No more! The thought struck her like a spear. No more! He was dead and she must carry on. The task seemed enormous, more than she could manage, swamped as she was with grief. She knew nothing about the running of the estate. Sir Barnaby had not believed in too much education for girls. She could read, write, add up and had a smattering of knowledge concerning history and geography. She had been taught to sew and embroider, and was a dab hand at producing pretty watercolours and pressing flowers. She could play the pianoforte competently and sing, her voice sweet and tuneful. Dancing was another attribute; one that would be useful in the ballroom. But as for bookkeeping or finance? This was beyond her comprehension, although she was bright and could have tackled it had she been shown the way.
‘What am I to do, Maude?’ she cried, pacing the floor, striking her right fist into her left palm. ‘Do I stay here until Lord Driscol and I are married? And when this happens, do I leave Lairdland forever? And there are the funeral arrangements, and letters to write informing people, to say nothing of getting in touch with the solicitor. I don’t think I can manage.’
‘You won’t have to do anything, dearest,’ said a strong, masculine voice from the doorway.
She swung round, then ran towards him, hands outstretched. ‘Aidan! Aidan! I’m so glad you’re here,’ she cried, and flung herself into his arms.
Peace pervaded her, the first easement she had known for hours. He held her and rocked her and she cried all over his shirtfront. She registered that he was still in riding clothes; having come directly he heard the news. This was disturbing, flooding her with memories of that morning. She looked around for Maude but she had withdrawn to the window embrasure, available if needed but discreetly giving the couple space.
‘You shall stay with me until the funeral is over,’ Aidan vowed, and his hands soothed and petted Angela, running up and down her spine and making her deliciously mindful of his bodily strength, even in the midst of her turmoil. The prospect of residing at Compton Hall earlier than she had anticipated brought a ray of hope. She had been certain that Aidan would care for her, and this was now being proved.
‘I can’t leave father, can I?’ she demurred, nestling her head against his chest, wanting to stay there forever. ‘He will be lying in his coffin in the Great Hall, so that the villagers and tenants can come and pay their respects.’
‘Jackson and the undertaker can take care of that, can’t they?’ Aidan said imperiously. ‘And Mrs Gregory, who will also make arrangements for food and wine at the wake. And you can drive over whenever you wish until the interment. I shall inform whoever needs to be told, including his lawyer who, I assume, is in London.’
‘Oh, Aidan, thank you! You are so good.’
He released her and turned to Maude, ordering crisply, ‘See that her Ladyship has everything she needs. Have her maid pack a valise. We are leaving in half an hour. Send Jackson and Mrs Gregory to me to receive their instructions.’
The carriage reached the top of the drive and the coachman turned right, taking the road that led to Compton Hall. Aidan and Angela were alone. She had been so distressed that she had forgotten Maude should be with them, and now the companion and the ladies maid, Bertha Marten, were travelling in the gig behind.
Angela felt that her whole world had been turned upside down. It was strange to be in Aidan’s coach like this, as if they were already married. Despite her relief at him taking charge it should not have happened for several months yet, and only after her father had led her to the altar and given her to her bridegroom with due pomp and ceremony. Now Aidan was taking her away from her home, motivated by love and consideration, and yet it did not feel right.
He was seated next to her and he turned his head and said seriously, ‘Well, well, here’s a strange twist of fate. I’m so sorry about your father, Angela, I truly am. But every cloud has a silver lining, it seems, and now I can take care of you. It is almost as if we are already husband and wife. I think we should advance the date of our wedding. What do you say? I’m sure it could be arranged for a couple of months’ time.’
‘Can this happen whilst I’m in mourning?’ she answered, already attired in black from head to toe. Death was a common occurrence and every lady had suitably sombre attire in her wardrobe.
‘Under the circumstances I’m sure it can be done, a much quieter affair than planned, of course. You need to be protected. You can’t go on living at Lairdland Manor by yourself. I shall speak to my lawyer, and yours. Give me his address and I’ll write to him with the sad news, and give the date of the funeral, once it is decided upon. Presumably he will be there to read the will. Have you any idea how your father bequeathed his property?’
