Taming Maria (14 page)

'I've done
it!' Maria said, keeping her voice low.

'So have I,'
Jane whispered, as Emily hustled them up the backstairs to the
corridors that led from the servants' quarters.

Though Maria
knew Emily would be lenient if she heard what was being said, she
would undoubtedly scold them and issue dire warnings about the
consequences. Wise in such matters, she never seemed to get caught
out, no matter how many men she enjoyed. Maria sighed with relief
when safely ensconced in her bedroom, with Jane in the one next to
it. Emily attended both of them for Sarah had not yet returned and
Agatha was asleep.

'This is our
secret, milady,' Emily warned as she snuffed the candles, all save
one that was on the nightstand. 'Tranter told me what took place
and we should both be dismissed if it came out.'

'Our secret,'
Maria repeated, tucking the quilt under her chin, imagining that
sleep would be impossible, her brain whirling with recollections of
everything that had transpired between her and Charles, but within
minutes she was lost in oblivion.

Shopping was a
favourite occupation for a lady. Arabella and her ward and Jane
were driven to the heartland of London's commercial centre, The
Royal Exchange. Arabella knew every milliner and tailor in the
area, a valued customer who spent her husband's money lavishly.

She had
brought along her son, James, and his nurse. He was approaching the
time when he would no longer wear dresses, but be attired in
miniature versions of masculine breeches, jackets, waistcoats and
hats. Arabella was light-minded and immoral but a devoted mother.
She doted on the child and let him have his way on every issue, to
the despair of the nurse who had reared him since birth and had to
put up with his tantrums.

It was no
longer popular for dressmakers to flaunt a French name although,
despite the war, Parisians were still reputed to be the most
fashionable people in the world. Instead the exponents of the art
were known simply as tailors and modistes, using their own less
flamboyant titles. Nonetheless, the trade had been influenced by
the influx of designers who had escaped the Revolution and settled
in England several years before. It was the most famous of these,
Madame Descartes, who Arabella patronised.

The shop was
in a cobbled square. It was double-fronted, and had bow windows
with dimpled glass panes. Green painted, flower-filled tubs flanked
the doors. It breathed elegance, exclusivity and expense. Arabella
swept in, followed by her entourage. Madame Descartes herself came
to greet this important client.

'Your
ladyship, such a great honour,' she gushed in the fascinating
accent she had never lost.

She was
petite. Her black ringlets were topped by a gauze turban
brandishing a peacock feather. Her gown incorporated the latest
innovations. High-waisted still, and of diaphanous white fabric,
the skirt was wider at the hem. A tight, long-sleeved jacket
completed the ensemble. Madame was in her thirties but maintained
her charm. Her dark eyes were shrewd as they assessed Maria and
Jane, seeking to establish an even deeper rapport with them, so
that they would be her customers for all time.

'I need an
evening gown,' Arabella pronounced. 'The earl and I are invited to
a ball at the Prince of Wales's residence.'

'It will be a
pleasure, my lady.' Though never for a moment obsequious, Madame's
attitude was a nice balance between equality and reverence.

James, bored,
started to whine. Quick as a flash Madame had one of her underlings
bring toys to amuse him, and then dispatched him to be measured by
the tailor for his manly attire, accompanied by his nurse. Madame
and Arabella went into a huddle over styles and material for the
ball-gown and Maria and Jane sat on a couch and thumbed through
drawings of the latest vogues. But even as they did so they were
whispering about their experiences of the night before, though both
looked so innocent that no one would have guessed they were no
longer virgins.

'I want to do
it again and again.' Jane was all pink cheeks and wide eyes.

'So do I.'
Maria had the smug look of a cat that has been at the cream.

'When can we
arrange it?'

'All you have
to do is get messages to Robin's lodgings. It is more difficult for
me.' Maria was almost resentful. Being in love hurt, she decided,
and almost wished she was not in that delirious state of
confusion.

