Devil in Duke's Clothing (Royal Pains Book 1) Page 4

  Rising to his full height, he looked into her eyes. “Maggie, my darling, what would you think of a father who gave his children irresistible toys and then punished them for playing with them?”

  She looked at the floor. “I would think him cruel beyond belief.”

  “As any sane person would.” He brushed her cheek, raising her eyes to his with a spark that sizzled all the way to her toes. “So why would God give us parts capable of giving such pleasure if he did not mean for us to enjoy ourselves?”

  He had a point. A very good one. God could be a stern father at times, but his retributions stemmed from love, not meanness.

  As he unlaced her stays, she fumbled with the buckle on his belt, remembering how he’d used it to raise welts on Mistress Honeywell’s bottom. Maggie still wondered how the maid could enjoy such abuse. “I do not believe I would enjoy being struck by your belt.”

  A bone-melting smile bowed his lips. “Then I suggest you behave yourself. You might be a duchess, but you are still my wife to reprimand as I see fit.”

  She grimaced. ‘Twas too true—and too cruel. He could beat her to death and no one would lift a finger. Not that she believed there existed any real danger he’d do something so dreadful, but it still seemed wrong and unfair. Why should women be less valued than men? She just prayed her new husband would prove to be more enlightened than most of his ilk. Yes, he had aberrant tastes in the erotic sector, but that made him a sinner, not a monster. Tonight, he seemed quite civilized. Genteel, even. And perfectly reasonable. Tonight, he seemed like the gallant young man who’d come to her rescue in the woods.

  “Promise me you’ll never raise a hand to me in anger.”

  He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed the tip of each one in turn. “Forgive me, Maggie, but I can make no such pledge.” Mischief twinkled in his gray-green eyes. “So I suggest you do all within your power as my wife to facilitate my felicity.”

  Maggie flinched inside and bit her lower lip, considering what he’d said. “Punishment was not your aim when you struck Mistress Honeywell?”

  He released her hand and licked his lips. “Hardly.”

  “Then, pray, what was your purpose?”

  “Pleasure.”

  “I see,” she said tartly. “Hers or yours?”

  “Both.”

  However he might argue his case, she would never agree deriving pleasure from causing pain to be aught but perverse.

  “Tonight, ‘tis my sincerest desire to consummate our marriage in the normal way.” She touched his linen-encased upper arm, feeling muscle, power, and solidity. “You left the choice to me, and that is what I choose.”

  He lifted one dark eyebrow in a fashion befitting his rakish reputation. “And after tonight?”

  She took a deep breath as she considered his enquiry. She’d indulge his erotic eccentricities to a point. Because she wanted him, wanted to give in to temptation, wanted at some deep-down, unexplored level to be converted to his liberal views on the pleasures of the flesh.

  “I will make you a deal.” She boldly met his gaze. “If you will help me further my education, teach me the things only men are permitted to learn, I will submit to some of your less-reprehensible demands.”

  Satisfaction warmed his features. “It has long been my belief ignorance, not inferior intelligence, is to blame for the inequality betwixt the sexes. So, I will agree to your proposal in hopes of proving my hypothesis.”

  A wick of hope lit in Maggie’s heart, reigniting her hope of a husband who would help her spread her wings rather than locking her in a cage. “Shall we strike hands upon the bargain?”

  Seizing her offered hand, he pulled her against his solid chest. “Oh, aye, Rosebud.” His mouth hovered temptingly above hers. “And seal the contract with a kiss.”

  Chapter Two

  Satisfaction chimed through Robert as he captured his bride’s mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. He could not be more pleased with the bargain struck. Pictures of how he might further her sexual schooling already swam through his mind. In one, she stood over him with a whip in her hand.

  Oh, aye.

  ‘Twas an image he relished. As much as he adored her innocence, it did not serve his purposes. He’d much rather divest her of it—as tenderly as possible, of course, so she’d not retreat from future advances—then set about training her up to be a more equal bedmate.

