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

  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?

  Devil In Duke’s Clothing

  Royal Pains Trilogy: Book One

  Nina Mason

  Copyright © 2014 Nina Mason

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  For their support and encouragement along the way, I thank the following:

  —My wonderful family: husband Dan, daughter Emma, mother Thelma Ellerman, and sister Liz Kerby.

  —My fabulous critique partner, Sarah Hegger.

  —My beta readers: Anne Rindfliesch, Patty Hanson, Rosemary Hendry, Patricia Statham, Meaghan Royce, Tricia Pariso Anderson, Anne Cresswell, Mary Lou Moench, Pam Pulsifer-Swan, and Carrie-Anne Driscoll

  “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way…”

  —Charles Dickens

  Preface

  Anti-Catholic sentiment, long present in Great Britain, reached a fever pitch in the mid to late 17th Century. The perceived pro-Catholic policies of King Charles I triggered the English Civil War (1642 – 1651), which resulted in the king’s beheading, elimination of the monarchy, and a decade of rule by the Puritan tyrant Oliver Cromwell.

  The Penal Laws enacted on Lord Cromwell’s watch forbid Catholics to practice their faith, hold office, intermarry, practice law or teach school, own firearms or serve in the military, inherit the property of non-Catholics, and adopt orphans. Property was confiscated, priests and the families who protected them were executed, and thousands of Papists were stripped of their homes, titles, and occupations. Lord Cromwell even went so far as to outlaw the celebration of Christmas on the grounds it was “too Catholic.”

  After the restoration of the monarchy in 1660, King Charles II repelled these prejudicial laws (and restored Christmas), giving rise to suspicions the new sovereign, like his father, harbored pro-Catholic sympathies. The king’s choice of a Catholic queen, his alliance with the leading Catholic power in Europe (King Louis of France was his cousin), and the reputed conversion of his younger brother, the heir presumptive to the throne, threw more fuel on the blaze of bigotry.

  In a nutshell, being Catholic and unprotected in these oppressive times was a perilous thing indeed.

  Prologue

  Balloch Castle

  Dunwoody, Scotland

  1678

  Maggie York had not set out to spy on the handsome young duke.

  She’d only come into the housekeeper’s closet to look for a bootlace. After a fortnight of inclement weather, the sun had finally appeared and she was eager to escape the musty, smoke-choked prison the castle had become. Sick to death of reading, needlework, and practicing her harp, she yearned to be picking flowers or chasing rabbits, but could not venture into the gardens without her boots.

  Her abigail, as usual, was nowhere to be found, so Maggie had gone below stairs to apply to the housekeeper for aid. To Maggie’s great vexation, Mrs. McQueen could not be found, either, and, too impatient to await her return, the young ward elected to hunt for the needed item herself.

  Now, Maggie was where she ought not to be and in danger of discovery. Someone was coming. Two someones, actually. If they caught her here, she’d be punished. Last time she’d gotten into trouble, the young duke’s late father tanned her hide so severely she’d not been able to sit without pain for a se’nnight.

  Fear pumped through her veins as the larksome duet drew nearer. The lady’s voice she recognized as her absent abigail’s. The gentleman’s baritone chuckles had her at a loss.

  The castle employed several male servants—footmen, a valet, a coachman, a gardener, and a handful of strapping young grooms—but the baritone tenor was unlike any of theirs. Neither was it the laugh of the duke’s younger brother, who’d been blessed with a cheerful disposition. The sounds of Hugh’s gaiety echoed so often through the castle’s corridors, she would have known his laugh anywhere.

  There was but one gentleman residing at Balloch who’d not laughed within range of her hearing in so long she could not recall the sound. Once or twice, he’d deigned to favor her with a smile—and, Holy Mary, what a glorious thing ‘twas to behold! Like the sun breaking through the clouds on a gloomy day. Its beams melted her heart like ‘twas made of butter. What a pity he was so seldom cheerful in her presence.

  The sounds of gaiety grew louder. Fear burned in her belly. Pray, let the man not be His Grace. As the door opened wider, her fear erupted into panic. She could not let them find her snooping like a common thief. Pulse racing, she closed the French doors betwixt closet and room as swiftly and quietly as time and trembling hands permitted.

  The man came in first. Maggie’s breath caught when she saw ‘twas indeed His Grace—in naught but his kilt and shirtsleeves! Mistress Honeywell, her lady’s maid, soon followed in her usual tartan dress but no shoes. Why were they both half undressed? What could they be about?

  Maggie bit her lip as she watched in breathless silence. As luck would have it, the door’s linen curtains were arranged in such a way as to allow her to see into the room without being observed.

  After locking the door, the duke dropped the key into his sporran and led Mistress Honeywell to a chaise facing the closet. Maggie’s heart leapt into her throat. She drew back and held her breath. If he caught her here, he’d surely beat her the way his late father had done when she’d broken a vase belonging to the duchess.

