by EM BROWN
“I will make the time.”
Vale’s secretary was surprised to hear his employer rearranging his day to accompany his wife to the mantua maker of all things, but the man knew better than to question the Marquess.
The gown of forest green with matching feathered cap became Harrietta, Vale thought to himself as he watched her descend the flight of stairs. She had a sense of elegance that he had not expected from a country girl. He offered his arm. She hesitated, eying it warily, but allowed him to walk her out to the carriage. He wondered if he had been too rash with her where the Elroys were concerned. Harrietta was still young enough to have the desire to rebel against authority—especially those who threatened to impose their will upon her independence.
He wanted to apologize for his harshness, but he could not, nor would not, condone her keeping company with Lovell or Alexandra. She had to simply trust him on that. But he knew he had yet to earn her trust. Indeed, if she were cognizant of all the lies of omission that existed in their marriage, she would be less inclined than ever to trust him.
She had trusted Harold, and Vale wished that she had that same faith in him. He remembered being envious of Harold for having sisters when he himself had no siblings. As he grew older, more than enough men and women, filled that void with ease. But Harold had been the brother he had always longed for.
Harrietta kept her gaze out the carriage window. He described some points of interest that they passed, but their conversation remained tepid. It lacked the abandon that Harrietta exuded on the night of the opera.
At the shop of Mrs. Darling, one of the finest mantua makers in London, Harrietta was obliged to don the gown so that the hem might be measured to its proper length. From his chair, Vale observed one of Mrs. Darling’s assistants pinning the hem of the dress.
“Is that the finest of the dresses you had made?” Vale asked Harrietta as he eyed the modest gown through his quizzing glass.
“Yes. You disapprove?” she asked, attempting to turn around to see herself in the mirror without losing her foothold on the stool she stood upon.
“Lord and Lady Granview’s ball is no small affair. Any number of the royal family may be in attendance.” He turned to Mrs. Darling. “Have you the latest edition of the Ladies’ Magazine?”
“Indeed, your lordship,” Mrs. Darling sniffed, affronted that he should even ask.
Flipping through the fashion plates, he found one he liked. “This one will do.”
Harrietta gasped. “That would be much too extravagant. I would have to be a princess to wear such a gown.”
“You are the Marchioness of Dunnesford. I will not having you dressed as anything less.”
“His lordship has a discerning eye,” Mrs. Darling approved.
Harrietta examined the drawing of the richly decorated gown with eschelle stomacher and embroidered petticoat, pursing her lips in doubt.
“Let us see your finest bolts of satin,” Vale said to Mrs. Darling.
After he had selected a golden peach colored satin and agreed to pay nearly double for the gown to be completed in time for the ball, he ensured she completed the ensemble with the purchase of matching silk covered shoes, embroidered stockings, an ivory handled fan, reticule, and pearl bracelets. Perhaps Harrietta was overwhelmed by the shopping, but he had expected more enthusiasm on her part. All his mistresses had adored it when he bought them things.
From the comfortable establishments of London’s finest purveyors of haberdashery, they turned into a parish with rutted streets and the smell of open sewers. Vale held up a perfumed handkerchief to his nose and marveled that Harrietta could do without one. They reached the Orphan Asylum for Girls, a two storied building in need of much renovation.
A short but stout gentleman—Mr. Winters, Vale presumed—greeted them. “Lady Dunnesford, welcome, welcome! My word, and Lord Dunnesford, is it? You honor us, your lord and ladyship.”
They were ushered into a small parlor to sit down for tea while Mr. Winters described the short history of the asylum.
“As you may be aware there are many efforts to reform those who have strayed from the respectable path,” Mr. Winters told them, “and I mean no disregard for the Society for the Suppression of Vice who have labored to save the souls of many a poor woman, but I firmly believe the best way to thwart a life of misery and prostitution is to nurture them before they grow from girls to women. Many of the foundlings we have here are from mothers who ply that trade, and have a propensity toward that same future if no intervention is provided them.”