  For now, however, he would honor her choice and claim her hymen by conventional means. First, though, he needed to ascertain her precise definition of “normal sex.”

  “Rosebud,” he said, breaking out of the kiss, “pray enlighten me. What liberties might I be permitted this evening?”

  She blushed scarlet, delighting him no end. “You speak of our consummation, I presume.”

  He battled a smile. “I do indeed.”

  “I’m at a loss as to how to answer you.”

  “What if I were to describe the amatory acts I believe fall within the range of conventional and you will tell me if we are in accord? You need not even speak, if it offends your modesty to do so. Simply nod if I may do the thing described this evening and shake your head in negation if I may not. How does that sound to you?”

  “Remarkably helpful, actually.”

  “Good. Then ‘tis settled.”

  He drew back the covers to expose the sheets and perched on the edge of the bed. “First, we should probably establish a common set of terms for the body parts involved—to aid communication and avoid ambiguity.” He smiled up at her, noting her discomfort with amusement. “As you probably know, there are many names for the reproductive organs of both male and female. I shall not waste time by reciting a litany of examples. Let us begin with yours. What do you call the part of your anatomy designed for coition?”

  She looked confounded. “I have no name for it.”

  “If that is so, then simply tell me how you think of it.”

  “I only think of that area as ‘the loins’ or ‘the reins,’ I’m afraid.”

  The Biblical names for the region. These were not the terms he had in mind. “I see. And what about that part of my anatomy?”

  Her cheeks went scarlet, delighting him. “Well, if I must…the sisters at the convent sometimes used the word phallus when they felt the need to be explicit.”

  “Phallus. I see.” The word tasted bland upon his tongue. “Well, as euphemisms for the penis go, I’ve heard much worse.” He met her gaze. “I’ve also heard better. There are any number of names for a man’s amatory appendage. Prick, todger, Roger, loom, arbor vitae, and verge are but a few that come immediately to mind. For our purposes, I should prefer cock.”

  “As in a crowing pillicock?”

  “Aye,” he said, content with the comparison. “The strutting master of the henhouse, I suppose.”

  “Or a cockscomb that stands up when its owner is provoked?”

  Hmmm. Now that she brought it to his attention, cockscomb could very well be the genesis of the slang term for the male organ.

  “Clever girl, but do let us get back to the exercise. I would like to hear you say the word aloud.”

  “Cock?”

  “Aye.”

  “Cock,” she repeated with more gusto.

  “Well done.” He let her see his delight in the form of a broad smile. “Now, come a wee bit closer if you would.” When she did as he bade, he slipped his hand betwixt her legs. She stiffened and blushed, but allowed the intimacy. “Do you know the proper names for each of the parts?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  He hissed a frustrated breath. “Maggie, my darling. I am your bridegroom and my hand is on your vulva. Please address me by my Christian name when we are thusly intimate—unless I should instruct you otherwise.”

  “Yes, Robert. I mean, no, Robert.” Her brow furrowed in frustration. “That is to say, I do not know the names.”

  He brushed his fingertips across her curl-dusted outer lips—the labia majora. “The proper term for what you think
of as ‘the loins’ is the vulva or pudendum.” He slipped a finger into her crevice and stroked the fleshy ruffles within. “These are the labia minora.” He slid his finger to her vaginal opening. “This is called the introitus, which is part of the vulva, although, interestingly, the vagina itself is classified as a separate organ.”

  “Is it?” The words sounded strained and breathless. “That is most interesting.”

  She did seem genuinely engrossed and not at all embarrassed by the exercise, surprising as well as pleasing him. “And this”—he circled the spot—“is called the clitoris.”

  He lingered, circling and flicking the hub of her pleasure until it stood up. “‘Tis the female equivalent of the head of the penis and becomes erect when the owner becomes sexually aroused. Are you sexually aroused, Rosebud?”

  “You’re the expert. You tell me.”

