‘That looks so pretty,’ he murmured, standing back to admire his work.
‘Aidan, stop, this has gone far enough,’ she protested, trying to bend from the waist and free her feet.
‘Not quite, my love,’ he countered and, seizing her hands he pulled them above her head, just as he had done against the tree-bole, and slipped handcuffs around her wrists. Now she hung there, helpless.
Being so vulnerable was a curious sensation. He had rendered her incapable of doing anything but handing her will over to him. Her black gown emphasised the paleness of her skin. She was cold, yet a fire raged in her loins. Why didn’t he take her, if that was his intention? ‘Why are you tormenting me?’ she gasped. ‘Set me free.’
‘Are you begging me?’ he asked coldly.
‘I am… master,’ she added, remembering the rules.
‘Don’t try to convince me that you’re not longing to experience the “little death” again,’ he said harshly. ‘Really, my dear, I fear for your morals, and can see that I shall have to keep a very close eye on you once we’re married. I don’t intend to harbour cuckoos in my nest. Say it, Angela… repeat after me, “I’m a wanton whore willing to let any man fuck me”.’
‘That’s not true,’ she cried, tears springing to her eyes. ‘I love you and will always be faithful.’
‘Ah, but darling girl, you’re eager for your completion. I know it. I can smell it. Your bud is screaming out for its crisis. You remember how that felt? The ecstasy that swept you to the heights? The madness that brooked no denial?’
He pushed her skirt high and there was nothing she could do to prevent his invasion. His hand slipped between her flesh and her lawn drawers. She was wet, always so when in his presence, and the steady thrum of his finger on her clit was irresistible, almost painful at first then dissolving into pleasure. She forgot her weird surroundings, only knowing that she wanted him to go on, her lower lips swelling and her nodule plump with wanting. Every sensation centred on the spot between her legs. She was no longer aware of the wood pressing into her back and the restraints chaffing her wrists and ankles. She was almost there, each nerve tingling as her body prepared itself for climax.
Aidan stopped abruptly, withdrawing his finger and cranking the revolving crosspiece until she faced away from him. She stared into the shadows and then felt his hands at her waist, tucking up her skirt and pulling down her drawers. The cold air played on her buttocks and thighs.
Silence followed, though her straining ears caught his slight movements, followed by a stillness like a drawn out scream. Then the air moved. There was a whistle. Angela jerked in her bonds as a bolt of lightning streaked across her naked hinds. The agony seemed to dive into her cleft, her womb, the very heart of her. A second blow followed, even worse than the first and she shrieked, her cry bouncing back from those brutally cold walls.
‘Aidan! Aidan! Master, stop. I beg you!’
A third kiss of the lash, laid on under the first two, rendered her almost senseless. Yet beneath that anguish it added fuel to the fire and that burning itch in her clitoris no way abated. In fact, it was as if she still hovered on the very edge of climax.
As the fourth blow descended, delivered so skilfully by her master’s hand, she writhed madly, consumed by pain and the excruciating lust that demanded relief. She heard the whip clatter to the floor as he flung it aside, then he appeared in front of her, his trousers unbuttoned, his penis ramrod stiff pointing towards her. He gripped it in one hand and rubbed it over her throbbing delta. She felt the helm pulse and her own nubbin responded while she relaxed into dreamy warmth. She was certain her goal was in sight, the pain in her whipped posterior as nothing in comparison, an adjunct to pleasure, that extra demonstration of Aidan’s strength and purpose. He was her master and she must learn from him.
She began to flow as he brought her to the edge, and then held off a little, teasing her until she begged for release. ‘You want it so much, don’t you?’ he breathed, and she watched as his free hand caressed his cock-stem and circled the tip. The organ quivered in response and clear fluid seeped from its single eye. He rubbed harder and, at the same time, swirled his finger round her clit, then frigged it hard, bringing her to a final explosion.
She came down from the heights, aware of wetness as he poured out his libation, his cock jerking in his hand. He had climaxed and so had she, almost at the same time. Such unity lifted her heart and convinced her that they were, indeed, soul mates made for each other.
