Her Grace's Stable: A Jane Austen Space Opera, Book 2 (7 page)

“Did you like what you saw?” She kept her voice and manner unthreatening, with just enough teasing to hopefully entice him into playing along. “I asked Dain to be available for you as well. I won’t be offended if you’d prefer a master in the ring with you. In fact, that might be for the best.”

Dain gave his whip an experimental crack above his head at the edge of the ring, just to see what Arthur thought of it. He quivered, his eyes widening, but he didn’t turn away from her.

“I guess he’s yours to break, Blackmyre.” Dain laughed, keeping his manner light to match hers. “Good luck, Your Grace. If you need help saddling him up, send Cole along to fetch me. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at your soiree.”

She waited until Dain and Cole left and the unmistakable sound of the lock snicking back into place echoed through the ring. Dottie was still watching, but Arthur didn’t spare a glance in her direction. Hopefully he wouldn’t even realize he had an audience.

“Go ahead,” she urged him, tipping her head toward the table. “Take a look at my equipment and see what you think of it.”

She hadn’t known what might interest him, so she’d brought a wide assortment of tack. Halters, bridles, even chest harnesses and martingales that Cole refused to wear.

Arthur tried to keep a wary eye on her, but as soon as he scented the leather, his eyes started to haze over with the same look that Cole got when he thought about his tail.

“It smells good, doesn’t it,” she whispered encouragingly. “I keep all the leather soft and supple. It won’t rough up your skin. Do you want to try a bridle? Or would a simple halter be better?”

Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply and trembled at her approach, but he refused to answer. She’d always desired to comply with her pony’s natural inclinations as much as possible but if he refused to communicate, she’d simply have to experiment. A metal bit in his mouth might be too strange for him after everything he’d been through. She’d certainly seen vicious spiked rings on some ponies that looked quite painful.

She examined his mouth, looking for fine lines or scars that might indicate damage, but his full, sensual lips appeared unmarred. He breathed deeply, drawing her scent in with the leather, and when his mouth relaxed enough to crack open slightly, she made her decision. She picked up the bridle with the largest headspace and held it out toward him.

Lowering his head, he sniffed the leather, making a low sound very close to a nicker. The man was a natural pony, despite whatever horrors he’d seen. It was such a shame that someone had hurt him so badly.

She lifted the bridle toward his chest, intending to touch him with the leather and get him used to her hand, but he shied away, flinging his head up with alarm.

“I’m going to have to touch you, Arthur. If you put the bridle on yourself, it loses some of the pleasure, yes? It won’t be the same. I give you my most solemn word that I won’t touch you sexually in any way without your explicit verbal consent. I wouldn’t force myself on a real horse. I certainly won’t force myself on you.”

Warily, he watched as she came nearer, even though she kept her approach slow and steady. She didn’t ask his permission, but instead, commanded his compliance in this small thing with every ounce of her will that she could muster. Holding the bridle in her hand, she pressed her fist against his chest and just held the leather against him. This time he held still, but his heart pounded hard against the backs of her fingers.

“Since you refuse to speak to me, you can’t give me a safe word when you’ve had enough. What kind of signal should we devise for when you’re ready to end our play, hmmm? You saw how I ended the scene with Cole. You won’t want to simply walk out and skip the grooming, would you? He’s always loved that part.”

When she made no other offensive move, muscle by muscle he relaxed. Only then she did begin to rub the bridle across his chest and shoulders, breaking him in slowly to her touch through the leather.

“Once we get the bridle on that magnificent head of yours, I think you’ll like it very much. So if you ever reach up and remove the bridle, that will be my signal that you’re ready to stop for the day. All right? Just slip it off your head and our game is done. Simple as that. I never bind the hands of my pony or impede his normal movements other than whatever tack he prefers.” She lowered her voice to a playful husky timbre. “I prefer au natural, as you saw with Cole. But if you wish to retain all of your clothing, I don’t mind. Whatever makes you comfortable, Arthur.”

He blew out a long, heavy sigh and lowered his head, inviting the bridle. For a moment, she didn’t trust her voice. His trust—after the horrible things another mistress had done to him—moved her heart so deeply she wanted to weep for him. But that would destroy the fragile bond she’d forged so far, and tear down his proud, confident defiance with her pity.
He deserves so much more than my teary regrets about things I cannot change no matter how much I wish otherwise.

Using her other hand, she cupped the bit and lifted it to his mouth. He might change his mind and try to bite her, so she kept her fingers as close together as possible. Cole had been known to playfully nip her on occasion just to keep her on her toes. With her other hand, she slid the headstall into place.

His teeth clacked on the metal but he didn’t throw his head up or try to jerk away. He mouthed the bit, rolling it in his teeth as she adjusted the buckles to bring the bridle into the correct position on his head. A normal horse’s elongated head and ears made it easy to keep such a piece on his head; it was trickier to get the same look and feel on a human.

He suffered her touch on his head, her fingers gliding over his forehead and cheeks and around behind his head, checking to make sure the bridle would stay in place without pinching or rubbing his skin. However, she didn’t push him into accepting more than what was absolutely necessary to assess his wellbeing. She stepped back and let him adjust to the feel of her bridle.

For a moment, he simply stared into space, that distant haze still in his eyes, his mouth working the bit. Sweat had dampened his shirt, even though she hadn’t asked anything of him physically yet. She had a feeling he’d be wishing he’d stripped out of at least his coat soon enough.

His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, even inching toward the small of his back. Perhaps his previous mistress had bound his hands behind him in order to make him less formidable. His fingers closed into fists and a grim hardness flowed over his handsome face that made a shock of recognition flood over her.

That look of intelligence and determination in his dark, thickly fringed eyes, the same elegantly masculine nose, square jaw and full lips.
He’s considerably older than Garrett and has definitely seen the harsher side of the kind of domination I enjoy, but if he’s not a Wellington, I’ll give Dottie my favorite hat.

