by Nina Mason
Skepticism crinkled her brow. “Do you believe Lord Mulgrave to be so?”
“Not for a moment. For I know Lord All-Pride, as my old friend the Earl of Rochester once christened the self-important pizzle, to be a self-serving weathercock who will turn toward any wind that might blow him faster toward his aims.”
“Which are…?”
“The same as any man’s,” he said with a shrug. “Money, power, favor, and all the crops he can harvest from his well-fertilized field of sychophantry.”
With a sigh, she laid her head against his shoulder. “There is something I must tell you.”
“About Mulgrave?”
“Yes. And Princess Anne.”
She hesitated, which he took as a sign she feared his reaction to whatever she intended to vouchsafe. Alarmed, but also more eager than ever to hear what she meant to impart, he prodded her to continue. “Now that you have whetted my appetite, keep me not waiting overlong upon the meal.”
She took a breath—to bolster her courage, presumably—before saying, “A day or two ago, I saw them together in the Royal Chapel.”
The mention of the chapel brought to mind their tryst in the Jerusalem Chamber, which his illness had nearly erased from his mind. How he wished he could summon the wherewithal for an encore performance. But alas, he still felt too weak and fatigued to attempt relations. He was not, however, too enfeebled to manage a wee bit of marital mischief.
“What were you doing in the Royal Chapel? Planning for our future profanities against the Church of England?”
“By no means,” she returned with a note of irritation. “I only wanted to pray for the restoration of your health, and the provisional Catholic chapel, being all the way on the other side of the palace, was too far. I could not in good conscience leave you unattended for the time I’d expend getting there and back.”
“I see.” He was now more intrigued than diverted by what she meant to tell him. “And what did you observe?”
“Let me just say that, if my uncle’s purpose in sending Lord Mulgrave away was to end his love affair with Anne, he gained a temporary respite at best.”
Surprised, Robert turned his face toward hers. “You observed them in a posture of intimacy?”
“I observed them going at it like rabbits,” she confirmed.
Astonished, he tried to sit up only to find he lacked the power to do so. Letting his head sink into the pillow, he folded his hands across his abdomen. “Are you certain of what you witnessed?”
Pushing up, she glared down at him crossly. “Which of my merits do you question—my word or my eyesight?”
“Neither.” He frowned at her. “But I nevertheless require assurances you are certain of your allegations.”
“I flatter myself I know the look of swiving by now. And, even had I not witnessed their coupling with my own two eyes, his furious thrusting, which shook the whole of the church, together with her moans of rapture, would have been evidence enough of what transpired betwixt them. But the fact of their adultery is not the whole of what I have to relay with regard to their rendezvous. After relieving their passions, before they went their separate ways, I overheard them maligning our religion.”
Curiosity’s feathers tickled his gullet. “Maligning it how? What did they say?”
“That all Catholics are dangerous idolaters, more or less.”
Robert could scarcely believe his ears. Was such hypocrisy, such duplicity, such blasphemy, to be believed? Aye, he and Maggie had done the deed at Westminster Abbey, but in a private room, not the actual sanctuary. On top of which, they were man and wife and did not espouse false principles or loyalties with the goal of deception. Nor sin against the Lord in his own hallowed house. Unlike Princess Anne, apparently, who feigned unswerving devotion to husband, father, and faith whilst secretly betraying all three.
Upon my soul, the lady’s heart must be as black as sin itself.
Though Robert could not care less about Anne’s infidelity and irreverence—the injured parties were more than capable of punishing her offenses—her alliance with Lord All-Pride vexed him greatly. Were Mulgrave and the princess telling her father what he wanted to hear whilst plotting his overthrow behind his back with her Protestant relations in The Hague?
Robert, infirm as he remained, would inform James of his suspicions at once if he believed for one instant the king might be swayed by his testimony alone. The monarch, however, would not take him at his word—and to His Majesty’s credit. Only a fool would put his full faith in such a treasonous charge—against two of his favorites, no less—without indisputable proof to back it up.
