Devil in Duke's Clothing (Royal Pains Book 1) (16 page)

“Tomorrow.”

“Then tell me something else. Something deeply personal and intimate. Something that will help me to understand you better.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as how you came to discover your sexual response to the lash. How old were you? How did it start? Tell me everything and spare no detail. Unless you’d rather not—or do not recall how it started.”

“I do recall. Vividly, as it so happens. And I do not mind telling you.” He took a breath. “It all began when I was a lad of seven or eight. My mother, who’d been very devout, told me of the saints who flogged themselves so they might experience Christ’s suffering first hand.”

He sounded faraway, so she pressed him harder to her breast, afraid he might slip through her fingers like smoke through the holes in a holy censer.

“Fascinated by the practice, I read deeply of the lives of Jean Marie Baptiste, Francis of Assisi, Teresa of Avila, and Alphonsus, among other saints and martyrs. All claimed the practice brought on an altered state of spiritual joy, clarity, and communion, so I decided to try it for myself. At first, the blows were extremely painful, but I carried on month after month until, at last, the pain gave way to euphoria. Thereafter, self-mortification became a daily devotion from which I derived tremendous physical gratification. I only realized in adolescence my pleasure was far more erotic than religious.”

So, childhood devotion had turned to sexual perversion somewhere along the way—if indeed it was perverse to enjoy being flogged. He was right when he said she ought not to condemn what she did not understand. How could she judge his darkness when she couldn’t explain her own?

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

“Then, one morning, I was awakened by a woman’s screams.” His voice startled her out of a doze. “Leaping out of bed, I raced to the window. There, in the courtyard below, one of the serving maids stood stripped to the waist. I’d never seen a woman’s paps before—without a bairn attached—and, as I gazed upon her lovely pair, a pleasurable sensation not unlike I experienced during self-mortification bloomed in my groin. It intensified when my father stepped into view with the very same whip I borrowed for my devotions.”

“What did the maid do to warrant the lash?”

“I have no idea, though it must have been something very bad indeed, for I’d never before seen my father take the whip to one of the serving lasses.”

“He beat me once for breaking a vase.”

“Did he?”

She nodded. “It hurt me to sit down for a full se’nnight.”

“Did it now?”

 
There was a hint of glee in his question she did not like, so she turned the conversation back to him. “What age were you when this occurred?”

“Three and ten—barely on the cusp of manhood.”

“Did you watch him beat the girl?”

“I confess that I did.”

“And enjoyed the spectacle no end, I’d wager.”

“Actually, my reaction to it confused and frightened me.”

“Oh? How so?

“‘Twas as if someone had set a fire betwixt my legs—a sweet fire, to be sure, but like nothing I’d experienced before. Then, my cock began to tingle and rise up and grow hard. I thought sure I’d contracted some terrible pox—or worse, been taken over by a demon.”

She remained unconvinced he hadn’t been. “What did you do?”

“I rubbed the afflicted organ with vigor in an attempt to reduce the swelling.”

She let the laugh break free of its cage.

“‘Twas quite a shock, I assure you.

“I can imagine.”

“I feared I’d ruptured a testicle.”

“Did you summon the apothecary?”

“Nay, but I did look through my father’s books on medicine and anatomy in search of answers, which I found by the by.”

Though Maggie could barely keep her eyes open, she was not quite ready to surrender to sleep. She’d missed talking to her husband and wanted to better understand the roots of his darkness—and her own.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Rosebud. I will tell you whatever you wish to know—provided ‘tis not something I do not wish to tell.”

She pulled his hair to express her annoyance with his cheek. “From which do you derive more pleasure—flogging or being flogged?”

“I relish both, but for different reasons.”

“What reasons?” she pressed.

“Delivering the whipping gives me a sense of power and control—not just over the person I’m flogging, but over my own innate savagery.”

“I see.” She fought a yawn, not wishing to give a false impression. She wasn’t bored, just terribly sleepy. “And what does being whipped do for you?”

“It relieves my guilt.”

“Guilt over what?”

The laugh that escaped his lips had sharp edges. “I am Catholic, Maggie. Do I need a reason to feel guilty?”

Amused by this sad truth, she let the yawn come, then, “May I ask something else?”

“Aye.”

“Why did you not withdraw from me just now when you achieved orgasm?”
 

“So there will be some chance the child we rear is mine.”

‘Twas a most peculiar thing to say—not unlike his choice of cuckold as his safe word. Did he not trust her to be true to the vows she’d taken? She yawned and stretched, far too fatigued to press him to explain himself. Not that he would, given how distant and tightlipped he’d been the past six days. She’d ask him tomorrow when he told her his secret.

Chapter Eight

Robert felt like a condemned man on his way to the gallows as he stepped into the castle courtyard. There, gleaming in the late-morning sunshine, stood the stately, state-of-the-art equipage he’d purchased shortly after inheriting. The four matched bays snorted, pawed the cobblestones, and shook their harnesses, impatient to be off.

He did not share their eagerness.

Stomach in knots, he darted his gaze around. Where the devil was Maggie? He’d not seen her since they awoke in each other’s arms in his secret chamber two hours ago. They’d both overslept—partly because the room had no windows to let in the light and partly because they’d stayed up half the night swiving each other like, well, randy newlyweds.

He just prayed they’d still be married when they returned to Balloch in a few days’ time. Sudden dread gripped him on two scores. Would Balloch and the duchy still be his to return to? Would she still want to be his wife after she learned his secret?

Maggie was no pushover. She’d proved as much last night. She’d also proved him right. She was more Passion Flower than Wilting Violet—in love as well as war.

