by Nina Mason
He got to his feet and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. There was no fire, so the chilly air raised goose pimples across his bare flesh. The comingled smells of sex and burning tallow lingered in his nostrils. He smiled as the memory of their lovemaking came flooding back. Not that he could honestly call what they’d done “lovemaking.”
Though he’d been an absolute savage, he regretted not a single thrust. He just hoped she would not be too sore when she awoke. Or too cross with him for his rough treatment of her. He probably should have been gentler in light of their arrangement this evening with Gemma Crosse. Would Maggie feel equal to the task? Lord knew, he did not. For the thought of trying to please two possessive women at once filled him with dread. His assignment, however, precluded postponement. He would have worries enough whilst in Scotland without adding to the heap his son’s susceptibility to the smallpox.
Refocusing his attention on the task at hand, he picked up his shirt and pulled it on as he crossed to the chair where he’d thrown his breeches. After pulling them on, he sat to put on his stockings and shoes. That done, he went in search of his waistcoat. Finding it over the back of another chair, he slipped his arms through the holes and fastened the buttons as swiftly as he could. His coat, he’d left on a peg by the door. Tiptoeing out of the room, he pulled on heavy outer garment and checked the pockets for his purse—in case he needed to sweeten the pot to gain the viscountess’s cooperation.
He was, however, confident a delicate alliance could be forged, one way or another. For, in such matters, self-interest almost always outplayed loyalty.
Quitting the apartment, he closed the door behind him as quietly as possible and made his way toward the privy garden, feeling every bit the thief in the night. There was a couple embracing on one of the benches and another in a far corner, but otherwise the garden was empty. And distressingly quiet, as was the street beyond the surrounding high wall. Consequently, the crunching of his shoes on the gravel path sounded as loud as an orchestra.
His pulse was racing and he was sweating profusely, despite the chill in the air. All the way across, he kept his hand wrapped firmly around his purse to mute the contents. His footfalls were conspicuous enough without adding the jingling of coins to the mix.
After what felt to be a mile traversed on a tightrope, he at last reached the gate to the street. Slipping through it, he dashed across the narrow road, and made his way down a wide corridor lined with flickering sconces. By the by, he came upon the apartment belonging to the Fitzhardinges. The viscount, no doubt, was spending the night elsewhere or his wife would not be entertaining gentleman callers.
Not that one could in all honesty apply the word “gentleman” to a common valet, however capable and devoted the man might be.
Heart in throat, Robert wrapped his fingers around the cool brass knob. If Duncan had done his due diligence, he should find the lock disengaged. The knob turned in his hand, unleashing a rush of relief. Now, he need only locate the appropriate bedchamber and pray all proceeded according to plan.
He stepped into the foyer, leaving the front door ajar to hasten his exit. The furnishings were as elegant as those in his own apartment, though a bit too frilly for his taste. He went through to the parlor, lit solely by the glowing embers in the fireplace. The room was quiet apart from the breathy sounds of lovers in the throes of passion. Judging by their heated exclamations, both rapidly approached the moment of truth.
As was he, he thought with all due drollness.
He followed the noises down a dark hall to a closed door. Lady Fitzhardinge’s bedchamber, presumably. Twisting the knob, he threw open the door with all the flourish of a leading actor’s entrance upon the stage. The startled lovers turned to him with expressions of alarm and aghast. He’d never thought Barbara Berkeley possessed much beauty, but now, with her creamy flesh, voluptuous curves, and free-flowing dark hair, he could see how some men might be tempted by her charms.
The lady was the first to speak. “What is the meaning of this untoward intrusion? Upon my soul, I thought you were my husband and nearly suffered heart failure.”
“Be glad I am not he, madam, for I am given to understand the viscount has a nasty temper,” Robert offered, milking the drama of the moment for its full worth. “As you see, I am naught but a wronged employer with a very loose tongue.”
When Duncan made to get up, Robert held up his hand. “Stay where you are, my good man. For your health will suffer if you fail to finish what you’ve started—and I will take my leave as soon as I’ve concluded my business with the lady.”
The viscountess glared at him spitefully. “And just what might your business with me be, My Lord?”
Robert arched an eyebrow roguishly. “Can you not deduce as much?”
“I believe I can.” She pulled back the covers, exposing the entirety of her person to his view.
His cock tingled with interest as he let his gaze roam over her comely attributes. Her skin was as smooth and pale as alabaster; her breasts large, firm, and crowned by the soft, rosy nipples of a woman who’d never nursed a babe; and the triangle of hair betwixt her milky thighs was enticingly thick and dark. Whilst he adored his golden-haired angel of a wife, he was in no way immune to the charms of brunettes—and this one’s figure left naught wanting.
As all the blood in Robert’s brain rushed toward his groin, he cleared his throat. “That is not why I’ve come, My Lady, though I do thank you most sincerely for the invitation.”
“Are you quite certain?” She batted her sweeping dark lashes at him in a most beguiling manner. “For I know you by sight and reputation, My Dear Duke. And, despite your unfortunate religion, would be only too delighted to oblige you.”
