Devil in Duke's Clothing (Royal Pains Book 1) (17 page)

He shifted on his cushion to increase rather than ease the throbbing in his haunches. The pain felt good. So did knowing she’d inflicted it upon him. He deserved to suffer for his uselessness. She was his wife. He should protect her from the wolves at court, not throw her to them like fresh meat.

She slid to the window and stared out abstractedly, looking as miserable as he felt.

He wanted so badly to go to her, to touch her hand, her hair, to hold her in his arms, to give her comfort. But what solace could he offer when he was the cause of her anguish? He also had more to say, whether she cared to hear it or not.

“You may escape the courtiers, Maggie, but the king is another story.” He strove to hide the pain the words gave him as he uttered them. “Should he take a fancy to you, you must give him what he desires. To do otherwise would cast us out of royal protection and favor, which we can ill afford in the current climate. If the Protestants had their way, we would be stripped of everything—our titles, our property, even our rights. If not for my father’s efforts on the king’s behalf, we would be paupers—and social pariah. Never forget it—or that there are plenty of influential people who would delight in bringing about our downfall. The heyday of Cromwell, the Puritans, and the Covenanters may be behind us, but their hatred of Catholics still flourishes throughout Great Britain.”
 

“Why should the king want me when he already has so many mistresses?” Her tone was cold and she did not look at him.

“He is always on the hunt for new blood. The king is a narcissist, Maggie, and a hedonist. He uses people for his own purposes and pleasures. I just pray he will overlook you on account of your flaxen hair.”

She regarded him narrowly. “Does he not care for fair-haired women?”

“All evidence inclines me to believe he does not. Of his dozen or so ‘official’ mistresses—I cannot vouch for those I’ve not seen in person or portrait—have all been brunettes.”

Disapproval burned in her eyes and twisted her features. “He has their likenesses painted?”

“Aye. With their breasts bared, no less.”

Her cheeks colored and she clutched her chest. “Pray, where does he hang these scurrilous portraits?”
 

“In his private apartments at the various royal palaces.”

“Has the queen seen these bare-breasted trollops gracing his walls?”

“Undoubtedly, as he has no qualm about flaunting the flesh-and-blood versions in front of his poor, put-upon queen.”

“And you would have me spread my legs for such a black-hearted villain?”

“Not by choice,” he said, tasting the bitter underbelly of his inheritance. “If I had my druthers, you’d spread your lovely legs for none but your husband.”

“What about the Duke of York?”
 

He frowned at her, graveled. “What about him?”

“I hear he’s exceedingly easy on the eyes,” she said, nose in the air. “Shall I spread my legs for the king’s brother as well, should he wish it? Or, better yet, arrange a threesome. I could suck the duke’s cock whilst the king fucks me from behind like a dog.”

“Really, Maggie.” The picture of what she’d described sprang vividly into his mind, raking his heart. “There is no need to go to such lengths.”

“Only the king, then?”

How could she make light of their situation? Did she not see this was killing him? “Only if he shows an interest.”
 

“He may be king, but ‘tis still adultery, Robert,” she said more stridently. “A mortal sin in the eyes of our Lord.”

A woeful sigh shuddered from his lips. “Go to confession, Maggie. Recite a thousand acts of contrition followed by a thousand rosaries. Pray to every saint there is to spare you the king’s attentions. But do not refuse Charles Stuart if he should fancy you. To do so would lead to our ruination.”

She got quiet again and turned back to the window, fingering her wedding pearls. What was she feeling? What was she thinking? Did she hate him for putting her in this position? He would not blame her if she did; he hated himself. He shifted his buttocks to anger his wounds—penance for his sins against his Rosebud. He’d set out to teach her the ways of men, and now he had.

“Say something, Maggie. Please. Your silence is unbearable.”
 

“Go to hell.”

The words cut him, but not half as much as what she did next. With a quick jerk of her hand, she broke the necklace, scattering the pearls across the carriage like birdshot.
 

Thereupon, she turned her venomous blue gaze on him. “Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.”

She spoke the truth. He was a swine who’d trampled her purity under his boots for no better reason than to please himself. He almost wished he’d brought along a walking stick she could use to mortify his flesh. On second thought, given the heat of emotion radiating from her person, she’d quite likely render him unconscious, whereupon she’d strip him and dump his naked body by the side of the road. Though he deserved no less, ‘twould both embarrass him and delay his progress, making him late for his appointment with the king.
 

* * * *

Maggie, beset by anger and worry, passed a restless night and still smoldered inside the next day when the carriage entered the city. Her whoreson of a husband had made no attempt to make amends.
 

At the inn last night, they’d eaten in silence before retiring to separate bedchambers and did not meet again until they boarded the carriage this morning after breaking their fasts apart.

‘Twas just as well. She had naught to say to the unfeeling pig. She’d meant it when she told him to go to the devil, who, with a bit of luck, would roast him alive before supping on his flesh and sucking the marrow from his bones.
 

As the carriage rattled along the cobblestone streets, her thoughts turned as dark and bleak as the smoke-filled sky. Inside, her heart felt as hollow as the reverberating clopping of the horses’ hooves.

Hugh was right. If only she’d heeded her angel’s advice. Marrying his devil of a brother had been a terrible mistake. She’d foolishly allowed herself to be taken in by his charms, and now she was stuck with a scoundrel for a husband.

She wanted a good man, an honorable man, a man who would champion and protect her—not loan her out like a common whore.

