Taming Maria (15 page)

He flung her
from him. 'You've been neglecting your duty. Word has reached me
that Maria met Charles Bradley in secret last night, disguised as a
man. What say you to that?'

'Who told
you?'

'One of Madame
Descartes' assistants, a girl named Sally. She caught them together
in his house, apparently, and considered it her duty to tell
me.'

'And what was
this wench doing there?'

'She is
Bradley's mistress.'

Arabella
laughed lightly. 'Well then, my dear viscount, it's as plain as a
pike staff. The girl is driven by jealousy and spite. And you
believed her?'

'Why should
she lie to me?'

'I've just
told you. She wants to get Maria into trouble.'

'She has
succeeded. By God, if he has deflowered her...!'

'What will you
do? Call him out? You'll look like a fool... or a cuckold, and
you're not yet her husband.' Arabella was deliberately goading him,
aroused by his anger and inviting him to unleash his fury on
her.

'Bitch!' he
roared. 'This is your fault. If you had done your job properly
she'd not have had the chance to wander around at night, meeting
Bradley. Where were you? Whoring at some party or other? The earl
should take a horsewhip to you. I'd not tolerate it in my wife! And
I won't allow you to get away with it when we have joint
responsibilities. Come with me!'

She knew his
intentions but put up a mock fight, for he enjoyed resistance, and
she anticipated at least an hour of decadent fornication. Pain
would be mingled with sensual pleasure, resistance covering the
desire to submit, all the joys of being owned and owning, the
master as much enslaved by his submissive as she was to him.

Silently she
followed him down to the vault. He lit the lanterns and the black
and crimson decor sprang to life. A brazier already glowed crimson,
throwing out heat. The heart of Damien's kingdom was once more
immaculate, cleared from the debris of the orgy. He was a stickler
for order, liking to be in control of everything and everyone.

'You have been
careless. Admit it.' He pushed her towards the vaulting horse. 'You
shall be punished.'

'Thank you,'
she murmured, entering into the game.

He shook her.
'Thank you... what?'

'Thank you,
master,' she replied meekly.

She was
wearing a floor-length fitted coat, with long tight sleeves and a
high waist, and her hat was pill-box shaped.

'Get
undressed!' he commanded.

Arabella
pretended to be frightened, fumbling with the buttons and then
laying the garment across the back of a chair after baring her
head. Her flimsy pastel gown offered little resistance to his rough
hands as he stripped her of it, impatient of her fumbling. Now
naked, save for her chemise and stockings, he made her stand on a
stool and bend over the back of the wooden horse. In this position
she was utterly vulnerable and rejoiced in her serfdom as he
fastened her ankles and bound her wrists. Her posterior was fully
exposed and she waited in trembling anticipation.

At first he
did no more than run his hands over the soft skin of her rump and
dip between her spread thighs, frigging her swelling bud. Arabella
gasped and wriggled her hips. Though facing away from him, her head
hanging over the contraption's side, she visualised his expression,
such a handsome man with those steely eyes and fine features and
that inky-black hair tumbling about his ears. He fulfilled her
every dream of what a hero should look like, and yet he was so
cruel, so heartless and mercenary. Once she had loved him, but he
had broken her heart and she was glad to settle for the elderly but
kind earl. Though she could never resist Damien, she no longer felt
love or even a modicum of affection for him. She took from him in
the same way he did from her. If she seemed heartless, it was
because she had been taught by an expert.

He was silent
now. Arabella wondered briefly if he had tied her up and left her,
amusing himself by imagining her distress as time went by and no
one came to free her. There was no sound except the settling of
coals in the braziers. She considered calling out, but then felt
his hand cupping her pudenda, the middle digit palpating her clit.
It was infinitely pleasurable and she settled into the rhythm that
would bring on her climax. He nibbled that tender spot where her
neck joined her spine, and she moaned.

'You like that
don't you, slave-slut?' he murmured. 'Poor little needy tart, who
has been so disobedient. Do you deserve to come?'

'No, master.'
Dear God, she thought, I'll say anything if he'll just bring me
off.