“As I said, I am flattered—and greatly tempted. Bedding you, however, is quite out of the question. For my wife is of a possessive nature, and I wish not to invite her reprobation.”
Lady F covered herself and regarded him with a scornful stare. “Then do tell me the reason for your intrusion.”
“I seek only your cooperation, My Lady. In exchange for my silence on the subject of finding you abed with my manservant.”
She eyed him narrowly. “My cooperation? In what regard?”
Robert licked his lips, which felt as dry as tinder. “I wish to see all the letters penned by Princess Anne to her sister in The Hague, as well as any notes she writes to Lord Mulgrave.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“And yet, I am. Very much so, I assure you.”
“But—should the princess discover my betrayal, I will lose my position at court.”
He let a sly grin spread across his face. “That is a trifle compared to what you will lose if the princess, your husband, and the other courtiers learn you’ve been carrying on with a common valet.”
Though Robert disliked demeaning Duncan, who’d been a loyal servant and confidante, the lowness of the man’s station was essential to the success of the caper. For if word got out she’d bedded a domestic, she’d soon be made the object of ridicule—a fate worse than pockmarks in court society.
With pursed lips and a furrowed brow, the lady took a moment to consider his terms. After several agonizing moments, she said, “I may be able to share the letters she asks me to post to her sister, but not the ones she writes to her lover. For those she entrusts only to Lady Churchill, who delivers them in secret to the gentleman in question.”
Sarah Churchill was Anne’s nearest and dearest friend who’d lately joined the princess’s entourage at Whitehall Palace as a maid of honor. Lady Churchill was a hot-tempered woman who fancied getting her own way, a tireless anti-Catholic campaigner, and inexplicably devoted to her husband, John Churchill—another of the king’s alleged devotees Robert trusted no farther than he could spit.
Lord Churchill—whose sister, Arabella, had born the king four children whilst he was still the Duke of York—was said to have gotten his tarse up the petticoats of Catherine Sedley, among other royal mistresses.
Though Lady C was by no means incorruptible, Robert had insufficient time to set a trap to enlist her assistance. Thus, for the time being, he’d have to be satisfied with Anne’s letters to Mary. If his suspicions proved correct, those would provide evidence enough of the sedition being plotted behind the king’s back.
“Very well,” he said. “In my absence, you will deliver the letters to my wife with all due discretion. Do you know who she is?”
“Yes, My Lord.” With a sneer of distaste, she added, “Your wife is the spawn one of His Majesty’s many whores.”
The insult stung his heart like the barbs on a scourge, exactly as she’d intended. Drawing nearer the bed, he fixed her with a ferocious frown. Nobody—least of all this adulterous chit—spoke ill of his Rosebud and escaped unscathed.
“You, madam, are unfit to wash my wife’s feet, which you would do well to remember. For she is not only of royal blood and a duchess, she is one of God’s angels. You, on the other hand, are naught but a liar, cheat, and whore.”
At that, he spun on his heel and, with his out-of-joint nose in the air, stalked out of the room. He hastened back down the corridor, across the street, and through the gate. To his delight, he now had the whole of the garden to himself. He took a seat on the bench previously occupied by the lovers, needing a few minutes in the air to cool his blood. The confrontation with Lady F had aroused more than his temper, and he’d importuned his wife enough for one night.
The thought of Maggie made him smile—and made his cock even harder, God help him. He’d been fortunate indeed in his choice of brides—more fortunate perhaps than he deserved. Unlike most men of his rank, he’d married for love and against the wishes of King Charles, risking all on the gambit that Maggie would make him happier than his sovereign would make him miserable. He’d rolled the dice and walked away the victor, but might just have easily lost everything on the wager, including his sweet Rosebud.
Now, the dice were his to roll again. He would go to Scotland, do his best to succeed, and, God willing, return to his loved ones with all of his appendages still attached—especially the one whose unyielding determination plagued him at present.
* * * *
Maggie returned slowly to herself to find sunshine pouring through the leaded panes of the bedchamber window. Robert was still beside her, atop the bedclothes in only his shirt. He looked peaceful and breathed with the steady cadence of deep sleep. Had he been to see the viscountess and returned without waking her? She did not usually sleep soundly, especially since the baby was born, but, then again, he’d ridden her hard the night before—not that she was complaining. On the contrary, she’d loved every glorious second of his savagery, and despite some lingering soreness, would not object overmuch to an encore.
As she curled up beside him, she realized she was more than just sore. Truth be known, she felt as if she’d been beaten betwixt the legs with a club, which, upon reflection, was pretty nigh accurate. She ran her hand down the front of her snoring husband’s shirt to check the status of the tool in question. To her delight, said object was as hard as an apothecary’s pestle. The comparison brought to mind Mrs. Crosse, which, in turn, unleashed an avalanche of anxiety.
She harbored mixed feelings about the impending arrangement. On the one hand, she despised the idea of Robert swiving another woman. On the other, she was eager to try out her new tie-on dildol on another of her sex. Moreover, she was curious to know what it would be like to bed a man and a woman at the same time. She’d seen pictures, of course, in the books she’d borrowed from Robert’s library before they were wed—and had watched him engaged in a threesome at the court of King Charles. Bearing witness and taking part, however, were hardly from the same.