  He laughed and wiggled his finger against her clit, making her gasp and squirm. “You are, but could be more so. Now, let us choose more poetic names for your parts, shall we. What if we call the part my finger now touches your bud, the folds of your inner labia, your petals, and the vagina, your stamen.”

  She shrugged one alabaster shoulder. “Whatever you like, Your Grace.”

  He pinched her clit, making her jump. “Call me Robert.”

  “Yes, Robert.”

  “Good lass. Now, to assure myself we are on the same page, pray repeat the agreed-upon names as I touch each part or your anatomy.”

  He rubbed her clitoris.

  “‘Tis my bud,” she said.

  “Well done.”

  Her inner folds grew thicker and moister under his stroking.

  “Those are my petals.”

  “Indeed.” She flinched as he pushed a finger a small ways into her. “And this?”

  “That is the stamen where you will put your cock.”

  A thrill tingled in his groin as she said the word cock. “Well done, my petal. Now, where else may I put my cock this evening?”

  Her brow creased in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “May I put my cock in your mouth?”

  She balked and her eyes widened. “My mouth?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis called fellatio when a woman pleasures a man with her mouth. And when a man reciprocates, ‘tis called cunnilingus. In my books, both are part of conventional sexual congress, but I should like to know if you are open to oral stimulation of the genitals, either as giver or receiver.”

  “I am not wholly averse.”

  “Good. Now, what about your anus?”

  Her eyebrows drew together, forming an indentation above her delicate nose. “What about it?”

  “May I put my cock in your anus?”

  “I’d much rather you did not, Your Grace.”

  He let the infraction slide, given the delicate nature of the question on the table. He enjoyed anal sex and wanted her to be open to it. “Some women enjoy buggery.”

  “I find that difficult to comprehend.”

  “All the same, we are making progress.” He withdrew his hand from her vulva and stroked her arm whilst offering a placating smile. “We have established names for our parts and what you will and will not let me do to you on our wedding night. Now, all that remains is to get to it.”

  “Not quite all, Your Grace—I mean, Robert. You have yet to disclose the Latin names for the sundry parts of your anatomy.”

  “Indeed,” he conceded. “An unforgiveable oversight I am obliged to remedy at once.” He lay back on the bed and drew the front of his shirt up to his navel, exposing his genitals to her view. “Come, study, explore, and worship at the altar of my cock.”

  She regarded him and his manly bits with a wary eye. “Would that not qualify as idolatry in the eyes of our Lord?”

  “Only if you put my cock before God, which, though understandable, is probably unwise.”

  That got a small laugh out of her as she came down on the bed beside him, gaze fixed on the false idol betwixt his legs.

  “May I touch it?”

  “Oh, aye. Touch it, stroke it, suck it, lick it. Slap it senseless if it pleases you to do so.”

  She swept her fingertips over the head and down the shaft, sending sensual tremors through his body.

  “Tell me the names of the parts.”

  “Very well.” Her caresses scrambled his brain, undermining his concentration. “The head is called the glans. The part resembling a column is the shaft and the bag underneath is the scrotum. Inside the sack dwell the testicles or gonads. These produce a man’s seed or sperm. During orgasm, the seed is released and—”

  “Orgasm?”

  She’d clearly never heard the word before. Not surprising, given her upbringing. The sisters of St. Teresa would not know an orgasm if it bit them in the—well, the place an orgasm generally bites a woman.

  “Aye. It refers to that sublime culminating moment when ecstasy takes flight through your being on a thousand blissful wings.”

  She drew closer, bent over his lap, and set her forefinger over the hole in the tip of his glans. “What do you call this?”

  “The urethral meatus.”

  “Is this from whence your seed sprouts forth?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis also the outlet for urination.”

  She pulled back and made a face. “And you want me to put my mouth on it?”

  “Aye, lass.” He grinned. “But fret not. The Romans used urine to brush their teeth, so there are benefits to the exercise beyond giving me pleasure.”

  “Whiter teeth aside, I’d prefer you had a good wash before I put my mouth upon the spout you piss from.”