Angela was startled by this question. She had not given it any thought. ‘I am his only child and, as far as I know, it will all come to me, apart from a few provisions he may have made for his oldest retainers,’ she answered, and a sob rose in her throat. She pressed her handkerchief to her lips.
He settled back against the plush crimson upholstery and inserted an arm behind her. Angela was glad to lean into him, like a lost child coming home. Although she needed nothing but comfort, she was conscious of his body heat through her clothing. His face was close to hers, so close that she could see the thickness of his long lashes and read – she did not know what – in his flint-grey eyes. His mouth fascinated her, the upper lip firm with a curl that showed his impatience with incompetence, and the lower full and sensual. And this wonderful man was soon to be hers and hers alone. She melted into his embrace, wanting to deny him nothing.
‘What shall we do with Lairdland?’ he mused, and his hand came to rest lightly on her breasts. ‘We don’t want to sell it, do we?’
‘Oh, no,’ she murmured, stunned by the electric currents coursing from her nipples to her cleft. ‘It has belonged to the Bayswater family for generations.’
‘Quite right, my love,’ he went on, and now his hand was inside her jacket, running smoothly over the silk of her blouse and finding the jet buttons of the front fastening. ‘I suggest we lease the house and the land. It should command a substantial rent and, when our sons are grown up, the eldest can take it over, combining the two estates into a powerful whole.’
‘You speak so confidently,’ she whispered, thrilling as his skilful fingers wormed their way inside her blouse and contacted the chemise she wore beneath it, rubbing over the fragile material and making her nipples rise into stiff peaks. ‘How do you know we shall have sons?’
‘Of course, we shall,’ he answered firmly, and bent his head to kiss her, a mere brushing of lips that fired her and increased the wetness pooling in the secret place between her thighs.
His arm remained around her possessively. The swaying of the coach threw them into even greater contact. His thumb continued to revolve over one of her nipples and she ached with want, wishing the knot had already been tied and they were off on their honeymoon. She sighed and, almost without knowing, opened her legs a little under the sober black skirt. ‘You are so sure of yourself,’ she murmured. ‘I wish I were more like you.’
He chuckled, indulging her, saying, ‘Silly little goose. Leave weighty matters to me. You really don’t have to bother your pretty head about anything. I shall take care of it. Do you trust me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you fear me?’
‘Sometimes,’ she confessed, but any trace of fear always heightened the desire that heated her blood.
‘And this morning’s introduction to the lash? Are you bruised?’
‘Yes, and I’m bewildered by my feelings. You hurt me, but it served to make me love you more.’
‘Love or lust?’ he asked with a throaty chuckle. ‘You are neglecting to call me master.’
‘I’m sorry… master… but so much has happened over the past hours. Please forgive me.’
‘You enjoyed what I did to you?’ he muttered, and slowly lifted her skirt and the petticoat beneath. His hand slid up the silkiness of her stockings
and contacted her naked thigh.
‘Oh, yes… but you stopped too soon. I needed you to go on, but I don’t know why.’
‘Have you never played with yourself down there?’ he said, an alert look in his eyes. ‘Never brought on your crisis by rubbing your love-button?’
‘No, Aidan… I mean, master. I w-was taught that genteel ladies never, ever examine their private p-parts,’ she stammered. ‘And what is a love-button?’
‘I’ll show you,’ he growled and pressed closer, making her aware of the lump in his trousers. She vividly recalled the sight of his penis. Her heart pounded, as it had done earlier when he teased her with his manhood but made no attempt at consummation. Now he did not disturb her undergarments, merely sliding a finger into the central opening of her knickers. He insinuated a hand between her legs, finding them relaxed. His digit moved, scooping moisture from her virginal mouth and spreading it over her cleft.