The man spoke in earnest and with conviction. After a few more words on his philosophy for the asylum, he offered them a tour. Vale was ready to decline the invitation and simply offer the man a pledge of monetary support, but Harrietta jumped at the idea.
“I should very much like to see the girls,” Harrietta said.
Mr. Winters beamed in return and directed them down a narrow hallway.
“This is the classroom where they learn to read and recite their catechisms,” he informed them proudly. “At present, we have but a few books and they must share with one another. We start promptly at seven o’clock in the morning after they have woken, dressed, and had their breakfast. After their morning lesson, they each have chores: sewing, cleaning, cooking.”
Vale studied the motley assortment of children, who watched him and Harrietta with large curious eyes. Their attire was worn, but they were groomed and, for the most part, not the disheveled ragamuffins he had expected.
They walked outside to a fenced area in the back. Mr. Winters explained, “Here they are allowed to play.”
He left their side to attend to two girls fighting over the only doll. To Vale’s surprise, Harrietta grabbed his arm suddenly.
“Does it not break your heart to see them, knowing they have neither mother nor father?” she whispered.
Instinctively, he covered her hands with one of his own. A little black girl of about seven years of age wandered over to them.
“I picked flowers,” she told them, holding up three stems.
“They’re beautiful,” Harrietta replied, crouching to match eye level with the girl. Vale wondered that she was able to do it with all the hoops and petticoats beneath her skirt. It must have been an awkward stance.
The little girl took one of the stems and handed it to Harrietta, then turned to consider Vale and handed one to him as well. Taking the lead from his wife, Vale also bent down.
“Thank you,” Harrietta said. “Are you sure you want not to keep it for yourself?”
“I have one,” the girl said and showed them the remaining flower that she held.
“What is your name, little one?” Vale asked, noting that the girl had the largest and roundest eyes he had ever seen.
“Mr. Winters said I needing a Christian name and did give me ‘Beatrice’ for my name, but my mama, she called me Adia.”
“Adia. A lovely name for a lovely girl.”
She gave him a half smile, unsure how to respond to the compliment.
“You knew your mother?” Harrietta inquired.
Adia nodded. “She was bought and put on a ship to America, but her owner had no wish to purchase me as I was but a child.”
Mr. Winters returned and offered to show them the room where the girls slept. Vale was glad to straighten his legs.
“Shall I see you again?” Adia asked them.
As Vale deliberated an appropriate response, his wife answered, “Of course! Perhaps you should like to visit our place? If you like flowers, we have many in bloom in our garden at present.”
“Now, now, Beatrice,” Mr. Winters intervened. “Run along and play.”
Adia brightened. “When, my lady?”
Mr. Winters was about to protest more sternly, but Vale put a hand on the man’s shoulder to stop him.
“Harrietta,” Vale said gently, wanting to tell her that the asylum no doubt had protocols in place for their wards, and he himself was unsure that inviting an orp
han over for a walk in the Aubrey gardens was what the girl needed.
“How about Sunday?” Harrietta proposed.
“We have services for the girls, albeit very modest, on Sunday mornings,” Mr. Winters explained.
“Ah, then the afternoon? I shall return in a carriage, shall I? Have you ever ridden in a carriage?”
Mr. Winters protested, “My lady is most gracious, but there is no need—”
Harrietta looked sharply at the man, and Vale could tell his wife meant to have her way on this matter.
“Perhaps two o’clock would be a good time?” Vale suggested. “We can discuss at that time what contribution can be made for the asylum.”
At that Mr. Winters’ eyes grew larger than Adia’s. “Absolutely. Any time that is convenient for your lordship. If I may show you the room where the girls spend the night, you will see the roof is in need of repair. When it rains, only half the room is usable.”