The showroom
was delightfully decorated in pink, with swags and gilt, mirrors
and changing cubicles. There were shelves holding bales of fabrics,
and stands displaying elegant hats, creations of lace, straw and
velvet, trimmed with artificial flowers, ribbons and feathers.
Maria scarcely heeded it, every nerve in her body and each drop of
her blood aching for Charles. How could she endure waiting until he
sent to her? This is what he had said as they kissed when reaching
Armitage House. She had clung to him in the dark after they left
the coach, and she could still smell the night air and his hair,
and taste his mouth on hers. It made her wet between the legs and
caused mayhem in her loins and nipples.

Arabella
disturbed her daydreams. 'I want you to put on one of Madame's
latest offerings. I may decide to take you with me to the ball. Go
along, girl, follow Madame's assistant. Not you, Jane; there are
some hats for you to try, if you can afford them from your
allowance.'

A reluctant
Maria was led to a cubicle where she found several charming dresses
on hangers. There was something about the assistant that was
familiar and the girl was staring at her too hard. Maria found this
disconcerting, having the uneasy feeling that she had seen her
somewhere before. Then the penny dropped. It was the woman Charles
had called Sally, when she found them together in his house. This
could spell disaster, though Maria could not be certain if Sally
had taken her for a girl or a boy.

'Leave me,'
she said, with an imperious wave. 'I can manage alone.'

Sally
curtsied, saying with a sneering kind of mock servility, 'Call if
you need me, milady.'

She knows!
Maria was certain of it, and the consequences boded ill.

In no mood for
trying on clothes she was alarmed to think that Sally might betray
her. She slipped out of her garments and stood naked in front of
the long mirror. The marks left by Damien had faded, though a faint
trace remained. It was as if Charles had obliterated them. With
eyes half closed she lifted her breasts, thumbs rotating on the
pink crests, her belly clenching as she recalled the feel of his
fingers on her most private places. And that moment when he had
ruptured her hymen! She could not resist inserting a finger into
her crack, finding her clitoris and massaging it. She parted her
legs a little, standing there in white stockings fastened above the
knee and black shoes with spindle heels.

This was how
Damien saw her, squinting through a hole in the back wall of the
cubicle. He had an arrangement with Madame; golden guineas in
exchange for playing Peeping Tom. The idea that he was staring at
women's treasures without them being aware gave him an instant
erection. It was an extension of his feelings of power. They were
helpless to stop him, in total ignorance of his hidden presence.
They felt free to scratch themselves, eye their bodies in the
mirror, jiggle their breasts, drop a hand down to their slits, part
the hairy wings and toy with their buds, even bring about orgasm
and no one would be any the wiser - with the exception of
Damien.

Arabella had
been party to this morning's game, telling him she was taking Maria
to see Madame. He had made sure his coach was parked out of sight
and had occupied his hiding place. Jane did not interest him much.
She was if anything too ingenuous. There was a hidden naughtiness
about Maria that he longed to tap, convinced that once opened, her
sexuality would reach full bloom. He was determined to be the one
to bring this about.

His cock was
burgeoning and he released it from confinement, cradling it in one
hand and sliding the skin up and down the shaft. He was so absorbed
in this and in spying on Maria that he did not realise there was
someone else present until a voice spoke behind him.

'Your
lordship, pray forgive me, but Madame has sent me to see if there
is anything I can do for you. My name is Sally, and you've done me
the honour of allowing me to satisfy you several times before.'

Damien glanced
round and saw a dark-haired girl wearing the sprigged cotton dress,
white apron and cap that was the uniform of the Descartes
establishment. Accustomed to gratifying his lust wherever he
willed, he vaguely remembered her, a lively trollop willing to
fulfil every dirty fancy for money. Madame did well out of her
girls, taking a percentage of whatever they earned through whoring
for her. She prettifying the act by pretending she was simply
obliging her gentlemen clients, but Damien knew she was no more
than a bawd, no better or worse than Madame Flora, keeper of the
bordello who organised his parties for him.

