The Devils Who Would Be King (Royal Pains Book 4)

by Nina Mason

  “Lord and Lady Churchill are both staunch Whigs and not to be trusted, so I advise you to give them both as wide a berth as you give your half-sister.”

  Although sorry Lady Churchill had lost her child, Maggie otherwise felt little sympathy for the woman, who, for all her much-admired beauty, wit, and vivacity, was too free with her opinions and censures to make herself agreeable.

  Maggie, however, had no qualm about spying upon her en flagrante delicto with Lady Fitzhardinge. In fact, she greatly looked forward to watching whilst getting up to some mischief of her own with Gemma.

  As she ate, Maggie reflected on Robert’s more general warnings about life at court, every word of which had proved true: “All courtiers are motivated by one of two things: self-interest or pleasure. They would sell God Almighty, just as Judas sold Jesus, but for less money. In other words, if they have something to gain, they will let naught stand in their way, be it vow, law, religion, familial ties, or friendship.”

  When the meal was finished, Maggie told the footman he could clear the dishes and, carrying her son to the bell pull, rang for the chambermaid. She then took Jamie into the parlor and reclaimed her spot upon the settee. Gemma took the spot beside her and checked the baby for signs of smallpox whilst Maggie used his rattle to distract him.

  As they were thusly engaged, someone knocked on the door. Assuming it was the chambermaid answering her summons, Maggie sent Gemma to let her in.

  The door latch clicked and the hinges squealed. Then, Maggie heard something unexpected. A familiar Englishman’s voice rudely asking, “Who the devil are you?”

  “I am Mrs. Crosse, an old friend of the Dunwoody’s,” came Gemma’s reply. “Who the devil are you?”

  Maggie smiled at her retort and thought, Good for you, Gemma. Give the self-important prick his due.

  “I am John Sheffield, the Earl of Mulgrave and Lord Chamberlain of the Royal Household,” he answered pompously. “Will you be so good as to announce me to the duchess?”

  “Wait here and I will see if she feels up to receiving company.”

  “Gracious me. Is she unwell?” Lord Mulgrave sounded genuinely concerned.

  “She is quite well, I assure you,” Gemma told him with an icy edge in her voice. “We have only just finished supper and are preparing to go out.”

  “Going out? Where, pray tell?”

  “With all due respect, sir, that is none of your concern.”

  Maggie smiled at Gemma’s pluck, which she both admired and envied. She would never dream of being so direct with someone of Lord Mulgrave’s standing. But oh, how she longed to forget her manners and behave as badly as did he!

  “I will decide what is or is not my affair in this palace,” he returned with frosty hauteur. “Now, would you please tell the duchess I am waiting to see her? I have something to relay regarding her husband, not that the reason for my call is any of your concern.”

  Maggie, pulse quickening, hugged the baby to her at the mention of Robert. What could Lord Mulgrave have to tell her? Not something unpleasant, she hoped.

  Gemma came into the room wearing a sour expression. “Lord Mulgrave is here to see you, my dear,” she said loud enough to be heard at the front door. “He claims to have something of Robert to relay, but I would not be surprised if it is but a ploy to gain access.”

  “Gemma, please,” Maggie whispered, horrified by her rudeness. “Keep your voice down or he will hear you.”

  “I do not care if he does,” Gemma sniffed. “I owe him no consideration.”

  “Yes, but I do, and as my friend…oh, never mind. Just tell him I will see him, but only to hear what he has to tell me of Robert.”

  Gemma spun round and returned to the door, where Maggie heard her say, “The duchess will see you…but only for a moment.”

  A few seconds later, Gemma came into the parlor, followed by King John in all his regal self-importance.

  “My Lady Dunwoody,” he said with a bow. “How well you look this evening. Thank you for agreeing to see me. I understand you are short on time, so I shall get straight to the point of my visit. I have come to enquire after the child’s health, and to tell you some news of the duke, though what I have to say on that score is for your ears only.”

  As he said the last bit, he glanced pointedly at Gemma, who now occupied the chair opposite Maggie.

