The Devil's Masquerade (Royal Pains Book 3)

by Nina Mason

  “Lord Mulgrave insists the duchess was willing,” the king returned, seeming to side with the earl, “and that she only cried rape when you came upon them.”

  “With all due respect, Your Majesty, Lord Mulgrave has not spoken truthfully,” Robert told him, fighting to keep his simmering fury from boiling over. “He sported a costume identical to mine to deliberately trick my wife into giving her consent. Upon discovering the true identity of her seducer, Margaret tried to fight him off. When I discovered them, they were scuffling, not embracing.”

  The king pursed his lips. “Be that as it may, I cannot condone taking the law into your own hands. If you should kill him, I shan’t pardon you of the crime of murder, as my brother did his relations. For I mean to take a firmer stand against dueling, which I regard as both an offense against God and a subversion of the royal authority.”

  Robert was stunned by the violence of the monarch’s declaration. “Do you mean to have me arrested, sire?”

  “I do. And locked in the tower. Though it will pain me to do so and inconvenience me greatly. For there is no other to dispatch to Scotland in your stead.”

  “With all due respect,” Robert said, “being locked in the tower would be a major inconvenience to me as well.”

  “Then, turn the other cheek,” said the king, eyes blazing. “Overlook the slight. Do the Christian thing and forgive his trespasses as God forgives ours.”

  “Are you ordering me to withdraw my challenge?” Robert asked, seeking clarification. As much as he wanted to run Mulgrave through, he would not disobey a direct royal order.

  The king’s eyes darkened and narrowed. “Must I go that far? Is your pride really more important to you than your duty to king and country?”

  “’Tis more than pride, Your Majesty. He degraded my wife.”

  James looked unmoved. “Were I challenged by every husband of whom I’ve made a cuckold, I’d have no time left in the day to rule my kingdom.”

  Robert compressed his lips to keep from speaking his mind on the subject of his father-in-laws infidelities, as doing so would only land him in deeper water. “If I withdraw the challenge, I must have some assurance Margaret will be protected from Mulgrave’s interference whilst I am abroad.”

  “Very well,” said the king, though begrudgingly judging by the edge in his voice. “I shall speak to Mulgrave about keeping his distance from your wife during your absence—and also explain your reasons for failing to appear on the field of honor. For ’twould be unjust to reward your obedience with rumors of cowardice.”

  “Indeed, sire,” Robert agreed. “And whilst you have Lord Mulgrave’s ear, you might consider putting a word in it about keeping his distance from Princess Anne as well. For Maggie happened upon the two of them in a compromising posture the other week.”

  He probably ought not to have let the cat out of the bag without further consideration, but there it was, claws and all.

  Surprise opened wider the king’s naturally hooded eyes. “Did she? Goodness me. And did the assignation appear consensual?”

  “Her description suggests that it was.”

  James shrugged. “Then, what business is it of mine? For Anne is a grown woman with a mind of her own, as the letter you shared with me confirmed. I have already confined her to the Cockpit. What more would you have me do?”

  “I would have you keep a wary eye out, sire. For many enemies wear the mask of friendship.”

  His brow furrowed. “What the devil do you mean?”

  Robert felt compelled to warn the king and might not get another chance. “I mean, trust no one, sire. From Churchill to Grafton to Norfolk—and most especially not Mulgrave. For I believe all will betray you at the first opportunity.”

  “Surely, you are wrong.” The king crossed his arms and turned away, but not before doubt flickered behind his eyes. “Especially about Grafton. For dear Henry is of my own lineage.”

  The Duke of Grafton, the current Lord Chamberlain, was the illegitimate son of Charles II by Barbara Villiers, the cousin of Lady Fitzhardinge.

  Robert licked his lips. Must he go so far as to state the obvious? Deciding he must not mince words, he cleared his throat. “Might I delicately remind you the Duke of Monmouth also is your nephew? And that the two princesses are the fruit of your own loins?”

  James might have won the battle for the crown, but the war between Catholic and Protestant factions still raged on. The new king had powerful enemies—not the least of whom were Prince William of Orange and the Duke of Monmouth, two Protestant relations with kingly ambitions.

  With distress etching his features, His Majesty returned his gaze to Robert’s. “I am not in ignorance of the tremendous courage it takes to speak to me with such frankness. Or the degree of concern and loyalty required to be so forthright. Which tells me I have not misplaced my faith in you—for one. Thus, I shall promise to be vigilant in my dealings with all I keep close.” Looking back to the window, he said, “And, as to the other matter, I shall move Margaret into the queen’s apartments when we relocate to St. James’s Palace, to protect her from unwelcome suitors. For I could not believe she would prefer Mulgrave to you—though I can believe it of Anne, whose husband, it pains me to say, is a complete blunderbuss.” Turning back to Robert, he met his gaze head-on. “Will that satisfy you sufficiently to drop the challenge?”

  “Indeed, Your Majesty.” Robert, lowering his gaze in deference, took a backward step toward the door. “And I thank you most humbly for the magnanimity you have bestowed upon me and my family.”

  “You are my family also,” the king said with a note of sadness in his voice, “which, it grieves me to say, appears to mean a good deal less to some than it does to you and I.”