Had King Charles been as circumspect about the false accusations made by Titus Oates, innocent lives might have been spared, and the kettle of Catholic hatred and suspicion kept from boiling over as it had to the detriment of so many.
Robert, remembering the scheme he’d cooked up with his valet before falling ill, turned toward the dressing room door and called out, “Duncan, my good man. Are you there?”
“Save your breath, dearest.” Maggie patted his chest. “For I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of your man the whole of the night. Which, I might add, I am none too pleased about. Had he been at his post, I should not have been forced to indebt myself to Lord Mulgrave.” She shivered against his side before adding, “How any of my sex can bear the touch of such an odious creature I shall never comprehend.”
The relief the remark engendered was soon followed by a pang. When he was fully recovered—and bore the scars of his illness—would she be able to bear his touch? Blinking the painful question away, Robert reined his thoughts back to more pressing matters. If Anne and Mary were plotting against their father—and he’d readily wager a large sum they were—he needed to acquire proof to support his suspicions. To that end, he’d overlook Duncan’s dereliction of duty if the cause turned out to be his seduction of Viscountess Fitzhardinge.
If the twattlers were to be believed, the former Barbara Villiers, the less-comely cousin of Charles II’s infamous mistress of the same name, was not particular about her lovers— or any less ambitious than the others of her bloodline. Her sister, Elizabeth, one of Mary’s maids of honor, had recently become Prince William’s pet mistress. Thus, a scandal linking the viscountess and a lowly valet would in no way advance her lofty ambitions. In fact, such a stain on her reputation, Robert was quite sure, would bring about the opposite result—a consequence she would no doubt endure considerable inconvenience to avoid.
* * * *
Within two days of Dr. Wakeman declaring Robert out of danger, he was recovered enough to spend most of his waking hours out of bed. Within four, he was well enough to take a turn in the palace’s privy garden, where Maggie, holding tight to his arm for support, now led her still-enfeebled husband along the gravel paths gridding the sixteen squares of grass making up the quilt of green.
At the center of each patch of lawn stood a statue. The only other ornaments were an array of glass sundials arranged throughout the garden in a triangular formation. Though the sky was clear now, it had rained the night before, so everything looked bright and smelled as clean as a spring morning in the country.
The privy garden, true to its name, was concealed from the street by a high wall, from the river by the Stone Gallery and state apartments, from the courtyard behind the banqueting house by the lodgings of the king’s chief attendants, and from the bowling green, to which it led, by a row of lofty trees.
“As a girl, I used to love the hours I passed in the garden at Balloch, picking flowers and chasing rabbits,” she said, harkening back. “How carefree my life seemed then. Do you recall the time I twisted my ankle? How dreadfully I feared night would fall before anyone found me—and there you came to my rescue—my knight in shining armor on his big white horse.”
“I remember the moment and the horse,” he said wryly, “but not the armor.”
She laughed, which felt good after such a cheerless chain of days. It also felt
good to be out of doors. The fresh air and exercise would help Robert recover his strength and the sunshine would speed the healing of the scabs on his face, which had started to fall off. Underneath some, especially in the hollows of his cheeks, were deep pits she knew would never go away. Through the lens of her love, however, she still saw the flawless face she’d always known.
“Do you remember sweeping me into your arms and carrying me all the way back to the castle?”
“By all means.” The brightness of his smile rivaled the sunshine. “For I was half in love with you already by then.”
All astonishment, she turned to him. “Were you? I never knew you cared a jot for me. When you were at home, you were always so taciturn and critical. Not above twice did I ever see your beautiful smile or hear the laugh I have grown to love so well. Unlike….”
She’d almost said Hugh, but caught herself in time. Never again did she care to speak that odious name, nor think upon his barbarity. How wrong she’d been to believe the marquess the better of the two siblings—and how glad she was now to have chosen Robert.
