Taming Maria, page 14
What now? Maria wondered. Her head was swimming from too much champagne. Damien had kept her glass topped up. She had no idea what to expect, but his guests seemed to be enthusiastic and she had to go along with him, for he refused to release her arm.
They left the terrace, and walked towards one of the towers. It was surmounted by battlements where once bowmen had fired down on enemies. Inside it was large, with a lobby that led into an oval arena. The ceiling was high, the windows mere arrow-slits, but the sparse daylight was augmented by flares. It appeared to be used for putting horses through their paces. The floor was strewn with straw, and there were grooms in attendance, and a space at the far end that resembled stables wherein steeds could be housed. There were benches for spectators and Maria was guided to the opposite end to the stables, accompanied by Arabella. The hunters occupied some of the other seats, attended by footmen bearing trays of bottles and glasses, pies, canapes and beef in bread rolls. The party seemed set to continue.
Damien strode into the centre, acting like a Master of Ceremonies, holding up his hand for silence. 'And now, ladies and gentlemen, I have pleasure in presenting my pony girls!'
A door was opened at the stable end and, with a rumble of wheels and rattle of chains, four chariots appeared. The audience gasped simultaneously and Maria could not believe the evidence of her own eyes. Each was occupied by a groom, naked apart from straps that cradled his genitals and raised them, cock erect and balls bunched beneath. They were well-built, handsome young men and the ladies drooled as they rode the chariots into the middle of the ring. But the greatest surprise of all was the sight of women drawing the vehicles instead of horses.
They, too, were unclad, their faultless bodies displayed in nothing but a few strategically placed strips of black leather. These did nothing but emphasise their luscious breasts and shaven clefts, tight buttocks and long thighs. They were totally under the control of bridle and whip, the bit between their teeth. Adopting the attitude of the animals they represented, they tossed their long manes, stamped their feet in thick-soled boots and snapped their teeth at any who approached them. Croppers passed between their thighs, pressing into their cracks, and tails were rooted in their fundaments. The grooms flicked them with the tips of their bullwhips and the audience roared in approval.
Maria tried to catch the eye of one of the pony girls, but met nothing but a blank stare. However long they had been employed like this, it seemed to have killed their spirit. 'Where did they come from?' she asked Arabella, who simply shrugged.
'Who knows, my dear? And what does it matter? I imagine it is preferable to walking the streets. Damien has a vivid imagination, or else he has seen something similar during his travels. I, myself, have taken part and, believe me, becoming a mare can be quite fun.'
'You?' Maria was dumbfounded. Her elegant aunt transformed into a beast of burden, confined between the shafts while someone else controlled her by the pull on her mouth on that iron bit. It was unthinkable!
'Silly child!' Arabella cooed. 'There are more ways than one of skinning a cat! You have yet to learn the deep satisfaction of obeying your master to the letter. If Damien wants me to pull his chariot then I'll obey and so, my dear, will you.'
'Never!' Maria clenched her fists. 'I'd rather die!'
'La! How dramatic!'
There were no lack of takers, the hunters, men and women, forming a queue, awaiting their turn to take the reins. Damien was the first, leaping into the leading chariot, seizing the reins and flicking the whip. The ample-hipped brunette between the shafts broke into a trot, breasts bouncing.
He completed the course, then drew up and said, 'A race! Are you prepared to lay wagers on your steeds?'
The bidding was brisk, organised by his man, Johnson.
Four contenders lined up. Four ponies flirted their tails and fidgeted. The flag was dropped and they were off. Maria remembered the phaeton race vividly, but there was little resemblance. She found it utterly degrading to witness the girls straining between the shafts and to see scarlet marks appearing on their shoulders and upper arms as their drivers used the whip mercilessly. She rose from her seat and it was as much as she could do to stand there and watch this senseless spectacle, wanting to run out in the path of the racers and put a stop to it. Damien, the instigator of this barbaric performance, was in the lead, whipping his steed repeatedly until blood started to flow down her back. He reached the finishing post first and, leaping from the chariot, inserted himself between the front of it and the girl. Then he pulled the tail from her rectum, disposed of the crupper and mounted her from behind, while his fellow contestants cheered and hallooed.