'I shall
decide when or even if I shall let you. Perhaps I won't, making you
wait indefinitely. How would you like that, eh?' His words were
supplemented by a hard slap on her left buttock.

'Whatever you
say, master,' she whimpered.

Silence. Then
a sudden rush of air and a biting pain that stung her bottom. He
was using a whip. Involuntarily she cried out and jerked against
her bonds. He leaned over her and touched her cheek with the smooth
leather instrument he had just used to chastise her. He touched her
lips with the handle and she wanted it in her mouth, like a penis,
yearning for the taste of it. She lifted her head, but he moved it
away and she could not reach it. Heat pricked where the lash had
landed on her buttocks and her vagina was on fire.

'Not enough
yet, slave,' he muttered, and the whip lightly touched the backs of
her thighs, her spine, and the sides of her breasts, her shoulders
and upper-arms. 'Tell me you want to be beaten. Go on. Say it!'

'I do... oh,
yes... and make me come too!'

She heard his
quickened breathing and felt the vibration in the air as he raised
the whip and it cracked down across her skin. He was like an
avenging angel meting out punishment for her sins. She knew she was
guilty of many and absorbed the pain in retribution. Tears trickled
down her cheeks and dripped on to the floor below. And all the time
the tingling rush of pain added to her arousal. This was a
well-trodden path. Both knew precisely what parts to play and
how.

She wanted to
scream, but kept it in. She was compounded of feelings; her thighs
quivered in expectation of the lash, her anus clenched and her cunt
ached for penetration. With each blow she absorbed the burning pain
and it added to her desire for fulfilment. Lash after stinging lash
blazed across her flesh until at last he flung down the whip and
his hand slipped between her legs. She started to come, rising to
the peak in a wild rush, the feeling so intense that she cried out,
writhing on his fingers. Unchaining her, he pushed his cock into
her from behind and thrust hard, exploding into orgasm.

He stroked her
hair, almost tenderly, but his voice was harsh as he said, 'Tell
your maids to pack. I'm leaving for the country and you and Maria
are coming with me.'

When she had
gone he sat at his desk and wrote a note addressed to Lord Charles
Bradley, and had it delivered to White's Club.

'I shall be
taking you back to your mother later today, Jane,' Arabella
announced as they sat at breakfast.

The sun
streamed through tall French windows that gave access to the
terrace, the staff were soft-footed and deferential, the atmosphere
serene, and yet Maria sensed undercurrents.

'So soon?' she
interrupted, giving her friend no chance to reply. 'May I ask the
reason?'

'You may,
though I was addressing Jane,' her aunt answered levelly, using a
silver knife to spread orange conserve on a triangular slice of
buttered toast. 'Miss Bailey has left her post, taking up another
elsewhere, and a new duenna needs to be engaged, also your guardian
has invited you and me to stay with him at Raven Towers, his manor
house in the country.'

'For what
reason?' Maria was devastated. It would rob her of any chance to
see Charles. Not only that, she would be deprived of Jane's
company. Agatha Bailey would be no loss, though it was said that
the devil you know is better than the one you don't.

'What he and I
decide is nothing to do with you. We are in charge, remember?'
Though Arabella was usually amiable, when it came to Damien she
closed ranks with him against all others.

It was two
days since Maria had made love with Charles, and both she and Jane
had begun to believe their escapade had gone unnoticed. Even her
aunt's announcement did not indicate that they had been discovered.
It could be mere coincidence that this journey was planned. It was
the saddest news for both herself and Jane, making assignations
with their lovers nearly impossible.

Jane was
staring at her, trying to conceal her true feelings. 'Shall I not
see Maria again, my lady?' she said unsteadily.

'Oh, dear me,
don't be so dramatic. Of course you will, but not for some time I
should imagine. But now I have one last treat planned for this
morning. Get your wraps and we'll be off.' Arabella dabbed her
lips, laid down her table napkin and a footman drew back her chair
as she rose.

She gave him
an arch smile and brushed her hand across the fork of his breeches
as she passed. Maria pretended not to notice. At first her aunt's
familiarity with the male servants had troubled her, but now she
took it as a matter of course.

'What are we
going to do?' Jane wailed once they were alone and on their way
upstairs.