Vale smiled at Harrietta over the head of Mr. Winters. The sparkle in her eyes was what he had hoped to see earlier when they were shopping, and he was both proud and thankful to have the means to produce that gleam in her.
His thoughts turned to what he might do with her later that night in the Cavern of Pleasures.
Chapter Ten
THE CONFUSION OF SENTIMENTS swirling inside her in regard to her husband was maddening. Harrietta sighed as she threw a cape about her shoulders and prepared for her furtive journey into the night. His gesture at the orphan asylum had filled her with joy. As she had looked from the hopeful eyes of Adia to the cool but glimmering grey of her husband’s, for a moment she had thought to herself that she could love him, and love him with all her heart. But then she had only to remember the Countess.
She remembered that morning, as she lay awake staring at the canopy above her bed, reliving all that had transpired at Madame Botreaux’s, she had heard Vale’s return, had heard the footman informing him in the hallway that his hot water was ready for his morning shave. And she remembered how tired Vale had appeared at breakfast—no doubt the result of a vigorous night with the Countess. She wondered who had the voracious appetite. Was it the Countess or Vale?
Shaking her head, she admonished herself for filling her thoughts with Vale when she was heading to her assignation with him. The one in the black and silver mask. Had she truly surrendered her body to him? Allowed a stranger to pleasure her until she spent? His touch had been....unlike any she had imagined possible. He had seemed privy to that particularly sensitive ridge beneath her clitoris, strummed it to full effect, and she had spent easily and quickly for him. Not till after her mind had finally surfaced from the flood of ecstasy did she realize the pain in her arms and legs. When he had cut her bonds, she could not hold herself erect. He had been so tender with her afterwards that she almost did not wish to part from his arms.
After walking on her toes past Vale’s chambers, Harrietta wound her way down the stairs and into the drawing room, which had French doors leading out to the garden. She slid through the doors into the coolness of the night. A lattice of vines on the wall provided her the footing she needed to pull herself up and over the bushes. Once on the pavement, she rounded the corner of the house to head up the street where a coach would be waiting for her.
Once inside Madame Botreaux’s, Harrietta was greeted by a dressing maid who assisted her out of her clothing. Harrietta remembered being shy in front of the maid upon her first visit, but now she felt quite at ease as if she had been a long time patron of Madame Botreaux’s. With her mask fixed firmly in place, Harrietta, wearing only a thin silk robe, sauntered down onto the assembly floor.
“This marks your fourth visit to Madame Botreaux’s, does it not?” a low voice dripping with sensuality asked from behind her on the stairs.
Turning, she saw the man in the red mask that had caught her attention the first night. Her hand instinctively went up to her mask to assure that it was firmly in place.
“You have been counting?” she returned, lowering her own voice to mask her identity.
“I noticed you the first night you came,” the man said, stepping closer toward her.
Harrietta inhaled sharply as his body invaded the space around her. He wore tight black breeches and no shirt. His chest was as finely chiseled as that of her “lord” and his carriage as imposing. There was something predatory in the way that he moved and gazed upon her. It quickened her pulse, making her aware of her vulnerability.
She could have said the same of him, but only raised her brows solicitously. Good God, she had come a long way since her first wide-eyed appearance at this establishment.
He did not indulge her with more information and merely smiled. “When you have tired of your current master—as many women eventually do—you are welcome to grace my company. I can assure you a most memorable experience. The loudest screams of ecstasy always emerge from my corner.”
After allowing a moment for his words to sink in, he bowed and slid past her down the stairs. Harrietta, blood pounding in her head, watched him, smooth and lithe as a panther, disappear into one of the recessed alcoves. Her curiosity had been piqued, and she wondered what it would be like to be his submissive. In what ways would he differ from her “lord?” What a wanton harlot she had become! Shaking her head, Harrietta quickly descended the rest of the stairs. It was likely past the hour now, but she had not seen her “lord” pass by her. If she hurried, he would not know she was late. Hastily shedding her robe, she hung it on a hook on the wall and took her place in her customary spot.
