Taming Maria (18 page)

They were
seated in the shadows, with Abigail at a table close by. A new
chaperone had not yet been engaged and this afforded Jane a little
more freedom, though such an arrangement could not continue for
much longer. Robin touched the hand she had clenched in her
lap.

'I will visit
you in Bath,' he declared. 'There to see your father and ask him
for permission to woo you.'

She shook her
head sadly. 'He won't give it, determined that I shall wed Percy
Tate. I am the last daughter, you see. My sisters have all been
married in turn, I am the youngest and therefore the last.'

'If he turns
me away we will run off to Gretna Green. Once the knot is tied he
will be unable to part us. I shall take up my post in Burdock
Village and we can reside with the vicar until a house is found for
us.'

'I'm afraid,'
she whispered, her fingers held in his as he worked them over her
thigh and down between her legs.

'Don't be,' he
insisted. 'Love will conquer all.'

They left the
coffee-house and she sent Abigail on an errand and lingered in the
shadowy stable with Robin, the coachman and grooms being in the
tavern next-door. He pressed her against the white-washed wall, the
air redolent with the sweet smell of hay, and she wished she could
die and remain in that moment forever.

His arms
tightened around her, and her breasts were pressed to his chest,
their clothing chaffing her sensitive nipples. She rubbed her body
against him, her lips opening under his as he kissed her, their
tongues meeting. Now she recognised the hard object distorting his
breeches, and pressed her pubis to it.

He groaned.
'Oh, God! I want you so much.' As he spoke he started to caress her
breasts and her nipples peaked at his touch, pleasure darting down
to set her clitoris on fire.

'And I want
you,' she whispered. 'This can't be wrong, can it? We love one
another, don't we?'

'Yes, yes, of
course we do.' He was breathing quickly and there was increased
force in the way he was caressing her. He thrust with his hips in a
rhythmical movement and she responded, recognising his need.

The stable was
fitted with stalls where lovers could hide away from prying eyes,
and Robin took her to one of them, laying her down on a bed of
straw. Time was of the essence. They had no idea when the grooms
and Abigail would be returning. Robin lifted her skirt, opened her
legs and sank down between them, his cock already exposed. He
plunged into her without any foreplay and, although she was moist,
she realised she could not climax that way. Robin seemed only aware
of his own driving urge, bucking and plunging until reaching his
peak, his tribute shooting into her. There was no way he could
prevent it and she was fearful. Supposing he impregnated her?

He pulled out
when it was over and sat there, looking shamefaced. 'I'm sorry,
dearest. I couldn't wait,' he said.

Her instinct
was to comfort him, although she was disappointed at having failed
to reach a conclusion and hoping against all hope that his flood of
semen did not find its goal within her womb. She wanted children
with him, but not yet. The obstacles were too great.

Rather
crestfallen, they tidied themselves and prepared for the arrival of
Abigail and the coachman. 'Best if you leave before they come,' she
murmured, tears welling in her eyes.

'I will
contact you in Bath,' he promised.

'Mama and I
will be taking the waters at the Pump Room daily. Perhaps you could
be there. She liked you when she met you at the school and I may be
able to persuade her to speak with Papa.'

'I shall be
staying at The Black Swan tavern in Southgate Street. Contact me
there. This isn't the end, Jane, merely the beginning,' he
promised, kissing her so tenderly that it nearly broke her
heart.

Then he left
and, within a few moments, Abigail and the others arrived.

'We're nearly
there,' Arabella asserted. 'Thank God for that! I can't abide
travelling. Dreary, boring, forced to stay in hostelries where the
beds are lumpy and the privies stink.'

She was
wearing a new carriage costume. The long coat was of military cut
in tobacco-brown velvet, lined with white satin and trimmed with
gold fogging. Beige kid half-boots encased her feet and her hat was
like a soldier's kalpak, set at a jaunty angle and sporting a
yellow plume. This was the latest vogue and Maria was similarly
dressed, Madame Descartes doing very well out of these wealthy
clients.

'Why did you
consent to come?' Maria was tired of her aunt's constant
complaints. For her own part, every mile that separated her from
Charles was a torture.