  “Yes, of course,” Maggie said to Mulgrave. Then, to Gemma, “Dear friend, might I impose upon you to take the baby to his cradle? ’Tis in my bedchamber, where you might be good enough to wait until his lordship and I have finished our business.”

  Looking as if she’d just eaten a lemon, Gemma rose from the chair, took the baby, and left the room.

  Lord Mulgrave claimed the seat beside Maggie, too close for her comfort. She tried to shrink into the corner of the sofa, but his brocade-clad thigh still pressed inescapably against her skirts. The unsettling sensation of her personal space being invaded only increased when he took up her hand. As he pressed his lips to her knuckles, she could not help but grimace.

  Eager to be rid of him, she asked, “What have you to tell me of the duke?”

  “Only that he is safe,” he said, keeping hold of her hand. “I knew you would want to know without delay. The king—your father, rather—received word of him only yesterday. He was in Orkney at the time of his writing, but more than that I cannot tell you.”

  “Thank you, my lord. It was good of you to think of me.”

  “I think of little else these days, I dare say.”

  Maggie felt herself blush, even as her blood turned to vinegar. “Not even matters of state? Or of faith? I hear my father has asked all of his ministers to convert, to demonstrate their loyalty and support for his policies.” She looked into his eyes to gauge his sincerity as she added with a maidenly smile, “Surely, you are giving his request serious consideration.”

  He licked his lips and seemed to stiffen. “Well, as to that, I can only say this: I have convinced myself by much reflection that God made man; but I cannot believe that man can make God.”

  “You refer, I believe, to transubstantiation.”

  “I do.”

  “You do understand, I hope, that the transformation is only a matter of faith. We Catholics merely believe we are ingesting the body and blood of Christ through the sacrament of communion, as Jesus instructed his disciples to do at the Last Supper. Is that so very different from what Anglicans believe?”

  “You make excellent points.” He kissed her hand again. “And I promise to give the matter further thought, to please you as well as His Majesty.”

  “That is very good of you, my lord,” Maggie said, meaning not a word of it. “Now, if there is nothing more…”

  “There is only my deep concern for your son’s welfare. How does he fare after the engraftment? He looked well when I came in. Were my observances accurate?”

  “Yes, my lord,” she replied, wishing he would go. “My son is well for now, as was expected. The symptoms of smallpox do not show themselves until at least a week after exposure. Did you not know that?”

  “I confess, I did not. For disease is not one of the many subjects upon which I have cultivated extensive knowledge.”

  Maggie bit her lip to keep from saying something snide. What an insufferable ass he was. How could any woman find such bombast and solicitude charming? And yet, many did. For, according to Robert, Lord Mulgrave had bedded numerous ladies of the court, as well as several actresses of the theatre. What was it they found appealing enough to spread their legs? His money? His titles? His power? His skills in the art of rogering? Or was it because he’d been blessed with a tarse of impressive size?

  Maggie, recalling what she’d seen that day in the royal chapel, lowered her gaze to the sizeable bulge in his breeches.

  Seeing her ogling his crotch and obviously mistaking the nature of her interest, Mulgrave pressed the hand he still clasped against his velvet-sheathed phallus, presumably to let her know how much he desire
d her.

  Disgusted by his boldness, she jerked her hand away and slapped his face before rising to her feet. Glaring down at him contemptuously, she said, “Sir, you have overstepped the bounds of propriety, and should consider yourself extremely fortunate my husband is not here to challenge you to a duel.”

  To his credit, he looked contrite. “I meant no insult, I promise you. I only thought…well, never mind what I thought. Obviously, I was mistaken.”

  “Indeed you were,” she said haughtily, “if you mistook whatever you mistook for interest on my part.”

  He rose from the settee and bowed to her with uncharacteristic grace. “I can see that, my lady, and humbly beg your pardon.”

  Gemma came back into the room at that moment, leading Maggie to suspect she’d been eavesdropping from the hallway. With a look of concern, she asked, “Is aught amiss, my dear duchess?”

