by Wendy Leigh
“And for that, he rightly concluded, he needed me, Lady Georgiana Lacely, an English aristocrat down on her luck, desperate to support her gravely sick daughter, an adventuress, yet a woman with class, style, and sophistication to the very tips of her fingers,” she says. I can’t believe how unabashedly conceited she is.
“Do go on, Georgiana,” I force myself to say, although it isn’t too difficult, as I’m in suspense about what transpired next. Besides, the longer it takes for her to tell her tale, the longer Robert has to get here and rescue me.
She continues, “And so Murray wined and dined me at Tavern on the Green, and toward the end of supper made me a startling proposition: ‘If you agree to go ahead with what I’m about to suggest, Georgiana, I will, first thing tomorrow morning, wire a sum of money sufficient to pay the fees for your daughter’s home for the next two years. And after that, if you follow my instructions to the last letter, I swear that you will become rich beyond your wildest dreams,’ he said to me.
“Then he outlined his plan, the spider’s web in which he intended to trap a certain billionaire who would pay anything to find the born submissive of his dreams, and said that I was the only woman who could help him execute his scheme, and if I agreed to it, we would both make our fortunes.
“As he so rightly judged, his offer was more than tempting, as, if I went along with it, my Charlotte would be safe and looked after for the rest of her life. However, long before I learned the identity of the target—the mark, in con-man parlance, and, after all, what was Murray but a con man?—I felt sorry for him.
“But when Murray disclosed Robert’s name to me, I instantly recognized that this was the man who had purchased my family’s castle for a knockdown price. And Murray’s twisted proposition suddenly seemed far more palatable. I told myself that if Murray’s plan succeeded, I would be married to Robert Hartwell and would live in the castle that once was my birthright, as well as gain access to his fortune—it would be poetic justice, and karma fulfilled.
“Consequently, I agreed to star in Murray’s plot. From that time on, like it or not, I had to bow to the fact that this was his production and he was in control,” she says.
“His first command: Suzy, the Submissive Slut from England must be wiped off the face of the planet. So no more thousand-dollar paydays for me, and no more lineups, because, as he explained, if Robert saw Suzy in a lineup with the other girls even one time, then the plan would never come to fruition. Robert might be happy to take a session or two with Suzy, but he would never have fallen in love with her.” Georgiana polishes off her champagne, takes a deep breath, and goes on.
“With Suzy out of the picture, Pamela was ripe to make her debut. First, though, Murray had to come up with a way of introducing her to Robert, a unique way that would lift her above the fray and ensure that he would value her from the start.
“Then late one night, as chance would have it, Robert happened to look through the dungeon peephole and catch sight of the man who called himself William Masters. And at that moment, the plan was set in motion.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
When I first heard the name William Masters, when I first learned the truth about the man I’d loved since childhood (I can’t, even now, refer to him as “my grandfather” without shuddering), my world was shattered into a thousand pieces.
Seemingly unaware of my churning emotions, Georgiana goes on, “You see, I never met William Masters, thus he has less to do with the story than you might imagine. There is no need for me to raise the specter of that man again except to say that he was the unlikely but perfect candidate to launch the complex plot that Murray had so cleverly conceived.
“Now that I had agreed to participate in the plot, and Robert had seen that man, all that was left was for Murray to give Robert the good news,” she says.
And with that, Miss Britisher-than-the-Queen-of-England assumes a Bronx accent about as accurate as Dick Van Dyke’s cockney accent in Mary Poppins.
“I’ve found her, Mr. Blake! I’ve found your dream girl, your perfect submissive!”
‘Mr. Blake’ was the pseudonym Robert used whenever he visited Le Château in the dead of night. Fortunately for me, her weird accent somehow makes it much easier for me to hear her talk about anything to do with the man she calls WM.
“At that stage, although Robert did his best not to show how elated he was with Murray’s news, at the prospect of finally encountering the submissive of his dreams, it was radiantly apparent to Murray,” Georgiana continues.
“He told Robert that I was owned by the man whom he saw through the dungeon grid, so as to paint me as rare, elusive, unobtainable, and thus to send the price Robert was prepared to pay for me sky-high.
“Robert was so eager to live out his fantasies with Pamela in all their lurid detail that he agreed to Murray’s exorbitant terms without hesitation. And so, one evening, he strode into Le Château and down to one of the dungeons, which, at his request, was already set up as a schoolroom, and inside I, or rather ‘Pamela,’ was waiting for him.
“Pamela was eighteen years old, Murray had told him, but in reality, I was much older than that. I also wasn’t nearly as innocent as Murray painted me to be, not by a long way. But it suited his purpose to claim that I was, and he told Robert, ‘She’s a nice girl, Mr. Blake, go easy on her,’ as if I were some virgin bride about to be deflowered on her wedding night.
“For as long as I live, I’ll always remember my first meeting with Robert that night at Le Château all those years ago, the night when we first met and he fell in love with me at first sight,” Georgiana says, her vanity all aflame.
I want to throw up. Preferably all over her. Better, though, to save my energy to find a way out of here.
“I was on my knees when he first walked into the dungeon, and my gaze was firmly fixed on the floor, but in reality I was desperate to look up and appraise him.
