Devil in Duke's Clothing (Royal Pains Book 1) (20 page)

Robert’s face had turned positively purple.

Good. Let him suffer. She picked up her stoup and drank deeply of her ale. The moment she set down her emptied vessel, Lord Woodcock fill it up again. Maggie downed the refill and the next one before reaching for an oyster. As her lips coaxed the slippery meat from its shell, she snuck a peek at Robert.

He gnawed upon a chicken leg whilst unabashedly ogling the cleavage of the courtesan beside him.

Maggie’s face blazed as hot as the fire at the head of the hall. The shameless rake. How dare he? Well, to the devil with him and bugger all. Seething to her core, she snatched another half-shell off the mound and looked down the table at the king.

When Charles smiled and nodded her way, she sucked the oyster into her mouth as seductively as she knew how.

She passed the rest of the course pounding ale betwixt glances at the king, who delighted in her notice, and her husband, who seemed oblivious to her existence. Robert’s wanton companion made no effort to hide her interest, nor did he seem to mind her brazen flirtations. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Smoldering with all the fury of a woman scorned, Maggie resolved to give Robert his due whilst savoring the bounties of Holyroodhouse. Nevermore glancing her husband’s way, she consumed several more oysters, a drumstick of wild fowl, and two more ales before the fingerbowls were brought out. By the time she’d dipped and dried her fingers, her bladder cried to be emptied.

Lord Woodcock leaned in. “Did your husband ever tell you of the time he and Sir Richard Hardwick, the gentleman you see him with now, were arrested and fined for public indecency?”

She snapped her face toward the speaker. “He did not, but I should like to hear the tale very much indeed.”

“‘Twas round about two years ago, more or less, and they, along with some of the court’s other most notorious scoundrels had been pub crawling along Bow Street. By the time they reached the Cock’s Tavern, they were deep in their cups. Out on the balcony, amidst escalating levels of roistering, they all dropped their breeches and proceeded to enact all the postures of lust and buggery one can imagine. All this whilst Sir Richard preached a blasphemous sermon from his balcony pulpit.”

Lord Woodcock paused to clear his throat and refill both their cups with ale.

“The crowd, enlivened by the heretical display, tried to break down the door, but the gentlemen up top had barred it well. At some point, they all washed their pricks in their wine before drinking a toast to the king’s health. This started a riot resulting in the windows of the establishment being broken out by rock throwing, as well as the arrest of the whole merry gang of revelers.”

Lord Woodcock really was a terrible twattler, but she did not mind overmuch, as his indiscretions shed unshaded light on her husband’s days in the king’s court.

She had known him to be a devil, but never imagined him to be quite so disreputable. “What more can you tell me of my husband’s unsavory exploits?”

“I could fill a book. Your husband was as bad as the rest of the king’s Merry Gang—worse, some would say, since he was known to engage in
le vice anglais
with his favorite whores and courtesans.”

“The English vice?” she asked, piqued. “I do not take your meaning, Sir. To what do you refer?”

“Flagellation, Your Grace—to put it indelicately.”

Maggie wanted to say no more upon the subject of her husband’s penchant for whippings, lest she give something away she would later regret. Plus, her bladder felt near to bursting.

“My Lord Woodcock, would you be so good as to direct me toward the necessaries?”

“‘Twould be my pleasure.” He turned toward the door. “Go back into the foyer and around the corner. You will find there a commode-fitted chair behind a screen for the more modest among our company.”

Maggie’s curiosity got the best of her. “Pray tell, where do the immodest among us relieve themselves?”

“On the staircases, mostly,” he replied. “So do watch where you step.”
 

Maggie, mildly appalled, excused herself and followed his directions. She found the screen in short order, along with, to her great vexation, a lengthy queue of other ladies. Her bladder was far too full to endure the wait, so she set off toward her bedchamber as fast as her delicate brocade slippers could carry her.