  The maid sat quietly whilst he filled Mrs. McQueen’s antimonial cup from the flacon of whisky the housekeeper kept for medicinal purposes. Oh, dear. Might the duke be ill?

  His Grace returned to the chaise and handed Mistress Honeywell the cup. Was it the maid who’d taken ill? If so, why apply to her master for physick? Maggie scratched her head, unable to reason it out.

  He stood over the maid as she drank the whisky. Since his back faced the closet, Maggie could not see what passed betwixt them. After a spell, Mistress Honeywell rose and they turned toward one another, providing a perfect view of their full-length profiles.

  To Maggie’s astonishment, Mistress Honeywell set about unlacing her bodice whilst the duke watched with rapt interest.

  The maid wore no stays, but clearly had no need of their support. Her paps, though large, stood as proud and sure as a plump pair of white partridges
.

  When Mistress Honeywell was down to her shift, the duke stepped forward, untied the neckline drawstring, and reached inside with both hands.

  Maggie swallowed a gasp when he seized both the maid’s breasts and proceeded to knead them like dough. Mistress Honeywell, rather than rebuke him, tipped back her head, parted her lips, and emitted a breathy sigh.

  Outrage flared in Maggie’s chest. How could the maid abide, let alone enjoy, such exploitation? If a man ever treated her thusly, she’d slap him so hard he’d see stars for a fortnight.

  The duke swept the shift off the maid’s shoulders. The thin garment slipped down her body to her ankles. She then stood there, to Maggie’s astonishment, unashamed by either her nakedness or His Grace’s covetous stares.

  By the light of Our Lady’s brow! Such impiety was not to be borne. How could they be so wicked? As Roman Catholics, both had to know what they were doing constituted a mortal sin.

  How could she ever have been besotted with such a libertine?

  She’d been all of ten when she first came to Balloch Castle—to be a companion to Mary, his younger sister, may God rest her soul—and felt a childish fancy for a time for the young heir. He was two and twenty at the time and quite the most dashing gentleman she’d ever beheld.

  Black hair cascading over his shoulders in soft waves. Chiseled features worthy of Mount Olympus. Full, luscious lips that called to her without speaking a word. ‘Twas his eyes, though, that always turned her bones to tallow. Talk about swoon-worthy. Gray-green, deep-set, and roguishly appealing, those eyes of his could charm the leaves off a tree with one lingering glance.

  His devastating good looks, however, were not the reason she cared for him. Well, not the whole of the reason, leastwise. He’d also done her a service.

  Mary, the duke’s younger sister, had just died of smallpox and Maggie had gone out into the woods to be alone with her grief. Whilst walking without minding her steps, she tripped in a foxhole and turned her ankle. She lay there until ‘twas nearly nightfall, shivering from the cold and weeping from the pain and the fear some wild animal might come along and maul her.

  Robert came along instead. Mounted upon a beautiful white stallion. Seeing the state she was in, he swiftly dismounted, squatted beside her, and brushed back the wisps of hair stuck to her tear-stained cheeks. Never had she been touched with such tenderness. He’d touched her heart, too, which, despite her distress, danced a reel in response.

  “What seems to be the trouble, my wee Rosebud?”

  He used to call her that, once upon a time.

  “My ankle,” was all she could manage.

  He checked the bone and determined it was unbroken before scooping her up like she weighed no more than an armload of flax. He carried her back to the castle with the horse following behind them.

  He’d done her another service when he kept her on as his ward when the same fever that took his sister claimed his father a se’nnight later.

  In the present, guilt formed a hard, hot lump behind Maggie’s breastbone. She should not be watching the sinful goings on within view. She owed her guardian gratitude, not peeping and condemnation. At the same time, she wanted very badly to see how men and women went about the Act of Holy Creation, as the sisters of St. Teresa’s referred to coition.

  She also wanted quite desperately to see the well-knit Duke of Dunwoody in the altogether.

  A man had betwixt his legs an evil device Sister Mary-Gregory called a phallus, which he used to make water and put babies in women.

  “It hangs limply until concupiscently provoked,” the good sister explained, “whereupon it telescopes and stiffens in the manner of a spyglass.”

  Maggie could not believe such a thing was possible and, ever since, had been dying for a gander at this miracle of male flesh—and now fortune had given her the chance. Yes, ‘twas a sin, but surely God would forgive her if she said a rosary or two. She was, after all, only witnessing the sinful act, not taking part.

  The duke had taken to sucking the maid’s nipples like a ravenous bairn. Was that a normal thing for a man to do? Maggie’s gaze darted lower. Might His Grace’s phallus be growing even now?

  Thrilling shivers went through her as she sought evidence amongst the folds of his kilt. She detected only what she already knew. As gentlemen went, the duke was tall with broad shoulders, powerful arms, and long legs.