When he clamped his teeth firmly on the bit and focused on her, she smiled. “There’s my fine, strapping stallion.”

Chapter Six

On one level, Arthur remembered exactly who and what he was enough to be humiliated at the idea of wearing a ridiculous bridle meant for a beast of burden. Emotionally, he was both jubilant that someone saw that need in him and was more than capable of satisfying it better than anyone he’d ever had the privilege of meeting before, and also horrifically ashamed that a beautiful woman of Lady Blackmyre’s station had witnessed his utter humiliation. Surely he’d see pity in her eyes. A glimmer of horror and revulsion that had grown daily in Kitty each time she forced herself to subdue him in some way.

Instead, the Duchess of Blackmyre beamed at him like he’d just leaped the Thames for her in a single bound.

The rush of her approval was like a drug.

Physically, he felt like his blood was being pumped through his body by one of Her Majesty’s marvelous machines her scientists had created. He threw his head up and shook himself, enjoying the way the leather felt and smelled. Chains tinkled merrily at his cheeks and he shook again, relishing the sound.

“Ah, you like the jingle of chains and decoration. I’ll remember that for next time.”

Next time
echoed in his skull with the pounding of his heart. Would he allow this again?

Could he even think of denying himself this extreme pleasure?

For it was a pleasure. The scent of leather filled his nose in a heady plume more mouth-wateringly arousing than the finest Francian perfume ever sold at market. Combined with the jingle of the bridle and the cold metallic bar between his teeth, he was so hard he seriously regretted the constraint of clothing. The neck cloth strangled him. The heavy woolens trapped the rising heat of his body in a tropical heat wave worthy of the Colonies instead of civilized Britannia.

He didn’t want the reminder of his humanity. He wanted to be the stallion she called him.

I want a complete transformation like what she managed to give to Cole.

She lifted her chin, expectation forming in her body before her order came, and he found himself tensing, alert and ready. If he’d had horse ears, they’d have been perked toward her, awaiting her command.

“Very good, Arthur.”

In the space of a few minutes, she’d already praised him more than any mistress he’d ever worked with. However, he wasn’t fooled into thinking she was soft. The warmth in her voice was there, but underneath, the icy core waited.

“All I’m going to do today is put you through your paces.” She paused a moment and gave him a smile that was nothing of warm encouragement and everything to do with the cold determination to bend him to her will no matter what it took. “I won’t be so easy on you again.”

Her right arm flicked out and the tail of the whip slithered across the ground. Nowhere close to striking him but he flung up his head and raced in the opposite direction anyway. Too much energy blazed in his body to settle into a staid trotting about the ring like Cole had done. God, he felt so strong, so invincible. Like he could gallop for days, leap any obstacle, race like the wind.

The whip cut him off and sent him charging in the opposite direction. He didn’t mind. The slide of his boots in the loose dirt of the ring felt too good to complain. In the center of the ring, she trotted along with him, her face as hard as porcelain with supreme concentration. He tried to turn back but she caught him with the tip of the whip right in his flank. It stung enough to make him growl.

Fine. Your direction, Your Grace, but my speed.

He ran harder, pumping his arms, digging his boots in so deeply that he flung clods of dirt up on her clean white shirt. He tore about the ring, forcing himself harder, faster, ignoring the burn in his lungs, the sweat stinging his eyes.
Outrace her. Tire her. She can’t possibly keep up for long.

But he was wrong. She didn’t have to keep perfect pace with him, not with the whip in her hand and central position of command in the ring. Even the old war injury that had damaged her knee didn’t slow her enough to give him the edge he sought. As he began to tire, she pushed him harder, using the tip of the whip to remind him to keep moving. As long as she was moving, he had to move too, in the direction she told him to go.

He ignored the stitch in his side. The sweat blinding him. His fool pride demanding that he outlast her.

Faltering a moment, she coughed. He took the opportunity to explode back in the opposite direction, hoping to catch her unaware. The whip came in and snapped a warning on his thigh perilously near his groin. Arousal throbbed through him, inflamed by the small pain.
Whip me again, Your Grace. Give me the pain that will allow me to hate you.

With the bit clamped hard in his teeth, he kept charging against her command, ignoring the threat of the whip. But the pain didn’t come.

In fact, she didn’t even try to stop him. Slowing his headlong charge, he risked a glance in her direction and what he saw drew him to a halt.

Lady Blackmyre had turned her back on him.

Blood speckled her palm. Surreptitiously, she scrubbed her hand on her trousers. Her chest spasmed but she ignored the urge to cough again. Her breathing was too rapid and shallow despite the mild activity of jogging about the ring. In her prime, she’d been able to keep up with Cole easily, even when he’d done his best impression of a frisky colt.

Now I’m coughing blood. The end is in sight.

Her hands trembled, so she tossed the whip on the ground, both to avoid betraying the weakness as well as providing a sign of her disapproval. As though she didn’t have a care in the world, she strolled away from Arthur.

He snorted, trying to draw her attention, but she ignored him.
If the pony doesn’t listen to my commands, dear boy, the pony doesn’t exist.

Leaning casually against the railing she waved a hand at Dottie, inviting her to come down for a chat. “What’d you think?”

Her eyes were so big that Violet couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m astounded. But what happened? Are you done?”

She tapped her friend lightly on the arm, drawing her gaze away from whatever Arthur was doing behind her. Smiling, she pointed at herself and lifted her chin, trying to keep Dottie from even looking at him. “Oh, most definitely. When the pony misbehaves, he’s punished.”

Dottie gasped and fluttered her hand in front of her face like she needed air. “Oh, dear, that sounds dreadful. Are you going to beat him?”