The procession of black-clad figures trailed towards the grey church. Some had walked from the village, but the well to do had driven there. Angela had been among the latter, accompanied by Aidan in the largest of the Driscol vehicles.
It was early summer, a time of sunshine and abundance, the blue sky unmarred by a single cloud. The air hummed with mingled sounds; birdsong, the rustle of branches caressed by the light breeze. A day like many another when Angela had attended St Stephen’s Church with father. Now she walked behind his coffin, following the pallbearers through the lych-gate. They sweated beneath their burden, hardworking tenant farmers who had offered to honour Sir Barnaby.
Aidan’s fingers gripped her under the elbow and she was thankful for his support, her knees like jelly, her mind refusing to take in what was happening. It was a charade, surely? At any moment her father would come striding across the turf between the gravestones, making a joke and demanding what all the fuss was about.
Later she didn’t remember much about the ceremony, too distraught to take it in. It dragged to its mournful close and then she was standing by the ornate family mausoleum, the pillared door already open to receive the latest Bayswater. The coffin was carried inside and down the stone steps.
‘This can’t be the end of him, can it?’ she asked, clinging to Aidan’s arm.
She felt him shrug as he replied, ‘Who knows? I find it hard to believe in heaven and harps and angels. Shall we go, my dear? Let’s get the funeral feast over and done with and then we can concentrate on what Mr Doynton has to say.’
Cyril Doynton was the lawyer who had handled the estate affairs for years. He had arrived by train from London early that morning and intended to return by nightfall. Elderly but distinguished-looking, he politely offered his condolences and attended the service. He maintained his dignified manner when, on reaching Lairdland Manor, he joined the other guests in the banqueting hall where trestle tables had been set up, damask cloths spread and a substantial repast laid out.
Everyone was suitably subdued, speaking respectfully of the dead man, and it seemed he had been a popular figure thereabouts. The hunting fraternity was well represented, toasting him repeatedly, recounting memorable incidents in the field and laying into Mrs Gregory’s ham sandwiches, slices of cold roast beef and pork pies. The Reverend Beardsley was relishing the fine port wine and subjecting Angela to the touch of his damp, flabby hands. Maude, ever watchful, even of a churchman, came to her rescue.
Cyril Doynton stood to one side, quietly observant. He had been so silent throughout, scarcely exchanging more than a few words with Angela, that she wondered. It wasn’t that she knew him well, her father had been the one who consulted him, but she sensed something in the air that made her uneasy.
Some people had already gone, though others wanted to stay for the kill – the reading of the will. There was a little trace of anticipation as those left squashed into the library, facing Doynton who occupied the wide, brass-trimmed Napoleonic desk at the far end. Some sat, others stood at the back of the room where books lined the walls, their handsome spines glinting behind glass-fronted cases. Angela took a chair opposite Doynton, with Aidan standing behind her. The head servants, Mrs Gregory and Jackson, were a little way back, ready to hear their master’s last bequests, each hoping, perhaps, that there would be a little something for them so they might retire from toil and each purchase a humble dwelling in which to end their days.
Doynton shuffled papers on the desk’s dark green leathe
r surface, cleared his throat and looked around. The shuffling and low talk ceased. ‘Lady Angela,’ he began, inclining his head towards her, then his glance encompassed the whole throng, ‘and those who have gathered here at the reading of the late Sir Barnaby Bayswater’s last Will and Testament.’ He paused, and appeared to be disconcerted. ‘I’m afraid this is not a straightforward matter.’ He looked at Angela and added, ‘You should have been the sole beneficiary, my lady.’
‘Should have been? What do you mean? Speak out, man,’ Aidan butted in rudely, his white-knuckled fists clenched on the back Angela’s chair.
Doynton shot him a disparaging glance. ‘Have you a right to speak up on this matter?’ he queried coolly.
‘As her fiancé I have every right,’ Aidan snapped back.
The onlookers were silent. The whole room had become one listening ear. Such an event would provide endless speculation and rumour for months to come, maybe even years. Angela spoke up, and her calmness astonished her.