  Envy twinged in Maggie’s heart as she studied Mistress Honeywell. ‘Twas so unfair. The abigail, but two years her senior, was round and curved in all the right places whilst, at sixteen years of age, her sorry excuse for a womanly figure remained primarily straight and flat.

  Most lasses were already married at her age, but who would marry a stick such as herself?

  Not a man like the duke, who, like most men, clearly preferred the abigail’s more voluptuous shape. His hands skimmed the maid’s back, seized her fleshy buttocks, and squeezed hard enough to incite a gasp from their owner. By the by, he moved one of his hands round front and into Mistress Honeywell’s private place. Whatever he did there drew moans of a tenor quite unlike pain.

  His Grace withdrew, unknotted his cravat, and pulled it from his neck.

  The maid held out her hands as if she expected him to strike her knuckles with a tawse. Maggie cringed inside, remembering how much it hurt when the sisters of St. Teresa’s struck her in similar fashion. Just thinking about it made her palms sting and her knuckles throb.

  Mistress Honeywell was often derelict in her duties. Had he somehow found her out and meant to punish her?

  Rather than strike the maid, as expected, he used his cravat to tie her wrists before unbuckling his belt. Holy Mary. Mistress Honeywell must have done something very wicked indeed to be stripped, bound, and whipped. Last fall, when Mrs. McQueen punished the scullery maid, she did not take off her clothes and tie her hands before taking the lash to her.

  And the housekeeper most certainly had not sucked the girl’s paps beforehand.

  The duke’s belt came off and down went his kilt. Maggie’s jaw dropped in step with the tartan drape. The hoped-for sight did not manifest, as the shirt fell halfway down his thighs, which were muscular and covered in dark hair.

  The evidence she’d sought earlier now presented itself—a tenting on the front of his shirt near his navel. His aroused phallus had to be the cause. ‘Twas the only explanation that made sense.

  Maggie’s belly tremored with excited anticipation. Pray, let him take the shirt off as well.

  He looped the belt round his hand, confusing Maggie. Though concupiscently stimulated, he still meant to whip Mistress Honeywell. Why? And, more importantly, what wickedness within her own breast made the prospect of watching him do it so thrilling?

  Still gripping the belt, he sat upon the chaise, grabbed Mistress Honeywell by her bound wrists, and pulled her down across his lap.

  The duke caressed the milky-white mounds of the maid’s posterior before sliding his fingers into her cunny.

  This sent Mistress Honeywell into raptures.

  Maggie did not like the maid, but still wanted to warn her not to enjoy overmuch whatever His Grace did down there. According to Sister Mary-Gregory, the Lord smote all women who took pleasure in the act He’d devised solely for procreation.

  “‘Twas why he took your mother,” the sister had told her with a face like a prune. “As punishment for taking pleasure in the sacrament and for the sin of adultery. Her cuckolded husband brought you here after his sinful wife perished of childbed fever.”

  Maggie knew naught else about her parentage.

  The crack of leather on flesh brought her back to the room with a jolt.

  An angry red welt now blemished the maid’s porcelain posterior. Poor Mistress Honeywell. That had to hurt like the dickens.

  The duke must have thought so, too, because he bent over the maid’s backside and dragged his tongue up and down the length of the mark. He still held the belt in one hand whilst the other fiddled with Mistr
ess Honeywell’s cunny.

  The blood drained from Maggie’s face when his tongue glided into the crack in the maid’s behind. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints and martyrs! He just licked her anus! How foul. How could he? Surely he knew she defecated from that place.

  He must not have a care. About the filth or the plagues he might bring down upon Mistress Honeywell for pleasuring her so mercilessly. Clearly, the duke had no scruples.

  He was a rake. Nay, a heathen. And, worse yet, a hypocrite.

  Nothing rubbed against Maggie’s grain so much as those who professed beliefs they failed to follow.

  His Grace sat up, raised the belt, and brought it down. The crack of the impact sent cold tadpoles swimming though Maggie’s bloodstream. When another welt formed atop Mistress Honeywell’s snowy hillocks, the duke kissed and licked the wound as before.

  He repeated this queer ritual twice more, after which he and the maid got to their feet. When he turned toward the closet, Maggie’s heart stopped. If he saw her, he might do to her what he’d done to her maid. Whilst part of her wanted him to—the wicked, sinful part she’d not known dwelled within until now—she nevertheless drew deeper into the shadows.

  She held her breath as his fine, long-fingered hands lifted the tails of his shirt. When he unveiled his jutting phallus, tingling warmth blossomed in her womb and spread its petals outward. ‘Twas just as Sister Mary-Gregory described, though she’d failed to mention the thicket of curls surrounding the base or the ruddy purse dangling underneath.