'Damien
ordered it.' Arabella was definitely tetchy.

'And you do
everything he says?'

'Don't be
pert!' She gave Maria a sharp glance and then continued to gaze out
at the passing landscape. 'It should be fun. The hunting season is
not yet over and he knows a number of jolly people. He's Master of
the Hunt, you see.'

Of course, he
would be, Maria thought glumly. Always the leader, ahead of
everyone else. Did these rural friends indulge in the kind of
perversions he enjoyed? Probably. And would she be forced to take
part in them? Without any doubt. Agatha had not yet approached her
with the butt-plugs and Damien had made no attempt to contact her.
She had not seen him since the visit to Strafford Hall.

This was even
more unnerving.

Arabella had
kept her busy organising her apparel for the visit, but he could
have appeared at any time. There had been no sign of him when they
set out. They were travelling without him, using the earl's finest
carriage and a train of more modest ones for the servants and
luggage. James had been left in London in the care of his nurse and
half a dozen nursery maids, with his father taking time out to play
with him occasionally. Ali had also been left hind with Poppy. Both
were fashion accessories, and there was no call to show off one's
coloured page or lapdog in the country.

Now they were
nearly at their destination, and Maria's curiosity got the better
of her. She leaned forward and joined Arabella in staring out at
the view. The scenery was rugged, the Dorset coast in all its
glory. They were travelling along a road that edged a cliff, and
the sea sparkled below them, grey-blue, topped with white horses.
Seagulls wheeled and screamed overhead, and the bushes leaned away
from the constant wind blowing from the open water. Maria was not
accustomed to such an expanse of sea and sky, and longed to walk
along the path, breathe in the salty tang and climb down the rocks
to where golden sand spread out in secluded bays.

'Can we go
there?' she asked Arabella.

'You're as
excited as a child,' her aunt responded indulgently. 'Of course we
shall visit the beach, with footmen carrying picnic baskets and our
maids bearing rugs and towels. The sea is most refreshing and I
shall take a dip, though I don't want to get burnt by the sun.
You'll enjoy it here, and it will be most informative. Ah, can you
hear the horns? What a thrilling sound. Damien must be leading the
pack. Do you hunt?'

'I haven't
done so since father died.' Maria's ears pricked at the distant
clarion call, old memories and sensations rushing back.

'One never
forgets. I'm looking forward to it. And there will be balls and
parties and all sorts of entertainment.'

'Similar to
those at Strafford Hall?' Maria gave her a straight stare.

Arabella
flushed as she replied, 'Very possibly. It depends what your
guardian has in mind.'

'And we all
know what that is likely to be,' Maria returned boldly, no longer
caring if she was angry with her. Matters had proceeded too
far.

Arabella took
no notice, leaning forward as the coach swung down a lane and then
came out in a tree-shaded avenue. There, ahead of them stood an
ancient mansion of great size. 'Raven Towers,' she said.

'It's like a
castle!' Maria exclaimed.

Arabella
nodded, saying with as much pride as if it belonged to her, 'Parts
of it date from the Norman Conquest. Of course, there have been
more recent additions, but much of it remains untouched. The
turrets for example, from which it takes its name, the raven being
on the family crest of its owners. Quaint, isn't it? Rather like
something out of a fairy-tale.'

It lay amidst
parklands, its long stone facade with regularly space diamond-paned
windows surmounted by a red tiled roof, mellow with age. A series
of fantastically ornamented chimney-pots reached towards the sky,
and some of the walls were enveloped in masses of ivy, giving the
impression that the house had evolved from the soil like some
natural growing thing.

The coach
rattled over the gravel at a spanking pace and soon the house
loomed over it, dwarfing everything. Grooms and servants appeared
and the passengers alighted, their baggage being off-loaded. There
was no sign of Damien.

'His lordship
is leading the hunt,' explained the dignified head butler, wearing
a curling powdered wig. He was formally attired in a blue coat with
gold epaulettes, white satin breeches, a lace cravat, pink
stockings and black buckled shoes. 'He has instructed me to show
you to your rooms so that you may refresh yourselves after the
journey. He will be back shortly and a repast is being prepared on
the terrace.'