Careless of being trampled, mobbed or reviled, Maria walked straight over to where he stood, pumping in and out of the exhausted woman, raised her arm and slapped him across the face. 'Monster!' she shouted while the arena grew quiet.
Damien withdrew, fastened his breeches and ducked under the shafts. A groom led his equipage away. He towered over Maria while the world seemed to hold its breath. 'Would you like to take her place?' he asked, loudly and clearly. 'This can be arranged.'
'You should be ashamed of yourself!' she stormed, losing all fear in her raging indignation. 'How dare you treat a woman like that?'
'They like it,' shouted several of his cronies. 'Makes 'em come off, don't-cher-know? Nothing a wench likes more than a good beating, followed by a good fucking.'
'They're right,' chorused the ladies. 'Keep out of it, and stop being such a spoil-sport.'
'You won that round. Let's have another,' urged his enthusiastic friends. 'Put her between the shafts. Give her a taste of your whip!'
'Not this time,' Damien said, and his eyes were steely as they gazed into hers. 'I have something better planned. Go to your room, Maria. Agatha will attend you.' He swung round, shouting, 'Another bout! Certainly, gentlemen, and raise your stakes this time.'
Chapter 10
Charles ducked his head under the lintel of the most disreputable tavern in Whitefriars. It was an area of winding alleys and tumbledown houses that made up the notorious 'Rookery', a thieves' hideout so notorious that even the Watch refused to go there, unless accompanied by the militia.
He had never quite become accustomed to seedy places such as this, but it was part and parcel of his job. Even though Maria seemed lost to him, there remained his duty to his country. It was to this end that he sought out an unshaven ruffian who wore tattered clothing, a battered three-cornered hat, a rat-tailed moustache and an eye-patch.
Charles bought two pints of ale, sat down and rested his elbows on a dirt-encrusted table, staring at his companion. The inn was noisy, for evening had brought out not only those who wanted to drink and gamble, but the hawkers as well, intent on making sales. These ranged from match-sellers to pimps, fortune-tellers, quack doctors and touts of every description. Charles had disguised himself well, as scruffy as the rest. No one would have guessed that he was a gentleman. He had learned his trade in the army and then on special consignments, apprehending those who sold information to the enemies of England.
'Viscount Strafford left three days ago,' said his confederate.
'I know that, Quint. What about Lady Maria?' Charles could hardly restrain his impatience for news of her.
'She went yesterday.' Quint drew a screw of paper from a broken-down pocket and stuffed some tobacco into the bowl of a clay pipe, then took a spill to the candle. Blue smoke arose to join the rest that polluted the atmosphere.
'Strafford's destination is as we thought?'
'It is, sir. Raven Towers in Dorset.'
'His country seat?'
'Aye. Within easy reach of the coast. A convenient spot for folk sneaking in and out, avoiding the customs officers.'
'Working for France.' Charles's eyes were keen beneath the battered brim of his felt hat.
'Exactly.'
'As we've suspected for some time.' It was satisfying to know they had been correct in their assumption that Damien was using his stately home for nefarious activities. 'But why did he want Lady Maria and Lady Arabella along?'
'As a diversion to conceal his real motive for being there. We're dealing with a wily character here.' Quint was an old hand at the game, and had been Charles's associate for months. Far from a vagabond, he was a respected member of the Government's band of undercover agents.
A woman in a tawdry, low-cut scarlet dress came across to wind her arms around Charles's neck. Her gin-tainted breath tickled his ear as she said, 'You're a fine cully, to be sure. Fancy a bit? Shall we go outside?' She hoisted her skirt high.
'Not now,' he replied, inhaling the salty smell of sexual congress wafting from between her legs. He was not the first man she had approached that night.
His body responded to her coarse invitation, although he had vowed to make his hand his mistress until he could find Maria again, eschewing whores and loose noblewomen alike. But, young and virile that he was, this was hard to do.