  “I did wash, Maggie. Though I must confess, I did not expect you to fellate me. Not the first time I bed you, leastwise.”

  She regarded his erection like a villain, which might have dampened his libido were he not so eager to be inside her. The deflowering part of the program he could do without, but there was no way around it.

  He’d had plenty of whores, but never a virgin, primarily because he could not see the attraction of depriving a lass of her maidenhead for no better reason than to be the first to do so. Women were not mountains to be climbed and flagged.

  Many of the brothels he frequented in London and Edinburgh auctioned off to their regulars the chance to claim the hymens of new recruits—usually before a crowd of onlookers. He’d never seen the virtue of this custom. Why pay extra for a lass who would neither participate nor enjoy herself?

  “Is something amiss?”

  Her question brought him back to the moment. While lost in thought, his erection had flagged.

  “No, no. My mind drifted for a moment, but all is well.”

  She pushed up on her elbow, looking pensive. “May I ask you something, Robert?”

  “Aye, of course. Ask whatever you wish to know.”

  “How soon do wish to start a family and how large a family do you have in mind?”

  “Not too large and not too soon.” Her pubic curls were silken and springy. “We are young. You are barely eighteen and I am only thirty. There is ample time to enjoy each other before we bring children into the equation. Besides, childbirth will put you at risk, and I do not think I could bear to lose you.”

  “True, but what if the plague or pox should carry you off before you conceive an heir?”

  “That would be a grave misfortune indeed, but should I die without issue, Hugh would succeed me as duke and do what he must to carry on the bloodline.”

  “Since you brought up Hugh…did you send him away because of me?”

  “Aye, but not for the reasons you might suppose.”

  “Why, then?”

  “Well, to put it delicately, Hugh would have pressed you betwixt the pages of a book whilst still a bud, whereas I felt you deserved to bloom.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I do not take your meaning.”

  He brushed her cheek and looked into her eyes, overwhelmed by affection and yearning. “Let me try to explain it another way. In the
engravings you looked through, did you happen to notice any depicting two men together?”

  “I confess that I did.” The creases in her forehead deepened. “And they puzzled me exceedingly.”

  “Some men prefer to lie with those of their own gender, Rosebud. They’re what’s called homosexual.”

  Her eyes widened and her face paled. “And Hugh is such a one?”

  He brushed a thumb across her lips, as plump as a child’s and petal soft. “Did you never wonder why he made no move to make love to you?”

  “I confess I did wonder, but convinced myself he was only behaving honorably.”

  Robert took a breath and let it out slowly as he chose his next words. “I will not deign to say otherwise. Whatever else he might be, my brother is an honorable man. I shall only assert that honor might not have been the whole of his reason.”

  He did not wish to talk about Hugh, did not want to think the embers of affection for his brother might still burn in her bosom. He wanted her heart to belong to him alone.

  “Enough talk,” he said, getting to his knees. “The time has come to seal our vows.”

  Hooking her under the armpits, he dragged her to the center of the mattress and laid her out like a sacred oblation—which, indeed, she was. An offering to Venus, the goddess of love whose trickster son had shot him through the heart with one of his golden arrows.

  Since the day he’d come to her rescue in the woods—four long years—he’d remained remote, feigning disinterest until his feelings grew too strong to be denied. Now the long-coveted object of desire was within reach. But he must keep his head and take care. There would never be another first time, and he wanted it to be memorable for both of them.

  With trembling hands, he explored the terrain of her body through the clinging linen of her shift. Though the thin cloth he could make out the rosy caps of her breasts and the golden triangle of curls guarding her maidenhood. It called to him, challenging him to plant his standard and stake his claim. He fought the urge. He would take his time if it killed him. And it bloody well might.

  He moved over her and kissed the dusky peak of the nearest mound as he slipped a hand beneath her shift. The downy-soft hair on her silken thighs tickled his fingertips. When he brushed her pubic nest, she twitched at the same moment as his cock.