Yes, she’d suggested the threesome partly for the novelty of experience, but mostly to protect her family. Mrs. Crosse wanted to sleep with Robert, for pity’s sake, which Maggie could not abide. And yet, neither could she bear the thought of losing her son to the same heartless disease that had almost stolen her husband.
Not that engraftment was a guaranteed safeguard. Far from it, in fact. Those who received the treatment would come down with the smallpox within a fortnight. A milder form than might be contracted by natural means was the hope, but not always the case. One of her friends at the convent had died after getting the procedure, and she herself had come close.
A bone-chilling thought struck her then. What would she do if God took her husband and son from her at the same time?
Die of a broken heart—if fortune should be so kind to her. Because living on without them was more than her poor heart could bear.
She need not despair yet, however. Not only was her husband still alive, he was enlivening all the more under her stroking fingers.
Robert opened his eyes and emitted a soft moan. His sensual lips curled into a faint smile as his gaze met hers. “You’d be unwise to start something you’ll be hard pressed to finish.”
“I cannot imagine what you mean,” she said, suppressing her mirth.
“Are you not a tad saddle-sore after your ride last night?”
“A wee bit, but nothing overly debilitating.”
“Though I cannot believe I am saying this to a lass with her hand on my cock, perhaps you ought to save your strength for later.”
She was now quite determined. “I could always have a nap betwixt now and then, as well as an oatmeal bath to ease the discomfort.”
His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Well, as long as you are sure…”
“I am. As long as you promise to be gentle.”
“You have my solemn oath.”
Rolling onto her, he made love to her with all the reverent tenderness he’d eschewed the night before. She loved both sides of his nature; loved that he could be rough at times and gentle at others; loved the lion he’d been last night and the kitten he was now.
He shook in her arms as he reached his climax, shuddering with the effort not to lose control and injure her further with his thrusting. He needn’t have made the effort, for she dearly loved how his passion for her awakened the savage in him.
Afterward, still joined, he pushed up on his arms and gazed into her eyes. “Are you sure you know what you are getting yourself into?”
“I should hope I do by now, since we’ve been married going on six years.”
He smiled sweetly. “I meant tonight, with Mrs. Crosse.”
The reminder provoked another qualm of dread. “I’d rather you did not have to penetrate her, but beyond that, I believe I can cope well enough.”
Coming down beside her, he pulled her into his arms. Holding her against his chest as though she was the most precious thing in the world, he said, “She means naught to me and you mean everything. If you remember that, you might find the sacrifice easier to bear.”
Chapter Ten
As the longcase clock in the apartment’s front parlor struck its seventh chime, a firm knock sounded upon the door. Though Mrs. Crosse was expected at this hour, the punctuality of the rapping nevertheless gave Robert a start. Pulse quickening, he turned to Maggie, who sat beside him on the bed in his room.
“She’s naught if not prompt,” he joked, hoping to break the tension that had draped itself over them like chainmail.
“I hope she also proves trustworthy,” Maggie returned, hands twisting in the pale blue silk of her dressing gown. “For you shan’t be here to ensure she upholds her end of the bargain.”
“Try to relax.” He touched her arm reassuringly. “For I am certain she will.”
Though he was putting up a good front, he was no more eager for the evening’s escapade to commence than was his wife. Aye, he’d taken part in threesomes before. Foursomes, too. As well as the odd out-and-out orgy. During his days as a page at the court of King Charles, he’d kept co
mpany with as wild a crowd as ever was seen. Even so, he’d never actively sought out such amoral amusements. He’d always been deep in his cups and drawn into the multi-partner trysts by one or more of his hedonistic companions. The risk of venereal disease was too high, the cost of protection too dear, and the only marginally effective treatment a poison that harmed more than it helped.
As could be said of most physicks of the day, in his humble opinion.
With all the bloodletting, blistering, enemas, deadly potions, and other quackery being inflicted upon the ailing, was it any wonder those who could afford doctors died in greater numbers than those who could not?
He just prayed Maggie was right about the effectiveness of engraftment, and that Mrs. Crosse knew the proper way to administer the contagion. He would hate to come back from Scotland to find he’d lost his son to the smallpox despite all their preventative measures.
Their caller knocked again, bringing Robert to his feet. As he padded toward the front door, he tightened the belt on his banyan. In preparation for the threesome, he and Maggie had elected to don only their dressing gowns. They wanted to hurry things along, but without giving the impression they were rushing, of course. He could not let Mrs. Crosse think he’d failed to honor his end of their agreement, lest she feel inclined to do the same.
Reaching for the knob, he threw a backward glance toward Maggie, who’d followed him into the front parlor. With a timid smile, she moved toward the sideboard where they kept the claret, port, and whisky. Hard drink, they’d agreed in advance, would help settle their nerves.
To set the mood, they’d lit myriad candelabra throughout the rooms they’d be using. They’d also dismissed the servants and sent instructions to the nursery not to bring the baby for his late-night feeding. Handy though it would be to have a chamber maid to wait upon them and their guest, they could not risk subjecting themselves to damaging gossip.