“Needless to say, when you proposed marriage, I was so astonished you could have knocked me over with a feather.”
He laughed, a sound whose sweetness put to shame the birdsong all around them. “Shocked and horrified, I’ll wager.”
“No. Not horrified. Frightened, yes. For I knew of your unsavory habits after watching you spank my maid that day in the housekeeper’s quarters.”
Slowing his pace, he set his hand atop the one of hers clasping the wide-cuffed sleeve of his coat. “And how do you feel now that you are intimately acquainted with your husband’s unsavory habits?”
She was not as intimately acquainted as she’d prefer—not of late, leastwise. Whilst in Scotland, she’d longed for “normal” marital relations, and now that she’d gotten her wish, their sex life seemed a bit…well, sedate.
“If you want the truth, I rather miss your darker tastes. Do you think, perhaps, when you are recovered enough, you might tie me to the bed the way you did that night after our contest in the garden? We’d been married only a very short while. Do you know the night I mean?”
“I do indeed,” he said with a devilish gleam in his gray-green eyes. “As vividly as if it were yesterday.”
“Would you be game, do you think, to reenact that night when you are feeling fully yourself again?”
“Do you mean tie you to the bed and put a mask over your eyes whilst I drive you wild with desire?”
The mere thought of it sent a shiver of erotic excitation through her body. “That is precisely what I mean.”
“I believe myself well enough to manage it at present—if you have no objection to such prurient pursuits in the middle of the day.”
“I have no objection whatsoever.” On the contrary, she was giddy with anticipation. “As long as you are confident you possess health enough to see it through.”
Hooking his arm through hers, Robert hastened toward the wing housing their apartment, through the arched doorway, and down the wide corridor. At their door, he stopped, gathered her into his arms, and moved in for a kiss. His lips, hot and hungry, claimed hers with a passion that turned her insides to aspic. Angling his head, he ran the firm tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips—an appeal for entrance. As she opened her mouth, he deepened the kiss, gliding his tongue against hers in the sensual way she’d missed so acutely.
As Robert’s tongue played in her mouth, the flames of desire licked betwixt her legs. She relaxed against him, blood simmering, bones melting. God, how she’d missed the feel of his mouth on hers. He tasted so good and smelled of lavender and the outdoors instead of laudanum and mustard plaster. Seeking to quench her thirst for him, she put her arms around him and cupped his buttocks with both hands, pulling him closer and mashing their pelvises together.
Even through the many layers of buffering fabric, she could feel he was hard. Wonderfully, deliciously rock-hard for her, and she felt no less needful of him. She thrust her hips against him to communicate the strength of her desire.
Groaning against her mouth, he maneuvered her until she was sandwiched betwixt him and the door. As his tongue probed her mouth, his hardness burnished her mound of Venus, throwing more wood on the inferno in her belly until the flames consumed the whole of her being.
Digging her fingers deeper into the soft-muscle swells of his rump, she sought to bring him closer, to fuse with him, body and soul, to combine their need for each other into one all-consuming blaze.
Footfalls in the corridor off to her left brought her back to reality with a jolt. Breaking free of her husband’s mouth, she checked to see who had spied them in so indecorous a posture. She relaxed a little when she saw ’twas only a female servant with an infant in her arms. Then, she realized the girl was one of the nursemaids, and the child she carried was wee Jamie. Maggie had completely forgotten she’d asked for the baby to be brought to her as soon as they’d concluded their stroll in the garden.
Robert stepped back, cleared his throat, and straightened his clothes.
Maggie, face heating, did the same before addressing the nursemaid. “How does he do?”
“See for yourself.” The servant, a prettyish young woman with pocked cheeks and flaxen hair, set the baby into his mother’s arms.
The smile Maggie had ready for her son ran away when she saw the red spots covering the infant’s face. “Oh, no. How can this be? The doctor assured me he was past the point of danger.”