She’d only just reached the staircase when someone—a male someone—called out behind her.

“My dear Duchess, are you unwell?”

Maggie’s breath left her. It could not be. Pray, let it be anyone but. Even Lucifer would be preferable. Heart pounding and bladder throbbing, she rounded on the speaker with a pasted-on smile.

‘Twas indeed Himself (the king, not the devil), standing at the foot of the stairs in all his regal splendor. Accompanying him were two bug-eyed, tri-color spaniels.

She started to curtsey, but stopped herself. She’d had an imprudent amount of ale and felt tipsy. What if she lost her balance and fell down the stairs or, worse, lost control of her bladder? It might be common practice to relieve oneself upon the stairs of the palace, but surely not under the gaze of the king.
 

“Your Majesty.” Her deferential curtsy made her bladder scream for mercy. “How kind of you to inquire after my health. I promise you, I am perfectly well. I simply require something I have forgotten in my bedchamber.”

He had the relaxed, heavy-lidded look of a man in his cups. His swarthy countenance appeared sunken and jowly. His large, dark eyes drooped at the corners in a manner resembling the panting dogs at his heels. His full, curling mouth was rather sensual in its way, though slightly puckered with age. What he lacked in youthful good looks he made up for in swagger. The man had sex appeal and knew it.

“There’s a commode chair in my apartments, the entrance to which can be found at the top of the staircase,” he said with a knowing smile and a sweep of his arm. The cuffs protruding from the wide velvet cuffs of his coat were long, ruffled, and trimmed with fine lace. “If that is your need, you are more than welcome.”

Maggie silently chided herself. Why had she not feigned illness when she had the chance? Now, she was caught. As desperately as she needed to make water, and as generous as the king’s offer was, she knew perfectly well what the whore-swiving, bastard-spawning monarch wanted from her. If she accompanied him into his royal apartments, she would not emerge unmolested.

If his reputation were not enough to convince her, the lustful gleam in his eye made his intentions abundantly clear.

On the other hand, she burned to know how he’d ruled on their marriage and since Robert seemed in no hurry to illuminate her, perhaps she could obtain the verdict straight from the horse’s mouth.

“That is prodigiously kind, Your Majesty, but—” She stopped there, unable to contrive a reason not to take him up on his offer without giving offense.

Insulting the king would add to Robert’s troubles and she could not contribute to his ruination. She might be angry but she was not vindictive. Spiting her husband would bring about her own ruin as well.

Seeing no way out of and some advantage in her predicament, she accepted the king’s offer.

He took her through the guard hall and several more rooms before they reached his private bedchamber. In the corner stood a highly carved chair with a deep apron she presumed concealed a chamber pot.
 

The king politely turned his back as she arranged her garments for the task at hand. When she had finished her business, she smoothed down her skirts, took a deep breath to calm her nerves, and stepped away from the chair with her head held high.
 

“Better?” His Highness rounded on her with a lecherous grin. He’d shed his elaborate coat, but still wore his ruffled shirtsleeves and long waistcoat—confirmation he meant to have his way with her here and now.

“Much,” she said with a small curtsy. “Many thanks, Your Majesty.” She moved toward the door. “Now, I really must return to the banquet before my husband comes looking for me.”

With a laugh, the king hooked her around the waist, spun her against him, and bent to steal a kiss.

She turned her head sharply to avoid his lips, which grazed her cheek instead of their intended target.

Charles reeked of strong drink and cloying French perfume. Tightening his grip on her, he said, “The duke will not seek you out. I have arranged a trade—as well as a distraction to keep him out of the way. Now, be a good royal subject and give me a taste of those tempting nubile lips of yours.”

Her hackles rose up in protest. If she kissed the king, there was no turning back. He said he’d arranged a trade with Robert, but had been imprecise about what her husband traded her for.

“I must confess to being ignorant of the deal you struck with my husband, for I’ve had no opportunity to speak with the duke since I left your chambers this afternoon.”