He did not
hide his prick, letting it stand free from his breeches, proud of
its virile dimensions. He reached for Sally's breasts, artfully
displayed by her low cleavage. 'I remember you, girl,' he muttered
hoarsely. 'Get on your knees and suck my cock.'

Sally needed
no second bidding, sinking down gracefully, grasping his appendage
in her fist and holding it to her mouth, then parting her lips and
letting it slide between them. Damien kept his eyes on Maria who,
far from showing an inclination to play with herself further, was
slipping the gown over her head and adjusting it round her body.
She looked sulky, as if not enjoying the task, something else
preying on her mind.

He raised
Sally up, needing to bury his prick in her slippery depths. She
peered through the gap in the curtain and smiled mysteriously.
'What is it, wench?' he demanded, sotto voce.

'That's your
lordship's ward, isn't it?' Sally replied, and her eyes
sparked.

'It is. What
is this to you?' He took little notice, busy parting her legs and
bending slightly so he could insert his weapon into her.

'Funny
thing... but I could have sworn I saw her last night, dressed in
men's clothing.' Sally let him do what he wished with her, hardly
heeding.

He stopped,
grabbed her by the chin and made her look at him. 'What are you
babbling about? Tell me.'

'It was in a
gentleman's residence.'

'Whose?'

'Lord Charles
Bradley's. I'm his mistress, sort of, when he fancies it, that is.
I went round there and caught them in the parlour, and she was
dressed as a man.'

'Why are you
telling me this?' He removed himself from her. 'Charles Bradley,
you say?'

'I'm telling
you because I thought you should know, her being your ward and
all.'

Not true,
Damien thought. You have a grudge against Maria because your keeper
fancies her. Women! They are all the same, whore or great lady!
Sisters under the skin.

The thought of
Maria bedding Charles went through him like a barb. He wanted to
kill and if this could not happen right away then he longed to
punish Maria. The jade, to slip off and enjoy herself with his foe!
His palm itched to close round the handle of a whip and lay it on
her, slash by cruel slash. How dare she flout him? He would make
her suffer for it.

Was Sally
telling the truth? He had no reason to doubt her and her very
attitude spoke of jealousy and resentment.

He found coins
in his pocket and pushed them into her eager palm. 'Keep watch on
her and come to me if you have anything else to report.'

Sally dipped a
curtsey. 'Yes, my lord. Is that all, sir?' She sounded almost
regretful that he did not want her.

'That is all.'
He dismissed her with a nod and turned back to studying Maria more
intently than before.

She seemed
abstracted, dropping the gown over her head and struggling with the
buttons at the back, not bothering to fasten them all. It was a
beautiful dress that would enhance her at any evening function, but
she was not paying attention, scarcely studying her reflection.

Was she
thinking of Charles? Had he robbed her of her maidenhead? The
question buzzed in Damien's brain like a swarm of angry hornets. If
the villain had helped himself to her virgin orifice, then he had
poached on Damien's preserves and this could not be forgiven. There
was one way to find out for sure and Damien would have to school
his impetuosity and wait his chance to examine her. He slipped from
Madame Descartes' establishment without Maria being aware of his
presence, and set about putting his plans into action.

Arabella
received a note from Damien, bidding her come to Strafford Hall
without delay. With the prospect of nothing more exciting than a
game of cards with her intimates, she decided to obey. There was
always a whiff of danger in any communication from him. He expected
her to comply and she was more than willing to do so.

She was well
aware that he had been to the dressmaker's that morning, firing his
lust by secretly watching Maria, and vaguely assumed that his
summons might concern this, so the scowl that darkened his features
as he greeted her in the Great Hall came as a surprise.

'What is the
matter?' she enquired calmly, peeling off her gloves as she rustled
towards him.

'You may well
ask, my lady,' he growled, then seized her by the wrist, giving it
a brutal twist.

'Release me,
Damien.' She was indignant, having no notion of why he was so
enraged. Not in the least afraid, though they were alone, her maid
having been dismissed, a quiver of desire tingled through her as
she wondered what he would do.