‘Mr Doynton, will you be so kind as to explain?’ she said in a steady voice.
Doynton shook his head and then spread his hands over the paperwork in a defeated gesture. ‘The truth is, Lady Angela, that your father died penniless.’
An astonished cry arose from the audience. Some said, ‘It can’t be true!’ and others declaimed, ‘But he was a rich man! There must be some mistake!’
Aidan was one of those who demanded, ‘You must be mistaken. What are you playing at, man? Is this some dastardly trick?’
Doynton’s face set like granite and his expression showed that he didn’t much care for Lady Angela’s betrothed. ‘It is correct, Lord Driscol. I’ve been through it with a fine toothcomb and, in fact, Sir Barnaby had been to see me shortly before his demise. He was deep in debt, you see, the house was mortgaged to the hilt, and everything he owned must now be sold to pay his creditors.’
‘Everything?’ Angela whispered, unable to take it in.
‘Everything, I’m afraid. You’ll have nothing except the clothes you stand up in.’
‘This is monstrous!’ Aidan bellowed. ‘What about her dowry?’
Doynton looked at him with a curl of his lips and replied, cuttingly, ‘There is no dowry. Sir Barnaby gambled it all away. He spent money like water on high living, the card tables, an abundance of alcohol and a fondness for ladies of… shall I say? …unsavoury reputations.’
‘So I have nothing?’ Angela said slowly, beginning to grasp the enormity of the situation. ‘I shall have to leave Lairdland?’
‘That’s right. Every stick and stone will now be sold.’
‘Where shall I go? Didn’t he even leave me the meanest cottage?’
‘No. I’m sorry, Lady Angela, but you will be obliged to fend for yourself. Have you no friends or relatives who could help you through this?’
‘No, sir, but I have Lord Driscol, to whom I am engaged to be married,’ and she turned and looked up at Aidan, expecting reassurance.
But what she saw astounded her. His eyes were cold slits, his brows drawn down into the blackest scowl she had ever seen on a man’s face. ‘I can’t marry you now,’ he said in clipped tones. ‘You have no dowry.’
Chapter 3
There was such uproar in the hall that only Angela and Doynton heard what Aidan said. She could not believe those callous words. He loved her, didn’t he? He had promised to care for and protect her!
Doynton’s face was grim as he leaned forward and addressed him, saying, ‘If this is the case, my lord, then I think we may be suing for breach of promise.’
‘Sue away,’ Aidan returned insolently, placing his hands flat on the desktop and staring him straight in the eye. ‘You won’t get far. Better to listen to my proposition. Shall we retire to somewhere private? This is turning into a bear-garden,’ and he cast a disparaging glance at the gesticulating throng.
Doynton rose, and Aidan had a quiet word with Jackson and Mrs Gregory concerning the dispersal of the guests, and then followed Angela into her father’s sanctum. She walked like an automaton. The full significance of Aidan’s statement had not yet sunk in.
The room was redolent of her father, the atmosphere spiced with the aroma of cigars. He had smoked nothing but Havana’s finest. There were hunting trophies staring glassy-eyed from the walls – stags’ heads, that of a wild boar, a fox mask, even a snarling tiger he claimed to have shot when visiting members of the Raj in India. And she realised she had never really known him at all. He had led a secret life far removed from the genial parent he pretended to be. Was it pretence? She did not want to believe he had been insincere in his love for her. But there was that other side – the gambler, the profligate, the womaniser – of whom she had known nothing.
Her heart sank like a stone as a voice within her whispered that maybe the man she loved and to whom she had been betrothed might be of the same ilk. It was true that he was sometimes over-attentive, sometimes neglectful, keeping her on a knife-edge of uncertainty.
‘Sit down, Lady Angela,’ Doynton said kindly, indicating a chair. ‘You’re as white as a sheet. I’m sure this has been a great shock for you.’
‘For us all,’ grunted Aidan, perching on the edge of the table, one foot swinging, the other leg braced on the floor. ‘Was there no provision made for her?’