  “Not at all,” Maggie lied. “Lord Mulgrave was just preparing to take his leave.”

  “Indeed I was.” He bowed again and backed out of the room. “Good evening, my lady. Good evening, Mrs. Crosse. I do hope we have occasion to meet again very soon.”

  When he was gone, Gemma turned to Maggie. “What did he do to offend you?”

  “He put my hand on his…manhood!”

  Gemma looked as aghast as Maggie felt. “What possessed him to take such a liberty? For I was listening at the door—forgive me, but I own that I was—and heard you say naught to indicate interest.”

  Maggie’s face burned with shame. “My gaze happened to fall upon the bulge in his breeches, and may have lingered overlong as I contemplated what I observed there.”

  Gemma looked as though she could not believe her ears, which only made Maggie’s face hotter. “Why? Why would you look when he is such a hobbledehoy?—and your husband is such a prize.”

  “Not for the motives you—and he, obviously—suspect me of. I was merely wondering if the size of his cock might be the reason he is so successful in his conquests.”

  Gemma barked a laugh before covering her mouth. “Oh, duchess. How amusing you are. And to repay your humor with like, I shall create a new nickname for the earl. Instead of Lord High-and-Mighty, I shall henceforth refer to him as Lord Lobcock. It suits him well, do you not think?”

  “I might,” Maggie said, furrowing her brow, “if I had any idea of the term’s meaning. Pray, do enlighten me.”

  “Oh, duchess, you poor sheltered thing.” Gemma, looking mirthful, took up the very hand Lord Mulgrave had pressed against his cock. “You really do need to read the satirists. No one at court is safe from their barbs, not even your father. But, to answer your inquiry, ‘lobcock’ is a slang phrase used to denote a man with a large tarse. A large, limp tarse, specifically. Now, is that not the perfect sobriquet for your friend?”

  Maggie, though amused, furrowed her brow. The nickname was not as apt as Gemma supposed, for Lord Mulgrave’s tarse had been as solid as oak when he pressed her hand to it. As her mind conjured an image of the earl’s immense Priapus bursting from his breeches, she blinked the distasteful picture away. Not even a cock the size of a stallion’s could tempt her to spread her legs for a bombastic bore like Lord Lobcock.

  Swallowing her disgust, she turned to Gemma, eager for more bawdy amusements. “Shall we get on with our evening’s adventure?”

  “Yes, let’s do,” her friend replied with a smile. “I let in the chambermaid whilst you and Lord Lobcock were conversing.”

  “Oh,” Maggie said in surprise. She had not heard the door. “And how does wee Jamie do? Was he settled when you left him to the maid?”

  “Yes, my dear. He was sleeping like…well, a baby.”

  Chapter Eight

  That night, Robert lay alone in the cabin, dreading the tortures ahead. Juliette had been out when he came in, so he’d hastily removed his boots, coat, and waistcoat before crawling beneath the berth’s bedclothes. He had kept on his shirt and breeches, hoping being covered would make it easier to resist the temptation of her warm, mostly female body pressing up against his in the night.

  Just the thought of it had made him as hard as wood, but he hesitated to relieve the ache, lest she walk in. The thought of being caught in the sinful act was beyond shameful. Once, when he was a lad of fourteen, his mother had walked in on him at the worst possible moment. He’d been kneeling on his prayer chair, where he’d flogged himself into a heightened state of arousal. She’d burst in just as he’d achieved his climax. Unable to stop it, he’d been forced to suffer the humiliation of having his mother watch his ejaculate fountain forth in great white globs. So mortified was he, he would have pissed himself had he been able.

  As he bolted from the chair to hide his disgrace and his nudity, she simply said, “Masturbation is a sin, Robert. As is mortifying yourself for pleasure. I pray you do not make a habit of either.”

  The memory, even now, was a bane to him. Shoving it to the back of his mind, he rolled onto his side. He was wide awake, having only turned in early to be safely abed before his bunkmate returned. Not that the prospect of her crawling in next to him was any better than that of him crawling in beside her. Except that, this way at least, he could pretend to be asleep when she joined him under the covers.