If the king dissolved their marriage she’d be free of him. Perhaps, when they reached the palace, she’d implore the monarch to do just that.

Her heart surged in objection.

Damn her feelings and damn her dissolute husband. She did not want to care for him any longer, did not want to hold onto hope. He’d disappointed her beyond measure. ‘Twould not do to go on loving him.

Moldering with misery, she shifted her gaze to the seat across, where the villain in question slept, albeit roughly on account of his wounds. Good. Let him suffer from her hand as she suffered from his. And to think, she’d taken pity on him the other night. Had she guessed his secret, she would have given him another ten lashes—and a few on his cock and cods as well. That ought to keep him from playing musical beds when they got to court.

Not that it mattered, given her plan to divorce him.

Her heart reared in protest once again.

Fine. She wouldn’t desert him, but she definitely wanted to punish him—perhaps by throwing herself at the king. Yes, that would fix Robert. Then, all the way back to Dunwoody, she could rave on about the monarch’s superior size and sexual technique.

Come to think of it, why wait to taunt him? With an arch look in her dozing husband’s direction, she loudly asked, “Do you think the king has a prodigious cock?”

Robert stirred, sat up, and blinked at her blearily as he finger-combed his tousled hair. “What was that?”

“I enquired after the size of the royal scepter. Do you happen to know if King Charles has a large phallus?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I have not seen it, but I have heard tales. I have also committed to memory the lewd verse the Earl of Rochester penned on the subject of the king’s endowments, if you would care to hear a recitation.”

“I should like exceedingly to hear it,” she said primly.

“Are you certain? ‘Tis quite vulgar.”

“All the better,” she returned, pursing her lips. “If I am to play the part of a strumpet, I may as well be prepared for the role.”

He gave her a glower and cleared his throat before launching into the verse.

“In th’ isle of Britain, long since famous grown

For breeding the best cunts in Christendom,

There reigns, and oh! long may he reign and thrive,

The easiest King and best-bred man alive.

Him no ambition moves to get renown

Like the French fool, that wanders up and down

Starving his people, hazarding his crown.

Peace is his aim, his gentleness is such,

And love he loves, for he loves fucking much.

“Nor are his high desires above his strength:

His scepter and his prick are of a length;

And she may sway the one who plays with th’ds other,

And make him little wiser than his brother.

Poor Prince! thy prick, like thy buffoons at Court,

Will govern thee because it makes thee sport.

’Tis sure the sauciest prick that e’er did swive,

The proudest, peremptoriest prick alive.

Though safety, law, religion, life lay on’t,

’Twould break through all to make its way to cunt.

Restless he rolls about from whore to whore,

A merry monarch, scandalous and poor.

“To Carwell, the most dear of all his dears,

The best relief of his declining years,

Oft he bewails his fortune, and her fate:

To love so well, and be beloved so late.

For though in her he settles well his tarse,

Yet his dull, graceless bollocks hang an arse.

This you'd believe, had I but time to tell ye

The pains it costs to poor, laborious Nelly,

Whilst she employs hands, fingers, mouth, and thighs,

Ere she can raise the member she enjoys.

All monarchs I hate, and the thrones they sit on,

From the hector of France to the cully of Britain.”

“That was”—she swallowed her shock—“offensive on several scores. I do, however, have one or two questions about some of the references and terminology.”

“Oh, aye? Well, ask away.”

“First, who is Carwell?”

“Louise de Kerouaille, the Duchess of Portsmouth—a favorite among the king’s mistresses,” he explained. “She is demanding and manipulative, yet the king lavishes riches and titles on her and their son, whom he made Duke of Richmond and Duke of Lennox at the ripe old age of three.”

“Will she be with him at Holyroodhouse?”

“‘Tis highly probable.”

“And she will not mind him pursuing other conquests?”

“I would not go quite so far as that. She and Nell Gwynne, the noted actress, are fierce rivals for the king’s affections.”

“Would that be the Nelly to whom the verse refers?”

“Aye. She’s a stage actress of some repute.” With an arched eyebrow and a cocked smile he added, “Her nickname for the Duchess of Portsmouth is
Squintabella
.”

“Why? Is the duchess not handsome?”

“Not in my opinion,” he said.

“Does the king have children by the actress, too?”

“Aye. A son, who’s ten now. Charles Beauclerk is the lad’s name.”

“Good heavens,” she said, touching her naked throat. “Does he name all his sons after himself?”

“Most, but not all of them.”

Maggie could not believe her ears. “How many illegitimate children does the king have?”

“I have lost count, though I do know he had three by Barbara Villiers, the Duchess of Castlemaine, before they fell out—and a daughter by Moll Davis, another actress.”

“Good God. He must be as fertile as he is licentious.”

“Aye. He’s a randy Scotsman, to be sure. And his brother’s no better, though not quite as public about his paramours.”

As tears stung her eyes, she sniffed and swallowed them back. “‘Twas what you meant, was it not? Last night—when you said there would at least be some chance the child we reared was yours.”

“Aye, Maggie,” he said glumly. “Though there remains some chance the king will not attempt to get a leg over you.”

The reminder of her probable fate crushed her rallying spirits. Twirling a finger in her curls, she turned toward the window, desolate and resentful. First her father and now her husband had left her unprotected. And the king would abuse her for his own ends. Was there no justice? Were all men selfish and cruel? How could God, knowing this—and He must know, mustn’t he?—prefer their barbarity to women’s gentleness? She could not fathom it, could not imagine ever trusting God or man again. How could she and still call herself sensible?