“Is that so? Well, in that case, let me be the bearer of the glad tidings. I have agreed to let your marriage stand. Or, perhaps I should say, I have
conditionally
agreed to sanction the marriage. Sealing the bargain now falls to you, my dear duchess.”
 

Maggie was as panicked as a rabbit in a snare. Her heart thumped and her mind spun. Was staying married to Robert worth the price being asked of her? There was no denying her husband was a devil. She’d seen the first signs that day in the housekeeper’s closet and she’d seen plenty more proof in the two years hence.
 

Could she put up with a man with such lax morals and degenerate tastes? While she made up her mind about Robert, she needed a diversion for the king. The portrait of the bare-breasted lady would do. Asking about her might not only buy time, it could also remind the king of his other obligations. Or, was Robert correct in asserting Charles felt no loyalty to any but his brother and himself?
 

“Pray, tell me who this beauty gracing your walls would be.”

He visibly puffed up with pride. “That would be the fair Louise de Kerouaille. Did you not see her beside me in the Great Hall? She most certainly took notice of you, and expressed an interest in making your acquaintance. I would be glad to make the introduction, if you are amenable. How happy ‘twould make me if the pair of you should become thick as thieves.”
 

Oh, dear. She’d only succeeded in wading deeper into the quagmire of court intrigues. She had not the least desire to consort with his mistresses—and wished even less to join their ranks.

“That would be an honor.” She forced a smile to masquerade the fiction. “I should be pleased to make her acquaintance.”

“Now”—he recaptured her waist—“what about that kiss?”

“Just one, Your Majesty,” she said, still hoping to escape. “But then I really must go. I am utterly famished and have no wish to miss the next course.”

“Even if your sovereign desires you to stay?” His arms and his gaze held her intently. “Now stop playing coy, duchess, and give me my due.”

His lips crushed hers, his tongue invaded her mouth, and his hands took firm hold of her derriere. Pulling her hard against the front of his breeches, he rolled his pelvis across her belly, making sure she felt his erection. “You see what you have done to me with all your glances and smiles? God’s fish! The way you slurped that oyster nearly made me come off right there in the Great Hall. Do not toy with me, Duchess. You begged for a taste of my scepter and now you shall have it.”

He spun her round, shoved her against a table of books, and grabbed a handful of hair at the back of her neck. Breath humid against her ear, he said, “I’ve been dying to set eyes on the minx who’d bewitched Robert Armstrong into forgetting what he owed to me. I should imagine being the wife of such a rascal to be aught but dull. Was it more than you bargained for, my dear, or has he trained you to satisfy his appetite for
le vice anglais
? Yes, duchess, I know all about the debaucheries at Balloch Castle. As does all of London.”

Maggie bit her tongue to stop the insult from spilling forth. A man who bred bastards like a rabbit had no right to point the finger of judgment at her husband.

Still holding her hair hard enough to hurt, he jerked up her petticoats, baring her backside to his view. A big, warm hand roamed over the mounds of her buttocks. “Ah, such sweet perfection.” His tone was husky with avarice. “I expected no less. Your husband has always had excellent taste in whores and horses.”

“I’m not a whore,” she protested under a flash of temper.

“Forgive me.” The king licked her ear, making her insides recoil. “I did not mean to suggest you were aught but a lady. Tell me, though. Were you a virgin when you married the scandalous young duke? He says so, but I know how deceptive the fair sex can be when it comes to their virginity.”

“I was,” she ground out. “Not that ‘tis any of your concern.”

His already dark eyes turned black. “On the contrary, my dear duchess. I take an interest in all of your husband’s concerns. The father earned my favor for his loyalty, but the son has yet to prove his value. Besides, it has been an age since I have ridden a newly broken filly. Most of my mistresses have borne so many children, their cunts have lost all elasticity. Swiving them, I daresay, is about as pleasurable as hanging my poor cock out a window.”