“You are late.”
Startled, Harrietta looked to the shadow from where the disapproving voice had come. Her heart sank when she saw the form of her “lord” sitting on the bench she had occupied her second night with him. He stood up and advanced toward her, crop in hand.
“Do you remember the punishment for a late arrival?” he inquired.
“T-ten lashes, my lord,” Harrietta answered nervously.
“A nice but fruitless attempt,” he sneered, circling around her like a hawk. “The correct answer is twenty, but I shall add five more to prompt your memory for the future.”
Harrietta tried not to cringe. Her “lord” pulled over a strange contraption. It was waist high and resembled an inverted letter V. Iron shackles adorned each leg corner.
“Bend over the gable,” he instructed her.
She obeyed, and he pulled her arms toward the ground, clasping the shackles about her wrists. He spread her legs and shackled her ankles. The blood was rushing to her head and she could see only her own legs and those of her “lord” standing behind her.
“Count for me,” he said before inflicting the first blow to her right buttock.
Harrietta cried out. The pain was sharp and precise.
“Shall we start again?” he asked, raising his crop.
“One—one!” Harrietta supplied.
He delivered two quick blows, one to each cheek.
“Two—three,” Harrietta counted.
“Those were for neglecting to address me as ‘my lord,’” he informed her.
The word ‘no’ rose to her lips, but she swallowed it before enunciating.
“Yes, my lord,” she mumbled and braced herself for the next one. “Two, my lord.”
“Very good. You are a quick study.”
He struck her again on the same buttock, which had already been sensitized by the earlier blows.
“Three, my lord.”
The position was excruciating. She could do nothing to relieve the awkwardness of it or prevent the dizziness from having her head upside down. She disliked that her backside was so fully exposed to him, her arse at his mercy.
The fourth and fifth blows were delivered in quick succession to the same spot, and Harrietta felt tears pressing against her eyes at the stinging pain. The sixth and seventh were deliberately slow and far from one another.
“Absorb the pain of each individual lash,” he instructed her. “Are you enjoyi
ng it yet, ma petite?”
Enjoying it? It bloody hurts, you bastard.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
Harrietta struggled for a normal breath. Her arse was on fire, as if each lash was rupturing her skin. She did not think she could continue with fifteen more lashes remaining. She felt his had softly caressing one buttock.
“Your arse is blushing nicely,” he told her.
Then his hand slid between her legs, skimming her quim. Harrietta gasped in surprise. His touch was made all the more tender by the contrast of the throbbing pain of her posterior.
“You are wet,” he noted.
And, amazingly, it was true. Her body had responded to the lashing in a way she had not expected!
He reached his hand between her legs again and began fondling her clit. Harrietta groaned, remembering the delicious climax she had enjoyed at his hands the previous night. She wanted that again. But he stepped back to deliver the strongest blow yet.
“Eleven, my lord,” she said without hesitation, hoping he would touch her again. She strained to lift her head.
But he only landed the next few blows, each more forceful than the last.
“Now we are approaching the hue I prefer,” he commented. “You should see what a lovely red glow your arse has.”
To her delight, he began fondling her clitoris once more. Her mind, desperately relieved to have a distraction from the discomfort and the pain, wrapped itself in the warmth of his caresses. An ache of a different sort pulsed between her legs.
He stepped back to deliver two more strikes before returning to pleasure her. His fingers did remarkable things. The desire was heating her body as much as the lashing, and though she was already upon her toes, she lifted herself as high off the gable as she could to allow him better access.
Again, he retreated.
“Nineteen, twenty, my lord!” Harrietta counted.
Only five left, but by now she cared not as much. Lust was flaming through her body. She needed to spend. He struck her once and allowed the pain to sink into her flesh, but though each blow still caused her to clench her teeth, the yearning in her quim was more agonizing. She waited. Would he strike her or caress her next? Would it be his hand or the crop?