'Aw, come on, boy-oh,' she pleaded, painted lips pouting as she clasped his crotch. His cock began to swell in spite of his resolutions.
He pushed her hand away and thrust a coin into her grubby palm. 'I'm not in the mood. Have this. Buy yourself a tot of gin.'
'You're a real gent. I owe you one,' she said, hard exterior melting for a second before she moved on to the next prospective punter.
Unwilling to draw the slightest attention to himself he got up and nodded goodbye to Quint, then said in an undertone, 'I'll keep you informed. Be prepared to leave for Dorset.'
Though his thoughts were distracted as he walked back to his lodgings, a part of him was fully alert and he carried a cudgel under his jacket. As he paused at the front door, inserting the key in the lock, a figure darted from out of the darkness and he heard someone say, 'Charlie... no, don't turn me away!'
It was Sally, instantly recognisable by her voice and scent. 'What do you want?' He was brusque, still angry with her for betraying Maria.
'A moment of your time,' she begged, the lantern above the door shining down on her face, painting it with shadows.
'I told you that I never wanted to see you again.' He spoke more harshly than need be to protect himself. Memories of coupling with her tormented him and his cock surged in his breeches. 'Why did you tell me you had betrayed Lady Maria and myself to Viscount Strafford?'
'I don't know,' Sally sobbed. 'To be revenged, I supposed. I was jealous, and still am. Why do you prefer her to me? Anyway, you won't see her any more. She's gone away. She and her aunt have been to Madame Descartes' shop, spending a king's ransom on clothes.'
'I have nothing further to say to you.' Charles turned, but she flung herself at him, clinging fiercely.
'Don't abandon me. I love you!' she cried, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Charles had never been able to endure seeing a women cry. 'Oh, very well. Come in, but only for a moment.'
Mrs Pritchard was going to visit her married daughter and the new baby, as she had told him when she brought in his supper. Bates had been dispatched with messages for one of Charles's colleagues, and he was anticipating an early night in view of the long ride tomorrow. The thought of glimpsing Maria again set him on fire, though he knew that discretion would be of the essence.
This was the only time he had seen Sally since she triumphantly announced telling the viscount that Maria had been to his house. This had resulted in his meeting with Damien at Signor Mancini's fencing school. It was apparent that Damien wanted to kill him and, to protect Maria from her guardian's rage, Charles had kept his distance ever since, though it cost him dear. Now the instigator of the trouble was with him, pleading for forgiveness.
He was disinclined to give this, furious with her, yet a part of him could understand her motives. He had seen enough of poverty and hopelessness during his travels to realise how an underprivileged girl such as Sally would seize any opportunity to better herself. Marriage would have been out of the question, but as his doxy she might have expected him to set her up in an apartment and give her a regular income. He had never intended to do this, using her selfishly, as he had used women before, never knowing love until he met Maria.
'I'm sorry, Charlie,' Sally said, slumping in a chair. Her nose was running and she wiped the snot on the back of her hand.
'You knew this would happen one day. We are worlds apart, but I thought I could trust you.' He stood looking down at her, then handed her a handkerchief.
The fire had been tended by Bates before he left, and coal glowed in the black iron grate behind the brass guard, giving the room a cosy intimacy. It reminded Charles of when he had introduced Maria to the mysteries of sexual congress. Not only that, he recalled many an hour spent there with the woman who was now begging him to pardon her. He was tired and downhearted and he could feel himself softening towards Sally. Life was short and he was about to risk his once again. Damien could be his Nemesis. He had seen brave men die in battle and since, fighting secretly against France. One sword thrust, one bullet and it was all over. He could feel himself on the edge. Any day it could happen to him.
Sally flung herself to her knees at his feet, clinging to the scuffed boots, her head back as she looked up at him. 'Charlie... please... I've never felt like this about a man. If this is love, then certainly I am in that state. I don't ask for much... don't expect you to take me into keeping... just want to see you sometimes.'
