your backside. On top of which, I believe some leniency is in order in light of your restraint. The fact you abstained from penetrating either of your bedmates did not escape my notice.”
“I did so deliberately—to avoid being unfaithful to my darling wife.”
Maggie pulled her hands from his, sat back against the tufted brocade, and closed her eyes. “Then you do not regard being fellated as infidelity?”
“No.”
One pale-blue eye opened and turned on him. “Or French kissing a man?”
“No.”
The other eye opened, whereupon both narrowed. “Have you kissed many men before?”
“No comment.”
Her eyes became slits of blue ice. “Have you buggered many?”
“No comment.”
He had, but had never been buggered in return—something he hoped she might remedy in time.
“Pray, explain something to me if you would.” She opened her eyes, shifted her weight in a rustle of silk, and heaved a sigh, inciting worry in her husband. “How can you condemn Hugh’s leanings if you have engaged in homosexual acts yourself?”
He furrowed his brow. “When did I ever condemn my brother’s leanings?”
“On our wedding night. You said he was unfit to be my husband.”
“He is unfit to be your husband, dearest, because he takes no pleasure from sexual congress with those of the fairer sex—and I could see dormant in your younger self a woman of great passion.” With a wry grin, he added, “It must be the Stuart blood in your veins, no? Not that your mother, whoever she was, could claim sainthood. Marrying Hugh would have frustrated you no end.”
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “As compared to marrying you, I suppose, which has been a picnic in the park.”
He set his head upon her shoulder and looked up at her from under his lashes. “Do you regret your choice of husband?”
“No,” she said. “I probably should, but I do not. I love how sweet you can be at times—and how wicked at others.” She heaved a sigh before adding
, “I only hope you do not intend to whore me to another crowned head anytime soon.”
He popped up like a jack-in-the-box and kissed her mouth. “I shall never whore you again, my darling, whatever the consequences. On that, you have my solemn vow.”
Remembering her necklace, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the velvet pouch. “Here,” he said, handing her the pearls. “A peace offering.”
“What is it?”
“Your pearl necklace. I had it repaired, but do refrain from putting it on for the time being.”
“Why?”
Reaching across from one window to the other he closed the shades before easing her down on the seat under the weight of his body. “Because, my dearest,” he said, smothering her neck and décolletage with ardent kisses, “I plan to give you a different sort of pearl necklace forthwith.”
The End
(for now)
Afterword
Those who’ve read my other books know I’m a stickler for historic accuracy and detail. I research everything—or try to. In this book, I knowingly changed one tiny historic detail for the benefit of logistics and plot. While King Charles II did refurbish Holyroodhouse as reported herein, the historic record reports he never visited the Edinburgh palace once the renovations were finished. Much of the other descriptions of the king’s habits and temper were knitted together from accounts by people who knew the Merry Monarch personally.
Glossary of Unfamiliar Terms
Now, for those without a device offering word definitions, I offer a brief glossary of some of the terms peppered through the story to add period flavor.
Abigail: a lady’s maid.
Antimonial cup: a medicinal cup whose alloy, when mixed with wine, acted as a laxative.
Arbor vitae: a period euphemism for the penis or “tree of life.”
Concupiscent: sexual lust.
Cunny: slang for female genitalia considered less offensive than “cunt.”