‘Oh… oh!’ she cried, as spasms of delight shot through her. They seemed to connect with her needy nipples. Aidan bent his head and his cheeks hollowed as he sucked them greedily. With each passing second she was finding it more and more difficult to stay still and passive. Even the stripes that throbbed dully on her skin did not detract from her longing. She would even be willing to endure them again, if Aidan would only satisfy this frustration welling up within her. When his fingertip found the head of her swollen clitoris and stroked it from side to side, then up and down, sensations such as she had even known gathered and quivered through her, culminating in one irresistible surge towards ecstasy. But he knew and eased off, teasing her mercilessly.
Angela lifted her hips, chasing her pleasure, moaning her desire. ‘You want more?’ he said.
‘Yes, yes,’ she sobbed.
‘And you’ll do what I demand, without question. Do you agree?’
‘Yes!’ she cried, pressing against his hand.
He went back to his task with practiced ease, stroking her bud till nothing mattered but that this delirious feeling continued, leading her onwards… to what? She couldn’t stop, languishing under his expert frottage, surrendering entirely to him, pleasure swamping her, reaching a crescendo that made her swoon.
‘Oh, God, I must be dying,’ she cried, regaining her senses.
He laughed again, low in his chest. ‘The French call it “the little death”,’ he said. ‘Have you really never experienced it before? This is your first orgasm?’
‘I dream something like it occasionally, but never knew, never realised that such bliss existed,’ she sighed, waiting for something more, wanting to feel his appendage inside her so that her inner muscles could contract around such firmness.
Aidan, however, having demonstrated his control over her, sat back and watched as she rearranged her skirt. He raised his hand to his nostrils, sniffing appreciatively. ‘You have the most seductive odour,’ he said calmly, and she was thrown by his cold sensuality. Embarrassed, too, unaware that men liked woman smell. Angela wanted to be cuddled. His abrupt withdrawal made her feel cheap and she could not understand why he was behaving in so cavalier a fashion. Why had he bothered to introduce her to her own carnality if he didn’t intend to follow it through by taking his own pleasure?
He said nothing more and they arrived at Compton Hall in silence. Once there the footman lowered the iron step and Aidan leapt out, then gave Angela his hand. The gig disgorged its passengers and several strong male house-servants came to take the luggage.
‘I shall see you at dinner,’ Aidan said, bowing formally over her hand. ‘Try to rest for an hour, dearest. It will put the roses back in your cheeks.’
She wasn’t aware of looking pale. In fact her face felt as if it was on fire, the feelings still radiating from her lower regions enough to heat her thoroughly, and making it difficult to look him in the eye – or Maude, for that matter. Supposing she guessed what had taken place in the coach?
Angela was treated like a queen. Aidan could not do too much for her. The servants tiptoed around her as if she was suffering from a terminal illness. No one was allowed to upset her, and he acted as if she was made of spun glass, too fragile for this world.
She had secretly hoped that he might take advantage of the fact that she was under his roof, but they dined together formally on the first evening, attended by the butler and a fleet of footmen and he escorted her to her room later. She was moved by his gallantry, but disappointed because he made no suggestion of stepping over the threshold, giving her a goodnight peck on the cheek.
This set the tenor of her days and nights. Though she wanted to experiment with her newfound sensuality she was still too repressed to do so. In fact, by the time her head touched the pillow she fell into a deep, troubled sleep, and woke weary and unrefreshed. She told herself it would be better once the funeral was over.
She had dined at Compton Hall several times with her father, but only seen a fraction of it. One morning soon after her arrival Aidan took her on a conducted tour. The house was a huge, rabbit warren of a place and she found its atmosphere oppressive. Parts of it were no longer used, but had been kept from falling into disrepair.
‘When we’re married we will open up the ballroom and hold grand soirées, inviting members of the county gentry,’ Aidan said, arm resting lightly round her waist as they traversed corridors and peered down stairwells sunk in gloom, opened creaking doors and stepped into rooms where the shutters were drawn across the windows and the furniture shrouded in dustsheets. ‘And as our babies are born we’ll refurbish the nursery wing, and the place will ring with childish laughter and hullabaloo.’