'You should be thinking of marrying, my girl. Find an honest tradesman to take you to wife.' Charles felt ashamed of his treatment of her and all the other women he had used for his pleasure. It was as if love had opened his eyes. 'Have you parents?'
'My father is dead and my mother is a washer-woman, with five young children to feed. I was lucky to get employment with Madame Descartes. At least I can help out at home, but I have nothing to offer as a dowry. There's the butcher who runs a shop not far from where I live. He has been giving me the eye, although he must be all of forty. A widower, so they say.'
'Then encourage him,' Charles advised, even while he responded to her hands running up and down his inner thighs, approaching ever closer to his dick. 'I'll give you a sum of money. It's the least I can do.' I must be moon-struck, he thought.
'I don't want him. I want you,' she moaned, her fingers tugging at the buttoned flap that concealed his penis.
'Do as I suggest,' he muttered. This was too much for his self-control. He could feel his balls tightening and his cock swelling, hard and hot and eager.
He grabbed her by the upper arms, jerked her to her feet and then backed her across the room until they reached the bed. There he flung her down, yanked up her skirt and inserted his erection into her warm and willing snatch. It was over in seconds, for him if not for her, and he regretted it as soon as he had discharged.
She knew this. Tears filled her eyes again and she gathered herself together, shoulders sagging. 'I guess this is goodbye, Charlie?' she whispered.
'I'm going away for a while, but will leave money with Mrs Pritchard and ask her to speak to the butcher on your behalf. Be happy, Sally.' He did not know what else to say, wanting nothing more than to see the back of her.
'Where is Mrs Jenkins?' Maria demanded when escorted back to her room by Agatha. She was furious because of the ignominious way she had been dismissed from the junketing, made to feel like a silly child in front of the huntsmen and their women.
Agatha stood with her hands folded at the waist of her plain black dress. 'The master has ordered me to attend you,' she replied in her harsh, aggressive voice.
'And Emily?' Maria had rarely been so angry, or so lonely and afraid.
'Only myself, Liza and the hairdresser have been given instructions regarding your toilette.'
'Why wasn't I consulted?' Maria felt like a prisoner.
'Never fear, my lady. The viscount has your welfare at heart. He knows what is best for you. Now, let me help you to bathe.' Agatha clapped her hands and a line of footmen entered through the door, each carrying a pail of steaming water. These were conveyed into the annex that contained a tub.
When they had finished and marched out Maria was unable to prevent Agatha and the maid, Liza, whom she recognised as the one she had seen being beaten, divesting her of her garments and enfolding her in a white towel. The good-looking coiffeur was too busy admiring himself in the pier-glass to take much heed of her nudity. The bathroom walls were covered in Islamic tiles, and the tub itself was large, squatting centre-stage on four clawed feet. It was three-quarters full of warm, scented water and Maria would have enjoyed it were it not for Agatha's intrusion.
What right had Damien to send Sarah and Emily away, even for a short while? She was appalled at the audacity of the man! None of her protests made a scrap of difference as she was soaped all over and her hair washed, then pinned to the top of her head. Helped out of the bath, the towel was wrapped around her once more and she was taken back to the bedroom. There it was removed and perfumed lotion applied all over her skin, including her breasts and bottom. It was very apparent that Agatha enjoyed this, lingering over Maria's nipples, crack and clitoris.
Liza rubbed her hair, removing most of the moisture, and then Agatha said, 'The master has decided you shall be shaved. It is his wish to view you without your pubic hair.'
'What?' Maria, who had started to relax, shot to her feet. 'I don't want this done. Go away.'
Agatha produced a slender cane, very much like the one Mrs Rossiter had used at school. 'I hope you aren't going to be defiant,' she said softly. 'I have been told I can take what measures I think fit in order to make you obey.' The tip of the cane brushed across Maria's bare thigh, making her jump.
'How dare you?' she shouted. 'You're nothing but a servant!'
'I follow his lordship's instructions, and they are explicit. Join us, Russell.' Agatha gestured to the mincing young man.