“Be not afeared, milady,” the nursemaid returned with a smile. “For those spots you see are not the smallpox; they are merely pimples, which are common in babes of his age.”
Promising to return in an hour to collect the child, the servant took her leave. Though Maggie’s plans to be bound and blindfolded had been upset, she was not disappointed by the cause. Having missed her son something terrible, she was thrilled to have him back in her arms. In the dark days just prior, many were the times she’d doubted this happy reunion of her dear little family might ever come to pass.
Robert fussed over the baby for a moment, as he was wont to do, before opening the door to the apartment. Maggie went in first and, as her husband followed, he said, “I think we should get wee Jamie engrafted as soon as it can be arranged.”
She went into the front parlor, took a seat on her favorite settee, and, after a bit of bother with her bodice, offered the baby her breast. As wee Jamie latched on, she locked gazes with her husband, now seated in a nearby chair. “Though I agree with you in theory, I wonder how you propose we get the procedure done here in London, where no physicians condone the practice.”
“I know someone who might do it.” Looking inexplicably agitated, he averted his gaze before adding, “First, however, I must tell you something I fear will make you unhappy.”
The graveness of his words and expression set off alarm bells inside Maggie’s brain. Only one thing he could tell her would make her unhappy, and he’d already assured her he’d been faithful. So, what could he be so loathe to reveal?
After waiting on tenterhooks for several seemingly endless minutes, she said, “Keep me not in suspense, dear heart, lest my worries cause me to run mad.”
He stood, walked to the fireplace, and turned his back to her. As he fingered the trinkets on the mantle ledge, he inhaled deeply. “Five years ago, after I was attacked in the street, I was nursed not by Dr. Wakeman, but by his daughter.”
Fears bells began to jangle inside her in the manner of a gypsy’s tambourine. She pictured her husband as he’d been just days before. Helpless, fevered, and incoherent. Only, instead of being nursed and succored by his wife, he was under the care of a stranger—another woman he’d avoided telling her about all these years.
Why? What did he want her not to know?
“You told me you’d been faithful,” was all she could think to say.
His posture stiffened. “Does it count if I failed to recall at the time I was married to yo
u?”
A hard lump rose in her throat as she considered the question. Having suffered a blow to the head, he’d forgotten who he was, which prevented him from returning to her during those terrible days his younger brother abused her. Had she stopped to consider his condition further, she might have realized all that his amnesia entailed. But, alas, in her eagerness to blot out the awful memories, she’d forbidden herself to dwell upon the dreadful experience.
He was still facing the fireplace, still fingering the ornaments. “Why did you not tell me?”
“To spare you further sorrow.”
Swallowing her rising angst, she forced herself to ask, “Did you go to bed with her?”
“No, though we spoke of doing so. Her marriage had been arranged to a much older man she found unappealing, and she greatly feared a life devoid of passion.”
“Was she attractive?”
“Aye. As well as kind, intelligent, and interesting.”
Maggie took a moment to shift the baby to the other breast whilst puzzling out her husband’s motives. If he had not slept with the doctor’s daughter, why had he kept the truth from her? Furthermore, why had he feared telling her would make her unhappy? Only one reason came to mind. Though he’d not slept with his nurse, neither had their relationship been entirely chaste.
“Robert, now that you have brought this up, I must know the whole of it. What did happen betwixt you and the doctor’s daughter?”
“We kissed, but only once.” His back was still to the room. “And she washed me, of course, which I found arousing. The worst of it, though, was when she performed a procedure she called ‘seminal extraction,’ claiming it would help balance my humors.”
“Seminal extraction?” Maggie disliked the flavor the strange words left on her tongue. “As in extracting your…?”
“Aye. Precisely.”
Maggie closed her eyes and considered the methods the girl might have used to bring her husband to climax. There were only two, neither of which made her easier. “How did she do it?”