He stopped near one of the panels in a dressing room that adjoined his own chamber, pressed a Tudor rose carved into the panelling and, with a click, a low door sprang open. A musty smell escaped from the darkness beyond.
Angela took a step back. ‘Ugh!’ she complained. ‘A secret passage? Where goes this lead?’
He looked at her strangely, and she was struck by the tight slant to his mouth. ‘To the dungeons,’ he replied.
‘They can’t be in use?’ She tried to turn her sudden dread into a joke.
‘Part of them are… as wine cellars and storage space. The rest…’ he shrugged his wide shoulders under the tweed jacket that matched his trousers. ‘I have been known to hold parties down there.’
‘Whatever for, when you have so many lovely rooms above?’ she asked, chillingly reminded that there were so many things she didn’t know about him.
He opened the little door wider and held out his hand. ‘For fun… perhaps on Halloween or new year’s eve, when spirits are abroad.’
‘Don’t tease,’ she said with a shudder, and tried to tug her hand free. ‘Let’s go back. It must be nearly time for luncheon.’
He laughed, took up a candle from the dressing table, struck a match and lit the wick. ‘Not yet. Didn’t you promise to do anything I asked you? I hope you haven’t forgotten. I shall be angry. Now, come with me and stop being silly.’
He disappeared through the aperture and, bunching her skirt in one hand, she followed him timorously. The candle bobbed ahead of her and her feet encountered narrow stone steps winding downwards. ‘Wait for me,’ she quavered, and felt his hand grip hers.
This was better. Now she was no longer afraid of tripping and plunging into the darkness below. She tried to be brave. It was only an underground part of the house, after all, set in the foundations. No need for her to think of bats and ghosts, demons and witches and other unearthly things that go bump in the night.
He led the way silently until they emerged into a long, low-ceilinged corridor with a sloping floor. It was pitch-black on either side of that precious candle-glow that dazzled the eyes yet was infinitely comforting. Arches upheld the ceiling, and Aidan stopped outside a heavily studded door. He turned the iron key in the lock and pushed it open. He entered first and Angela hurried after him, too scared of being left behind. He went round igniting torches that stood in braziers fixed to the walls.
Light flared up and she found herself in a large room, the roof supported by pillars, the walls of uniform grey stone. It was cold there and decidedly creepy. Angela shivered.
‘Where are we?’ she asked, her voice echoing.
‘It is the oldest part, where a keep once stood when the house was a castle,’ he explained, glancing at her through narrowed eyes, as if gauging her reaction. ‘Do you see the cells?’ and he pointed to a series of rusting iron gates, the darkness accentuated behind grilles. ‘It was also the torture chamber.’
‘C-can’t we go now?’ she protested, her lively imagination creating sounds of the distant past: the screams, the protestations of innocence.
She followed him to the far end, too terrified of being left, though dreading what she was about to see. The candle flickered as he applied the flame to a wall-hanging torch. The stronger light flared over the forbidding shape of a crosspiece. What was it for? She could only hazard a horrified conjecture. Near this was a rack complete with pulleys and ropes, cogs and winches. A bench stood close at hand with holes in various places, and a structure that resembled a pillory, also a throne with open space where the seat should have been, leaving whoever sat in it exposed below. This was not all. There were implements on hooks fixed to the walls – long whips and short crops, multiple-thonged taws, leather-covered paddles, rattan canes, belts, straps and manacles, handcuffs, gags and blindfolds, chains and restraints.
‘Why do you keep these awful things?’ she gasped.
He gave a crooked smile and the flickering light threw strange shadows over his face. ‘Relics, my dear. A piece of history to which I have added. Some of my acquaintances find them more than just amusing.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she began, then half-turned, adding, ‘can’t we leave? I don’t like it here.’
For answer he grabbed her and, with one arm around her waist, carried her until she felt the wood of the crosspiece at her back. He pressed against her, making her aware of his erect penis. She was possessed with dread, yet gravid with desire. Was he about to perform the act she longed for, yet feared? He lifted her higher till her feet came to rest on a small platform. He spread her legs and she heard a metallic click as manacles were fastened round her ankles.
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