The guestroom
to which Maria was shown was spacious and finely furnished, with
damask curtains at the windows and draping the four-poster bed.
Sarah would be situated close at hand, and so would Emily, and they
set to work helping her to wash and change, then busied themselves
unpacking the valises and depositing her clothing in the armoire
and tallboy. But, in spite of the apparently luxurious and
comfortable surroundings, Maria could not still the quake of
uneasiness that stirred in her gut. This increased as she finally
joined her aunt at the top of the main staircase and they made
their way down, guided towards the terrace by a liveried
footman.

The hunt had
returned in full force. She was aware of their loud, triumphant
voices even before she passed through the open cedar-wood doors and
stepped into the sunshine. She saw Damien at once. He was leaning
against the marble balustrade, wearing a red coat and white
breeches. His boots were muddy, his buckskins soiled and his lips
curled in a smile, his eyes those of a hunter who has caught his
prey and enjoyed the kill.

Arabella went
straight to him, gazing up admiringly, a hand on his arm. The crowd
of men, all in hunting pink, local squires, magistrates and
landowners, were stamping about, leaving muddy footprints on the
paving stones, talking, drinking champagne and indulging in the
cold collation arranged on trestle tables spread with fine linen.
There were ladies, too, hot from the chase, middle-aged and
younger, excited by the bloodshed and the company of those virile
males. A close-knit set, Maria guessed, recalling similar meets at
Burrington Manor. They owned the villages around, and were still
treated like feudal lords by the inhabitants. And none was more
lordly than Damien.

He looked
across and saw her, left Arabella and came straight for her. In a
trice he had caught her by the arm and propelled her towards his
friends. 'This is my ward, Lady Maria Granger.'

She was
surrounded by gentlemen hunters, some tall, thin and
aristocratic-looking, others sweaty and red-faced, bluff and
stocky. They had one thing in common; a lecherous gleam in their
eyes. The ladies looked her over, pretending to be welcoming but
she guessed that beneath the show they were viewing her with
suspicion. A new female in their midst was a threat, maybe intent
on luring away their husbands or lovers. Running a critical eye
over the men present, Maria could not imagine even bothering to
try. Damien was the only one there who attracted her, and that was
with very mixed feelings. Arabella was already known to them and
they had her measure, it was the newcomer who posed a problem.

The terrace
was a sun-trap and Arabella held her parasol aloft. The talk became
louder, more boastful and bawdy as the wine flowed, and presently
Damien said, 'Are you ready, friends? Shall we proceed to the
training ring?'

What now?
Maria wondered. Her head was swimming from too much champagne.
Damien had kept her glass topped up. She had no idea what to
expect, but his guests seemed to be enthusiastic and she had to go
along with him, for he refused to release her arm.

They left the
terrace, and walked towards one of the towers. It was surmounted by
battlements where once bowmen had fired down on enemies. Inside it
was large, with a lobby that led into an oval arena. The ceiling
was high, the windows mere arrow-slits, but the sparse daylight was
augmented by flares. It appeared to be used for putting horses
through their paces. The floor was strewn with straw, and there
were grooms in attendance, and a space at the far end that
resembled stables wherein steeds could be housed. There were
benches for spectators and Maria was guided to the opposite end to
the stables, accompanied by Arabella. The hunters occupied some of
the other seats, attended by footmen bearing trays of bottles and
glasses, pies, canapes and beef in bread rolls. The party seemed
set to continue.

Damien strode
into the centre, acting like a Master of Ceremonies, holding up his
hand for silence. 'And now, ladies and gentlemen, I have pleasure
in presenting my pony girls!'

A door was
opened at the stable end and, with a rumble of wheels and rattle of
chains, four chariots appeared. The audience gasped simultaneously
and Maria could not believe the evidence of her own eyes. Each was
occupied by a groom, naked apart from straps that cradled his
genitals and raised them, cock erect and balls bunched beneath.
They were well-built, handsome young men and the ladies drooled as
they rode the chariots into the middle of the ring. But the
greatest surprise of all was the sight of women drawing the
vehicles instead of horses.