  * * * *

  The prospect of Robert’s departure loomed before Maggie like a bottomless black abyss into which she was predestined to fall. Because he’d been so long with her father, there was no time left to make love or even to hold each other and exchange heartfelt words of regard.

  She knew better than to ask if she could go with him, much as she would have welcomed the adventure. By the same token, no victory could be gained by persuading him to stay. For her father’s cause was doubtless of great import, and she must not be selfish.

  Like it or not, she owed it to her husband to make doing his duty no more of a struggle than it already was.

  His final preparations were undertaken in efficient quietude. So aloof did he appear, so controlled, she began to fear he was unbothered about leaving her. Had she not already been out of her mind with grief, his impassiveness might have driven her to full-blown madness. When he took her into the library to show her where his papers and the keys to the estate in Dunwoody were kept, it took every ounce of strength she had to dam her rising hysteria.

  Biting her lip against her gathering tears, she watched in mute anguish as he unlocked the top drawer of his desk and removed the box containing his father’s dueling pistols. The very pistols with which he’d taught her to shoot whilst they lived in Edinburgh. Removing one from the case, he demonstrated once again how to cock the hammer.

  “Keep it loaded and within reach at all times,” he said, “and hesitate not to fire should the need arise. For your father has many enemies, Maggie, who will stop at naught to see him deposed.”

  She began to tremble all over.

  He must have sensed her discomposure because he put down the weapon, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her onto his lap. “Despair not, my dearest angel.” He stroked her curls. “These are merely safeguards. To ensure you are protected. Will you not allow me this small tutelage? Had I taught you to protect yourself before leaving you with…” He paused to heave a sigh. “Well, never mind. ’Tis water under the bridge, is it not?”

  As he massaged her shoulders, she reluctantly nodded her agreement. She understood his meaning and had no wish to dwell upon past misfortunes. Let him take these pains if it put him more at ease. She must not make his leaving harde
r on him. Deep down, she admired his courage and was proud of him for taking on such a dangerous assignment. ’Twould be shameful to make him guilty about going.

  Then, the dam inside her broke , allowing all her fears to fountain to the surface. Leaping to her feet, she dropped to her knees and hid her face in his lap.

  “Pray, do not go,” she sobbed. “I cannot bear for you to leave me when there is a chance I might never set eyes upon you again.”

  Taking her head between his hands, he lifted her face, forcing her gaze to his. Astonishment blew through her like a chill wind when she saw he had tears in his eyes as well.

  “I cannot bear to leave you either, Rosebud,” he said in a voice choked by strong emotion. “But, as I have no other choice, I beg you not to make my departure more tormenting than it already is.”

  Overcome by her grief, she slid in a heap to the floor. He joined her there and, still fully clothed, they made desperate, sobbing love to each other on the carpet. When it was done, she cupped his face in her hand and did her best to commit his handsome features to memory.

  “Do I need to tell you how much I love you?” she asked.

  “Aye, Rosebud. Though I know it in my heart, ’twould please my ears unendingly to hear you give voice to your sentiments.”

  Looking deeply into his entrancing gray-green eyes, she said, straining to expel the words, “I love you, Robert. More than I am capable of expressing.”

  “I love you in equal measure, my sweet Rosebud, and shall do everything in my power to return to you.”

  The coach was waiting. They straightened their clothes and rose to go outside. There was naught left to say, naught left to do.

  By the time they reached the courtyard, they had both put on their public masks. She stood aside, hands folded, as he checked the horses and harnesses. Task completed, he turned to her with one of his crooked grins she so adored. “With any luck, I will be back before you have time to miss me.”

  Taking her by the shoulders, he jerked her to him and kissed her mouth with more passion than was proper. She clung to his coat as their tongues entangled, not quite ready to let him go. When he broke free, she forced her hands to drop from him—the hardest thing she’d ever made herself do.

  As he set his foot on the fold-down steps leading into the coach, he turned back to her. “If I should not see you again, know that my last thoughts were of you. And that I shall be waiting for you in Heaven.”

  It was too much. She broke down and began to weep in the manner of a child.

  He hoisted himself into the carriage and closed the door between them. Through the blur of tears, she watched his coach grow smaller as it carried her precious husband away from her. When the gig disappeared from view, she looked skyward and whispered through her strangling grief, “Heavenly Father, watch over him, keep him safe, and please, please bring him back to me as little scathed as possible.”

  —The End—

  (For now)

  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.

  Concupiscent: sexual lust.

  Cunny: slang for female genitalia considered less offensive than “cunt.”

  Dildol: an earlier version of the word “dildo.”

  Dominus vobiscum: Latin for “Go with God.”

  Flacon: a stout, sealable bottle common to the period.

  Fortnight: fourteen nights or two week.

  Gamahuche: a French word meaning “mouth on genitals.”

  Godemiché: a dildo

  Justacorps: a knee-length, collarless coat worn by men in the 17th and 18th centuries as part of a three-piece ensemble also consisting of breeches and a waistcoat.

  Meschant: a villain or bad person.

  Se’nnight: seven nights; a week.

  Stoup: a cup or flacon for drinking.