  Within a few minutes, she did come in. He did not look at her or say a word, and she did not speak, either. She only moved quietly about the cabin, fooled by his stillness and closed eyes into believing he was not awake. Or so he presumed.

  Beneath the floor, he could hear the voices of the other men preparing to bed down. He also could hear the creaking of the timbers and the sloshing of the sea against the sides of the ship. The only other sounds were made by her: the tiny pops as she unfastened the buttons on her bodice; the swish of her petticoats as they billowed to the floor; the whispering of the laces moving through the eyes of her stays. At last there came the patter of her bare feet on the planks of the floor.

  Was she naked?

  The image of her without her clothes on came into his mind, vivid in its detail. She looked very much like Maggie, apart from one or two particulars. Her breasts, for one, were smaller than his wife’s—not that their lesser size mattered to him. As long as they were firm and well-shaped, he was more than satisfied. From the pink circles crowning her milky mounds, her nipples stood erect. Was the cause the cold room or sexual arousal? That was for him to decide, he supposed, since her image was of his creation.

  His gaze moved lower, to the soft swell of her belly, and then lower still, to her mons pubis, which he painted with golden curls. From between her labial lips, her miniature penis sprouted fully engorged. This posture he must attribute to desire, for cold made a man’s member shrink, not extend.

  Her buttock, too, were perfect. White, round, and firm. He imagined her lying across his lap as he ran both his hands over those velvety knolls. Then, he slipped one hand into her crevice and pulled on her tiny prick whilst he spanked her plump cheeks with the other. Her responsive squirms rubbed deliciously against his trapped erection, exciting his lusts all the more.

  The image faded, but his member remained firm. He had left a single candle burning for her. If he opened his eyes now, he would see her in life as he’d seen her in his mind, bare as the day she was born with her skin awash in the candle’s amber glow.

  God’s teeth! He was working himself into a frenzy with these prurient thoughts. His cock was now so hard, seminal secretions were leaking from the tip—tears for what could never be.

  He kept his eyes shut tight. Then, he heard the whisper of more fabric—her nightgown, he presumed, and a puff of breath as she blew out the candle. The bed creaked and pitched, and then she was beside him, very warm and unbearably enticing.

  When she sighed, he felt her humid breath upon his neck. She was watching him pretend to sleep, which made it hard to keep his eyelids still.

  “Are you asleep?” she whispered.

  “No,” he said, for he could pretend no longer. He rolled onto his back, uni
ntentionally moving closer to her. Their bodies were touching now. His flesh tingled at every point of contact. He shifted, scooting away as far as he could without falling out of bed.

  She said, “Do you miss your wife?”

  “Aye,” he croaked. “Most ardently.”

  Softly, she placed her hot cheek upon his chest. “How fast your heart beats!” And at that, of course, it only beat faster.

  She sighed again; this time her breath caressed the naked skin above the opening of his shirt—a sensation that caused his nipples to prickle and more fluid to dribble from his cockhead.

  “So many times I lay in that filthy, lonely cell at the Tollbooth, thinking of you and the duchess, but mostly of you. Did you ever suspect how much I wanted you?”

  Heavenly Father, give me strength!

  How desperately he yearned to roll onto her and thrust his drooling prick into her tight little she-male cunny. He only lay there, however, rigid as a board and quiet as a fawn. This night was going to be a living hell. If he had any sense, he would leave the cabin to her and go sleep below deck with the other men.

  “If you like, you can pretend I am her,” she said.

  “That is a very dangerous idea,” he said, rolling away from her.

  Juliette followed him, pressing her tiny tarse against his buttocks. She was hard, just as he’d imagined. She rubbed against him in a circular motion, careless of his discomfort. “Do you know how jealous I am of your marriage?”

  He swallowed. “Jealous? Why?”

  “Because I—” She hesitated. “You see, I never had a man look at me the way you look at her.” She draped her arm over him and pressed against him with more force. “Your brother certainly never did.”

  “That is because he cared not for women.” The words came out a mere croak.