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

marriage official was at hand. He’d denied himself for too long already. Now to discover if the bride his heart had chosen was equal to his other desires.
    * * * *
    The click of the latch snapped Maggie back to the dressing table. So, the devil had come for her soul at last. Time to lie in the bed she’d made for herself—quite literally.
    She took a breath, licked her lips, and checked her reflection. Her make-up was a mess, but her eyes were no longer swollen and tearful. In the candlelight, the fact she’d been crying might well escape his notice. She pinched her cheeks, straightened her back, and rose from the chair.
    Swallowing to dislodge the lump in her throat, she raised her gaze to her dashing yet dangerous bridegroom.
    He’d shed his sword and plumed velvet cap, but otherwise still wore his wedding costume: a belted plaid, the tail of which fell nearly to his ankles; a slit doublet so heavily embroidered in silver and gold it might have been armor; knee-high hose in a garish checkered pattern; and leather slippers. His dark hair fell in curls over his wide shoulders to the middle of his back.
    He looked resplendent. He also looked like Beelzebub come to claim her soul. In one hand, he gripped a sweating flacon of champagne, still corked.
    The smile he gave her almost banished her apprehension.
    Almost.
    His confident posture sagged ever-so-slightly when he saw her expression. “You do not look happy to see me, my wee Rosebud.”
    The endearment further eroded her distress. She swallowed hard and smiled at her handsome husband. He looked so harmless, so noble, so respectable.
    But then, as the sisters of St. Teresa’s so persistently drummed into her brain, even Satan could come disguised as an angel of light.
    Would he tie her hands? Belt her bottom? Slap her breasts? Bite her nipples? Invite his mistresses into their marital bed? Would he share his bed with them in the adjoining room?
    The possibility cut like a knife. She clenched her teeth against the sharp stab of pain and then chided herself for being thus affected. If she had any sense, she’d encourage him to take mistresses, not grieve over it, as ‘twould likely spare her the brunt of his debauchery.
    She shifted her gaze to the painting over the bed. It depicted a nude woman—a French courtesan, probably—on a settee with her bottom in the air and her legs parted. Would he arrange his bride like that doxy so he could take her like a dog? Would he bugger her up the bum? Did he bed men as well as women? Given the things she’d heard, and read, she would not put it past him.
    “Is the party winding down?” She turned back to him with a pasted-on smile.  
    His gaze skittered over her, raising gooseflesh in its wake. “Nay, ‘tis still going strong.”
    Her brow flinched. “So late?”
    From his sporran—a great hairy thing sporting a bone closure and multiple tassels—he drew a watch on a chain and opened the decorative enameled cover. As he checked the time, he said, “The night is young, Rosebud. ‘Tis only half eleven.”
    Her heart became a honeypot. Why did he undo her so? She swallowed to fortify her courage. “When will the guests start to away?”
    “Not until we’ve done the deed, I’m afraid. Or when the wine has run out. Whichever occurs first.” He lifted the flacon he’d brought. “I procured this for us. Thought it might take the edge off your maidenly jitters.”
    The comment startled her. Was her unease so obvious? Even if it were, she could not believe he’d picked up on her distress. He’d been so busy with the wedding plans, she’d wondered if the party meant more to him than the marriage. Not that she believed for one moment their vows mattered a jot to him.
    She met his gaze head-on. “Why did you marry me?”
    Surprise flitted across his face and then vanished. “For the usual reasons.”
    “Which are?”
    “I need an heir to carry on my bloodline and the duchy, and you needed a husband who appreciated