A yawn burst forth. He shook his head to clear it of the clinging cobwebs of somnolence. Even with the extra sleep, he felt like death warmed up. Plus, his arse throbbed like an abscessed tooth. The pounding pain inside was far worse. The moment of truth was nearly upon him. How would she react when he told her sleeping with the king might be the only way to save their marriage? He shuddered to think. Still, as long as she refrained from leaping from the carriage or demanding a divorce, he could probably handle her response.

Maggie might be innocent, but she was no wilting violet. She’d laid into him like a tigress merely for refusing to disclose what he’d rather delay until the last possible moment. That moment, unfortunately, had come. What might she do to him when he told her? As long as she did not leap from the carriage, he could probably handle her reaction.

Whilst the coachman loaded their trunks on the rack at the rear of the carriage, Robert paced, growing more anxious by the moment. He glanced over his shoulder at the castle, eager for a glimpse of his wife. Compressing his lips, he pulled his watch from the pocket of his coat. ‘Twas half-past ten. If she did not pick up the pace, ‘twould be midnight before they reached the inn where they’d break their journey for the night.

Edinburgh lay fifty miles to the north—a ten hour carriage ride if the roads were dry and in good repair. Neither the horses nor his arse could reasonably be expected to tolerate more than five at a stretch.

Plus, he did not look forward to hours spent enduring his wife’s dagger glares and stony muteness.
 

Floggings were a mercy compared to the silent treatment.

He returned the watch to its place and smoothed his sleeve flounces, all but covering his hands. The tailor had done a superlative job of outfitting them both, but Robert nevertheless felt a dandy in his fussy court attire. The tight breeches were no friend to his backside, or to his cods, which were used to hanging free. The rabat at his neck, too, was uncomfortable. The starched lace scratched and the ribbon was a noose around his neck. The knee-length velvet coat, ostentatiously trimmed in gold lace, was well cut, but his back and shoulders ached under the garment’s weight. His feet, unused to high heels, hurt as well.

His woes ran away when Maggie stepped into view—a vision of loveliness in her long-waisted, ermine-trimmed red-velvet gown. She looked every inch the duchess, and the new style suited her trim figure beautifully. His mother’s pearls encircled her throat, flattering her pale complexion and graceful neck.

Thoughts of ravishing her in the carriage rushed into his head as he drank in her pleasing visage. What a shame his briefing on the king’s cunning ways would spoil his chances. Perhaps he could seduce her first—or would doing so be unsporting?

The trunks were secured and the driver had taken his seat and the reins. Time to set off. Robert took a bracing breath as he pulled open the door. When Maggie drew nigh, he bowed to her as if she were a queen.

“Your humble husband and servant, my lady.”

Crimson roses bloomed on her cheeks, worrying him.

Did she regret last night’s
tête
-à-
tête
? He did not, despite his painful posterior, and entertained high hopes she’d prove a willing accomplice in future.

Provided they had a future together.

Rising to his full height, he offered her his best smile along with his arm. As she took it, he pulled her close enough to enable him to speak without being overheard by the driver. “You look lovely, my darling. Every bit the duchess. How do you feel?”

“Truthfully?” She looked exceedingly uneasy. “As if I am being conveyed to my execution.”

He coughed at the symbiosis of her statement.

“Let us try for optimism,” he said, contradicting his own foreboding. “Perhaps the king will be so taken with you, he’ll grant his consent at once.”

“And, if he should not?”

Robert swallowed hard. He did not want to dwell on the potential consequences, the least of which would be his badly broken heart.
 

He helped her into the carriage, arranged his purloined cushion on the seat across, and settled in for the long and uncomfortable journey ahead. Wretched was he as the carriage set off—mostly because the time had come to confess what he must.
 

“Maggie,” he said, calling her eyes to his, “are you familiar with a game known as musical chairs?”

“Yes, though I have never played it.”

“Well, at the royal palace, the king and his court play a version whereby they substitute beds for chairs. Only the beds they move to at the end of each round are occupied.”

Her brow furrowed. “Is this what you would not tell me until we were in the carriage?”

“Part of it.”

She lowered her gaze and seemed to struggle within herself for several heartbeats before she said, “This game you speak of. We will be expected to take part—even though we have only recently married?”

“Aye,” he said. “At court, marriage is almost always a passionless business transaction. And even when the knot is tied on the basis of mutual affection, the husband takes mistresses and the wife, lovers, if she is discreet and he allows it.”

“Why?”

“‘Tis simply the way of things—among the king’s merry band of nobles, at least. ’Twill not help our case to look down our noses at our fellows. ‘Twould also paint me a hypocrite, as I have played an avid role in the proceedings in times past.”

He saw no need to elaborate on the particulars. Truth be known, musical beds was as often a group activity as not.

“I see,” she said tartly, “and clearly plan to do so again—the reason, no doubt, you kept your wicked intentions from me until this moment.”
 

Her wounded expression cut him to the bone, but he had to press on, had to tell her the rest before his courage fled the field. “I must take part, Maggie. And so must you. Refusing to do so would give insult to those with the king’s ear.”

Fear and loathing darkened her eyes before she said, her voice seething venom, “You would have me prostitute myself to avoid giving insult to a bunch of immoral libertines?”

“No,” he said. “Of course not. Never would I compel you to suffer what you cannot bear. You must decide how to act, and what you can tolerate. But do not forget that upon your decision rests more than our marriage. The fate of the duchy and all who depend upon my lands for survival will be touched by it, too.”

Silence rose betwixt them like a wall, cold and impenetrable.