'Don't worry.
I'll think of something. You are in a better position than me as
you will be able to write to Robin at his lodgings.'

'Not for long.
My parents are returning to Bath soon. And there will be a new
chaperone to contend with. Though Miss Bailey was a bully, at least
I knew where I stood with her.' Maria had never seen Jane so cast
down and her own heart ached. She would so much miss this dear
companion who had become like a sister to her, or probably
something better as there was no sibling rivalry between them.

Her aunt had
not given a time for departure to Raven Towers, and she wondered
desperately if the wily Emily might be able to smuggle her out as
she had done before. A hackney carriage would take her to Charles's
house where she could tell him she was being taken away.

Now there was
nothing else for it but to go along with Arabella's plans for an
outing. Would it be shopping? A visit to friends as frivolous as
herself or a drive through Hyde Park eyeing the beaux strolling
there?

It turned out
to be none of these, the coach weaving through the West End traffic
and finally drawing up at an imposing house in a rank of others.
Steps led to the entrance and there was a sign painted with a
flourish that read, Signor Mancini's School of Fencing.

'Am I to take
lessons?' Maria asked flippantly.

'Don't be
pert,' Arabella chided. 'It is hardly an occupation for young
ladies.'

Maria was in
the mood to argue. 'I've always thought it a pity that girls can't
take part in sport or learn the use of weapons.'

'There are
enough gentlemen to follow these pursuits and, in my opinion, they
are much more suited to it. Skirts would impede us.'

'Then perhaps
we should wear trousers.' Maria was tetchy, weary of the
restrictions that imprisoned her.

Arabella did
not reply, sweeping towards an open door off the hallway and being
greeted by the Italian himself, a charming man, swarthy and
bright-eyed, wearing fencing apparel. He presented a dashing figure
and Arabella smiled at him warmly.

'Welcome,
milady,' he gushed, in heavily accented English. 'The viscount is
already here.'

'So I should
hope,' she replied, magnificent and commanding as she permitted him
to escort her. 'I'm unaccustomed to being kept waiting.'

Damien was
involved? Maria frowned, wondering what was going on but keeping
quiet and waiting to see what took place.

There was no
denying Arabella's aplomb and Maria was starting to copy her,
finding it eased the way when it came to dealing with almost
anyone. Glancing neither right nor left she followed her aunt into
the large studio, aware of Jane and Sarah trailing behind her.

The room was
spacious and light, stripped of furniture and carpet, with benches
against the plain walls and racks holding foils, face-masks and
protective clothing. Signor Mancini chattered as they walked across
the bare wooden floor. 'My school is popular with the gentlemen who
like to learn the finer points of the art. Though duelling has been
outlawed, a nobleman might still have occasion to defend his
honour. Pistols are in vogue for settling differences these days,
though still forbidden, but rapiers have that certain flourish.
Don't you agree, Madame?'

'Well, I don't
make a habit of watching, but yes, I agree that a man can look
mighty graceful when fencing. Take those for example,' and she
nodded to where two combatants were hard at it.

The room
echoed to the clash of steel and the stamping of feet. Both wore
white quilted cotton jackets, nankeen breeches, stockings and
pumps. It was difficult to know their identity for their masks were
full ones with close-woven metal mesh to shield their faces. Signor
Mancini watched them keenly, calling out instructions.

The ladies sat
on the benches and Arabella said, 'The shorter of the two is
Damien.'

'So it is. Do
you know the other?' Maria was fascinated by the way Damien fought,
as supple as a panther and as fearsome, giving his opponent little
quarter.

'Yes, I do.
It's Charles Bradley.'

Just for an
instant the room darkened and all Maria could see were enemies
striking at each other. Lunge! Parry! Riposte! And all she could
hear were Damien's furious words when she met Charles at the
soiree. Was he aiming to kill him? Not in public, surely? And could
he succeed anyway? Charles seemed to be as experienced a swordsman,
slightly taller and lightning swift. Desire and fear rushed through
Maria in equal measure as she watched them wielding those flashing
blades and realised they were not button-tipped. A hit would be for
real, penetrating padding and then flesh.