It was Maria, no longer speaking, who had dressed Hannah in the black brassiere, lacy and slight, that lifted her breasts and pushed them together. Around her loins was something like underwear, but preposterously tiny, of black satin and lacy. Her belly was stretched so long that the patch of shiny black did not even cover her whole bush. In some other place, other time, Hannah would have gazed at herself in a mirror, fascinated such things existed. Paris! But she thought only that families in her village dressed their dead in their best clothes, however shabby, to meet their God.
Then, she almost cried out, biting her lip, because the door began to open. She hung, staring, as though at the mouth of a black cave from which might step a beast. But it was little Miranda, followed by a guard. Like all of them, Miranda had changed; she entered and her eyes went to Hannah. Her chest rose in a sudden gasp, but she did not cry out, bend over as though punched. Her head remained up, her eyes moved from Hannah around the room.
Miranda was not tied. She was dressed as someone’s vision of a gypsy girl, a bright blue fabric wrapped around her big hips into a skirt and pinned at her waist, and a dazzlingly white sash tied around her huge breasts, which bulged over the top. Her dark skin seemed to have been oiled, so her bare midriff glistened, the deep naval a black eye. Her hair, so dark it was blue-black, had grown longer; it flowed over her shoulders and down her back, with white highlights like tiny diamonds that glittered as she moved. Hannah stared in disbelief.
“Sit,” said the guard, indicating a low chair whose huge seat was upholstered in a cream-colored fabric. Miranda lowered herself into the seat with a studied grace Hannah had not seen before; she immediately crossed her ankles. Hannah noticed that on her feet seemed to be soft slippers of light blue. “Do not move,” said the guard. “It does not matter how long you must wait. Do not move.”
Miranda looked up at him, her beautiful girlish face attentive, and nodded. “I won’t.”
The man cast one long glance at Hannah, turned, and left, softly closing the door behind him, and Hannah and Miranda were alone, looking at each other. After a moment, Miranda’s gentle brown eyes began to blink rapidly, and she murmured, “It is terrible, terrible.” She said still more softly, in a whisper, “Oh, I am sorry.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” said Hannah evenly. She shifted a little on her toes, seeking a more comfortable position; there was none.
“I can do nothing,” Miranda whispered urgently. “No one can.”
“I know. But still…”
“You tried to protect me, suffered for me, that night.”
Hannah wondered: How can I go on talking? Why doesn’t the terror take over, now? What is wrong with me? As though we were two girls sharing confidences before their big evening began. Well, they were.
Suddenly, from the hall, resounded a gruff voice talking much too loudly, laughing, as though revelers outside a pub were shattering the silence of a night street. Again, it came, louder—a bark of hilarity, then something was shouted. As though in counterpoint, a high, musical voice interjected, and the two voices laughed. “No disturbance! None! Do you hear?” And the doorknob turned.
The duke first, his frame filling the doorway, lips half-parted, eyes brash, demanding. Around him swirled a scarlet cape and down his front all Hannah could see were red and white ruffles and gold buttons. Below, his dark trousers were tight like riding breeches. The massive face with its bristling goatee grinned hugely, looking at Hannah, and he roared: “So! The girl from the Devon market with the insolent eyes!”
Now, the countess appeared behind him, waiting for him to make room for her to enter. A gown of yellow satin, fitted around her waist and bust, billowed out below atop fanning layers of petticoats. Hannah stared at the countess’s face, her lips pressed together against a cry of fear. Framed by the purest blond hair that Hannah ever saw, the hair strangely short for the style of the day, the countess’s face had precise and perfect lines; the chin, lips, nose, the curves of the cheeks and forehead were as though drawn with a stylus. It was not a young face, Hannah saw, but her flesh was tight, almost drawn, and the lips, too, were etched. It was the perfect cold, expressionless, pale face out of which gazed light-blue eyes that fastened on Hannah.