‘None at all, but this wasn’t intentional. You see, along with most gamblers, Sir Barnaby was always convinced that he was about to hit a lucky streak, be it horseracing, boxing matches, a turn of the card – whatever. But he never made it and simply landed deeper and deeper in debt.’ Doynton reached for the carafe and filled a crystal tumbler with water, then handed it to Angela.
‘So he wasn’t a wicked man?’ she said, sipping slowly.
‘Indeed not. Simply a foolish one,’ the lawyer replied.
‘Did you mean what you said, Aidan?’ she asked, forcing herself to look up at him.
‘About our marriage? Oh yes, I need a bride with a substantial dot, so this can no longer take place. But I can offer you a solution,’ he answered, so calm that she wanted to slap him across the face.
‘And what, sir, is that?’ Doynton cut in.
‘I am going to London. She may come with me and I’ll place her in the care of an acquaintance of mine, the Honourable Mrs Valerie Gail. As a renowned society hostess she may be able to find a post for Angela… as a governess, perhaps, or a companion to an elderly lady.’
Doynton frowned and cast him a distrustful glance. ‘Is she a respectable person?’
‘She is. I give you my word as a gentleman.’
‘What do you say, Lady Angela?’
‘I have no alternative, have I?’ she said dispiritedly, her dreams of a future as Aidan’s wife crumbling into dust. ‘I’d much rather not see you again, Aidan. You have treated me shamefully. Your behaviour is far from that of a gentleman. I’d get more consideration from a labourer.’
‘There’s no call to speak to me in that tone. It’s not that I don’t love you,’ he replied and, just for a moment she believed him. ‘But I’m not a rich man and need a wealthy wife. You understand, don’t you? I will do my best for you in other ways, and Valerie will help. Of course, you may have to dismiss Miss Hicks and your maid, unless we can come to some arrangement.’
‘Arrangement? I don’t understand.’ She passed her hand across her brow, then addressed Doynton, asking, ‘What can I take with me, sir? Some of my clothes are already at Compton Hall.’
‘Pack everything from your wardrobe, and any jewels that were given to you as presents. Apart from that there is nothing,’ the lawyer said, with a sorrowful shake of his head. ‘Even the family gems that were worn by your mother and should have passed to you on marriage will now be forfeit.’
‘My mare, Daisy Belle?’ she questioned, feeling empty inside and totally numb.
‘Will be sold with the rest of the stable.’
‘So I can’t spend another night under this roof?’
‘You could, but I do
n’t advise it. The servants will all be dismissed and the house shut up until the bailiffs and creditors arrive, which will be very shortly.’
‘Can I take Maude upstairs to help me pack?’ she asked Aidan.
‘She will be doing it out of the goodness of her heart, for you have no money to pay her wages,’ he reminded with a shrug, then added magnanimously, ‘I’m sure I can sort this out.’
It was unbelievable. She stood in the bedroom that had been hers ever since she left the nursery, and assisted Maude to lift dresses from hangers and hats from shelves and underwear from tallboys and shoes from the wardrobe. Servants had hefted in two trunks and these were soon full of her belongings. The clasps were fastened, the leather straps buckled securely, and all her worldly possessions humped down the back stairs and out to a waiting cart that would bear them to Compton Hall.
She was ushered out through the front door, casting a despairing glance around her, seeing her beloved home for the last time. She was aware of being watched by unseen eyes, though none of the staff were in evidence. Aidan escorted her to the carriage and Maude was invited to sit inside with them. Doynton came as well, having been offered a lift to the railway station. The coachman cracked his whip. The horses leaned into the straps. The carriage began to move.
Angela pressed her face to the window glass, taking a final look at the house she had assumed would be home to her down the years. Then her sight blurred, the scene fractured across by tears.
‘Don’t unpack,’ Aidan commanded. ‘We’re going by train to London in the morning.’
They were in the drawing room and one of the servants, a pert girl called Lisa, with corn-coloured hair and sparkling blue eyes, brought in a silver tray containing porcelain cups and saucers. A footman carried a lighted spirit stove and placed a matching kettle over the flame, so that the silver teapot might be topped up with boiling water.
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