  Swive: a coarse term for having sex; comparable to “fuck.”

  Tarse: a slang term of the period for “penis.”

  Twattler(s): gossip(s).

  Vouchsafe: to give or grant something to someone in a gracious or condescending manner; also to reveal or disclose information.

  Nina Mason is a hopeful romantic with strong affinities for history, mythology, and the metaphysical. She strives to write the same kind of books she loves to read: those that entertain, edify, educate, and enlighten.

  She is the author of The Queen of Swords, a darkly erotic Scottish paranormal romance/urban fantasy, and The Tin Man, a political thriller, both published by Vamptasy/CHBB.

  Devil in Duke’s Clothing is her first historical romance and Royal Pains is her first series. Starry Knight, book one in a second series titled Knights of Avalon, will be released in August 2015 by Lyrical/Kensington.

  When not writing, Ms. Mason works as a communications consultant, doll maker, and home stager. Born and raised in Orange County, California, the author currently lives with her husband, teenage daughter, two rescue cats, and a Westie just north of Atlanta, Georgia.

  Don’t miss the tantalizing first book of the Royal Pains series, Devil In Duke’s Clothing!

  Innocence lost. Paradise found.

  Maggie York, a convent-raised foundling, knows the Duke of Dunwoody’s sexual tastes are a shade or two darker than most, but marries him anyway—partly because she has no other prospects and partly because, try as she might, she can’t seem to stop fantasizing about her dashing rake of a guardian. Two years ago, something she saw him do lured her from the garden of innocence into the orchard of fleshly desires–and she’s been hungry for more ever since.

  Robert Armstrong, the duke, is a Roman Catholic whose extreme devotions as a boy colored his passions as a man. He’s also a slave to the times in which he lives–and to his king. Everything he is, everything he holds dear, depends upon staying in Charles II’s good graces. Unfortunately, Maggie isn’t who the king wanted Robert to marry. Now, to make amends, the duke must either whore his wife or be reduced to a penniless and unprotected commoner at a time when those of his faith are feared and hated throughout Great Britain.

  Whose interests will the duke choose to protect?

  Chapter One

  Two years hence

  Maggie dashed at the tears spilling down her cheeks and peered with self-disgust into the looking glass on her elegant new dressing table. She might now be Margaret Armstrong, Duchess of Dunwoody, but beneath the tight satin bodice, voluminous skirts, and mass of tight curls, she trembled like the motherless child she’d always been.

  At any moment, the duke would burst in to demand his due. As his bride, she could not refuse him. Their marriage vows demanded her obedience and made her his chattel—property to treat or dispose of in any manner he might choose. If she denied his lusts, he could toss her out on her ear with as little qualm as his late father had taken her in.

  Desperation bloomed in her chest, making breathing difficult. Where would she go? What would she do? Starve on the streets, more than likely. She had no money, no relations, no one to look out for her welfare—not since dear Hugh set off for his Grand Tour of the continent.

  Nay, was driven off, more like.

  If only they’d been able to marry. But alas, their fledgling courtship was no doubt the reason he’d been sent away. She harbored mixed feelings about her favorite’s hasty departure. On the one hand, Hugh was kind to her and oft remarked on the fineness of her pale blue eyes, golden hair, and trim figure. On the other, his compliments were as passionless as his addresses.

  “Be wary of my brother,” Hugh warned before setting off “I’ve seen the way he looks at you and his unseemly predilections would shock one so innocent.”

  The Armstrong brothers were the proverbial angel and devil on her shoulders. As much as she wanted to listen to the angel’s good council, she found the devil’s enticements much more alluring.

  She did not believe Hugh about His Grace’s regard. Yes,
the duke looked her way now and again, but only to find fault in her manners or appearance. Mostly, he was cold, critical, and extremely parsimonious with his compliments and smiles.

  He’d not called her his wee Rosebud in an age, much to her dismay.

  But, as he generously supported her, she could hardly let him sense her discontent. Disguising it required speaking only when spoken to, forcing herself to smile through her wounded feelings, and avoiding the man like the Black Death. As providence would have it, he was rarely at home and, when he was, she gave her guardian a wide berth.

  Except at meals, of course, but even then, they sat at opposite ends of a long table and exchanged only occasional glances and essential pleasantries.

  Then, last week, without hint or warning, he’d up and dismissed Mistress Honeywell. Maggie could not fault him for sacking the maid, who was lazy and of loose morals. She also was a rival for the duke’s attentions, which, as his bride, Maggie could not abide. Yes, she lived in mortal terror of his passions, but, oddly enough, she craved them just as violently.

  How two such contradictory emotions could coexist within one bosom Maggie could not comprehend. And yet, they did—in hers. Truth be known, the wicked part of her coveted the duke even as the pious part condemned his licentiousness. Ever since that day in the housekeeper’s rooms, she’d fantasized about him swiving her the way he’d swived Mistress Honeywell—though without the belting.

  Between stolen glances at dinner, she imagined him bending her over the table. In the evening parlor where they quietly read to themselves, she longed for him to make a move. In her lonely bed at night, she brought herself to raptures dreaming of him atop her, thrusting like a demon.