The duke strode into the room in a swirl of finery, his eyes on Hannah. But he paused and glanced down at Miranda and again Hannah saw the ready, delighted grin. “The funny little one,” he remarked, and walked over to Hannah. She couldn’t help it; she closed her eyes. Just a few moments, just because of the dizzy swirling in her head. She heard him ask, voice loud and demanding, but still jolly, “Do you remember my face, Devon market girl?”
She opened her eyes; her lips were trembling. “Yes,” she said in a very low voice. “In the carriage window.”
“And you thought you saw a great man!” he boomed.
“A powerful man.”
The duke’s grin faded slightly. He frowned. “The insolent girl from Devon!”
“No. I just looked. I never saw a carriage like that. I wondered who.”
“Now, you know!” he said, with a bark of laughter. He said, “She is pretty thing, saucy, I think.” He bent and wrapped his arms around her; he was much taller; he lifted her. Then, his head tilted and the great bristling face came forward, his lips touched hers, softly at first, then pressing, crushing, and she felt the bristles stab her. His tongue was pushing at her teeth, filling her mouth with a wetness, but she did not open them. Her squeezed her until her mouth opened to grasp for breath and his tongue entered, exploring, tickling her tongue. Still she squirmed for breath, desperately pulling back her head. Finally, he stopped and she gasped for air. The bark of laughter came and he lifted her slender body higher, almost till her wrists touched the crossbar, and dropped her. Her body fell and jounced in the ropes, jerking her shoulders. She cried out in surprise.
He whirled, storming away, and roared, “I love the wench!”
Standing beside the huge bed, he removed his cape, his ruffled coat, and his cravat, tossing them on the bed. He turned, wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, the tight trousers, his boots. He gave a loud sigh.
Hannah watched the countess walk over to stand before Miranda. She stood, pale, golden, before the dark Spanish girl. “Stand up,” she said. It was an insinuating voice that coaxed and threatened. Miranda quickly rose. The countess reached behind the girl, fiddling for a moment, and the sash loosened and slipped, revealing Miranda’s astonishing breasts, pendulous almost to her waist but still full and bulbous at their bottom, on which rested the big, almost black aureoles. Miranda stood stock still, chin lifted, eyes forward.
“I wanted to see them,” said the countess offhandedly. “Astounding, aren’t they? What do you see in her, Love? She’s a cow. I’ve seen Holsteins with less hanging than she has.” Her slender hands ran over the bottom of the breasts, squeezed them, although her hands were too small to encircle them. Then she stepped back, stared down, and her left hand flashed swiftly and slapped the breast. Miranda gave a little cry, immediately suppressed, and almost as quickly the countess’s other hand delivered a loud slap on the other breast. She turned and walked away, “I just don’t see it, darling, but if that is what you like…”
She came over in front of Hannah. Hannah’s lips did not tremble only because she pressed them together, but she blinked rapidly. She felt sick at her stomach and her head still spun with uncontrollable images. “This one is pretty, though; she has that healthy peasant look, I think. A little stocky.”
She turned to the duke, who now stood behind her. “Who gave her these exquisite whore’s clothes from Paris? Even on her, they are delicious.” She turned and walked to a bureau, pulled opened the small top drawer, and reached in. When she turned, she held silver scissors. Hannah closed her eyes, fighting the terror. She heard the countess in front of her, the whisper of shoes on the carpet, and forced herself to look. The slightest smile made lines on both sides of the countess’s lips and she stared into Hannah’s
eyes. Then, the scissors came up, Hannah felt metal touch her chest, slide, and the scissors snipped through the material between the cups of the brassiere. It parting and slipped down behind her, so her breasts were naked. The countess studied them, nodding slightly. “You picked a pretty one, darling.” Her fingernail came up and circled Hannah’s nipples one by one and they stiffened. Then the fingernail travelled around her lips so they tickled and twitched. Finally, the fingernails slid down to the base of her belly, inside the black panties, and run through the curly hair, grooming.
She again examined Hannah’s breasts and said, “Her nipples are odd, aren’t they?” She pursed her lips and added, “But somehow very exciting.”
“Yes,” the duke agreed heartily.
“It is too bad I can’t take them,” said the countess. She picked up the scissors again. With two fingers she squeezed the tip of Hannah’s nipple and stretched it far out. Then, she opened the blades and positioned them to cut along the base of Hannah’s aureole.”
Hannah closed her eyes and let her head drop.
The duke said, “If you so much as scratch them before I have the wench, I will flog your chest until you look like a man.”
“So serious about your pussy,” said the countess reproachfully. She tossed the scissors across the room; they struck the mirror above the bureau and clattered down.
The duke turned to Hannah and demanded, “You are virgin, girl, aren’t you? Until tonight.”
Hannah stared at him, her heart thudding. He roared, “Are you?”
She shook her head slightly. He stepped forward, seized her chin in his fingers, squeezing hard, and demanded, “Are you?”
“No,” whispered Hannah, and then, realizing he had not heard her, said more loudly, “No.”
He stepped back. The countess turned her face to him, raising her eyebrows. The duke said, “I told them virgin. They said she was.”
Again he stepped very close to Hannah, his shirt brushing her skin, his face almost touching hers. She smelled heavy gin on his hot breath. He asked, his voice low, “And why don’t you have it, then?”
“A man here had me. Just a few days ago. And now he has died; they buried him at sea.”
The duke frowned. “Absurd,” he said to the countess. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying, the wench is simple.”
“We can see,” said the countess, with satisfaction. The duke nodded. She bent forward. Her long fingers closed on the top of the black patch and she jerked downward all the way to Hannah’s knees, then let the panties go. They slid to Hannah’s feet.
“No,” breathed Hannah, but she knew it was futile. The countess’s slender fingers pushed between her legs and, a moment later, Hannah jerked in her bonds. She twisted away her hips, but the countess was not through; she thrust her hand harder and Hannah yelped. The duke looked at the countess, eyebrows raised. She said, “She is not, her cherry is gone.”
“But she cried out.”
“I jabbed the bitch,” said the countess. She was withdrawing her forefinger and held it up. It had a little arc of blood at its tip. “There,” she said.
“She is still comely. He looked into Hannah’s face and said, his voice low now, “It will be much, much harder for you.” After a moment, he added, “And now I wish to see your titties, too, countess.” The broad grin returned. The countess curtsied, her smile tight, but her eyes darkened with annoyance. She stepped to the bed, reached behind her to the row of buttons, then shrugged the gown off her shoulders. She pulled it down, then pushed it over her hips and it fell. She left it there. The petticoats came next, crushed into a pile atop the gown. She stood in a white silken slip. She lifted its straps off her straight, pale shoulders, and pushed the top down, turning it so it hung down from her waist, the straps swinging.
Hannah stared at her, realized that she was staring, and quickly looked away. The countess, too, was bare-breasted. The breasts were sizeable, but sculpted to perfection in upswept cones that ended in very pale pink nipples. For a moment, her fingers went to the small nipples and she smiled at the duke. Hannah thought she must be one of the most desirable women she had ever seen. The duke nodded, grinning at her. She said softly, persuasively, “Now, we are all the same, we women.”
“Never!” said the duke gallantly. And then, “Now, I think it is time to take the wench,” looking back at Hannah. “She has waited for me ever since that day in Devon.” The countess’s smile was thin, strained, the tight lips barely moving. She said, “Let me warm her, first, Love. She is cold and unresponsive. No sensation.”
“The whalebone,” said the duke. “Don’t cut her before I have her.”
Hannah’s arms, her shoulders, her sides burned. She had been hanging for more than an hour. Now, she began to lose control of the fear. Her breath came faster, her eyes flicked from the duke to the countess to Miranda to the door. She rubbed her legs together, restless; she couldn’t stay still. It was the physical urge to run, to cover herself—with her arms, her hands—to lift her legs to protect her belly. Instead, she began to make sounds like weeping, but no tears fell. The duke was watching her when the countess returned.
The whalebone switch was exquisitely long and thin, too thin too hold in the hand were it not tightly wrapped in leather with a leather loop for a handle. The countess snapped it and the thin tip whizzed; there was a faint buzz. The duke said, “Show her first on the other, countess. Show her what is coming.”
The countess walked slowly, gracefully, toward Miranda, her hips swaying, the long back a study in pale, perfect lines. Miranda seemed frozen, her face lifted, never taking her eyes from the countess, but her deep red lips were twisted against a cry.
“Finish, now,” ordered the countess, indicating the skirt. Instantly, Miranda’s fingers went to her waist, on the side, pinched the fastener and pulled it off. She yanked up the skirt where it folded over her waist, also holding it around her hips. She opened it and swung it around her, lifting it. Then she stood naked but for the blue slippers, holding the skirt in her hand. She turned to fold it carefully, drape it over the chair. And then she shrieked so loudly Hannah jumped and her heart sped.
The switch had lifted back and swished forward in a long arc, burning a red line across the girl’s smooth, full buttocks. Her hands flew behind her to cover it and she whirled to the countess, eyes wide, gasping. The countess said, “And this is the way you wish it?” and the switch twitched back and came forward as though in the same instant, before the girl could react, and seared a line across the soft breasts, just above the nipples. The countess raised the switch, paused, and smiled at her.
Miranda whirled around, proffering her buttocks, her hands in front of her over her breasts. She whimpered, and the buttocks clenched, but she was still. The switch landed with the wet sound of lashing oil, and the girl’s loins jerked forward to escape. She did not scream, only gasped “Oh! Oh!”
Again, and still Miranda did not move, try to cover herself.
Hannah stared, horrified, already gasping against the iron bands of fear encircling her chest. Her lips were half open and her head shook slowly, unbelieving. She heard the countess say, “Turn, now.”
Miranda turned, but her hands stayed pressed over her nipples. She gazed, frantic, at the countess; her head shook, the long beautiful hair swaying, and the brown eyes swam with tears. The countess raised her eyebrows, waiting a moment, watching her, then shrugged. The whip recoiled, again the faint buzz of air, and snapped. But this time, it streaked the girl’s soft, fleshy belly, very low, so the thin red band disappeared into her full black bush.
Miranda shrieked and she jackknifed, bending double to protect herself. But just as quickly she straightened up, her eyes shut, and then let her arms fall to her sides. Her whole body was trembling and she was weeping softly, but still waiting.
“No!” yelled Hannah. “Stop it! Stop it! Why?”
The countess turned to the duke, and said: “She wants her turn, now?”
“Yes!�
�� snapped Hannah.
The duke looked at her in surprise. He shook his head. “Who are you, Devon girl?” he asked softly, but there was no possible answer. The countess was walking over.
“I am randy for the girl,” exclaimed the duke. “I want to strip before you do her with the whalebone.”
The countess bowed. “And then, while you do her, I will let her see, on the Spanish girl’s back, how the cat will claw her.”
He turned to walk toward the bed, unfastening his trousers as he went.”
Chapter 32
“‘This Won’t Take A Minute,’ Said The Walrus”
They had commandeered a train car. The prime minister and first lord sat in the middle with four security men five seats ahead and the same number five seats behind. Beyond the security men in each direction were policemen, but only six. The first lord had protested: “The duke’s guard is there, Prime Minister. We don’t know how many; it seems at least two dozen, perhaps many more. They are armed.”
The prime minister turned to him, eyes still patient, and said, “I do not intend to storm the compound, First Lord. Nor overwhelm the guards by main force. This the duke’s residence—the duke! I intend to engage him in confidential conversation.”
“And if he declines, makes an excuse for this evening—puts us off?”
“I will tell him, in all candor, that I come on an urgent matter to try to prevent a scandal that would enmesh the royal family and great names and houses of this realm.”
The Price of Hannah Blake Page 22