“And when he indicated that I should, I raised my eyes to him, slowly, ever so slowly, so that he could experience the full impact of how big and how violet and how filled with yearning for him they were.
“But, engrossed as I was in my own theatrical performance, I wasn’t remotely prepared for what I’d see when I first set eyes on Robert; as you know, Miranda, he’s the most handsome man whom I—or any other woman—could conjure up in my imagination.
“A classic Master, dressed all in black, with so much presence. So tall, so strong, so powerful, with those lacerating green eyes. He was—and is—so dominant, so dashing, so like a romantic hero or a macho movie star born to seduce every woman who crosses his path. And the best lover in the universe, don’t you think, Miranda?”
Her words feel like acid poured into my ears, down my throat, into my mouth, everywhere, and I explode with emotional pain.
“Shut the fuck up, Georgiana! Just shut the fuck up,” I scream, and grab her by the throat with my one free hand and squeeze as hard as I can, desperate to stop her talking about Robert, to silence her forever.
Her nails dig into my wrist so hard that a drop of blood spurts out and I scream in agony.
“And I was even starting to like you,” she says, and before I can stop her, she grabs a cattle prod from the rack and zaps me with it.
I come to when I feel icy water streaming over my face, my hair, my body.
“Wake up, you little bitch, I’m not done with you yet,” she says, her voice thick with fury. She pulls me to my feet, grabs my right hand, and cuffs it to my left behind my back.
“From now on, I’m going to treat you exactly like the prisoner you are. Just lucky for you that Tammy isn’t here right now . . .”
Then the realization hits her.
“And never will be,” she says, and the tears well up in her eyes.
I don’t feel a second’s pity for her. I just sit there, my eyes fixed firmly on the floor, and wish that I were anywh
ere but here, and that Georgiana really were six feet under like she was supposed to be.
She wipes her eyes, and then the steel comes back into them again.
“Face the facts, Miranda, you’re chained up, Robert doesn’t know I’m still alive, he won’t have a clue that you’re here, and he isn’t about to gallop in on his white horse and save you again, so you’d better knuckle under and complete the task for which I’ve brought you here,” she says, then switches on the tape recorder and continues.
“In fact, I was so mesmerized by the sight of Robert in all his dominant glory, his aura, his power, the heat that seemed to seep out of every inch of his magnificent body, that I was rooted to the spot,” she says.
She’s appropriated all my feelings for Robert. I hate her more than I ever dreamed I could hate anyone . . .
“Then Robert, like some chivalrous cavalier from days of old, held out his hand to help me up from the floor. And as I put my hand in his, he closed his fingers around it, and for a second I felt an electric charge pass between us, followed by the fear that he was about to pulverize my hand then and there. But I shook that feeling off and stood up as gracefully as if I were in the midst of an audience with the Queen of England, and not in the dungeon of a brothel.
“Then, true to Murray’s script, I made a big deal out of noticing the gold signet ring on the little finger of my left hand, just to be sure that my reaction didn’t escape Robert.
“He may have remained impassive, but I sensed that even if I didn’t exaggerate my reaction to the signet ring, he would have noticed it. He’s so perceptive, you know . . .”
Know? I more than know how perceptive Robert is. I’ve experienced his searing perception every single day since we first met, and plan to carry on doing so for the next million more to come.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Georgiana continues her trip down memory lane, mesmerized by her own story as if she’s in an erotic trance. I don’t want to think about who put her into it. But given that she is about to rhapsodize about her first session with Robert at Le Château, there is no way I’ll be able to avoid it.
“Then, innocent as the night was young, I looked deep into Robert’s eyes and begged, ‘Please, sir, may I please be excused for a minute, sir?’ and almost added another ‘please’ at the end of the sentence, carried away by my own over-the-top performance as I was,” she says.
“But he didn’t balk at my terrible acting. He was already so hot for me, so sold on me. In retrospect, probably none of what Murray designed to take place next really needed to happen at all. Because even if we’d never taken Murray’s dastardly scheme as far as we did, even if we hadn’t put so much effort into it, the outcome would have been exactly the same: Robert would have fallen in love with me as wholeheartedly as he did, and married me anyway, and then I would have had unparalleled access to his fortune, then siphoned part of it off to Murray, as agreed.
“But the script was written, I had accepted the role of Pamela, and there was no alternative for me but to act it right up to the hilt, and play it until the curtain fell for the last time.
“So—in slow motion—I removed the signet ring from the little finger of my left hand and placed it on the carved dragon mantelpiece, making sure to handle it as carefully as if it were a precious Egyptian artifact.
“Then Robert’s session with me began in earnest. At that point, according to protocol, my eyes were down. But such is Robert’s level of dominance, his powerful aura, that he conveyed it, not in words or actions but almost by osmosis.
“The best, most genuine dominants, of course, are like that, dominant from the tips of their fingers, dominant in the way in which they stand, talk, look at you.
“All in all, in my experience—which, you must by now have grasped, Miranda, is not inconsiderable—genuine dominants are a breed apart from the average man. Their voices are lower, many of them smoke, and all of them have the piercing, unblinking eyes of a predator, and to a lesser or greater degree, all of them are actors, role players, stars.
“That day in the dungeon at Le Château, Robert was an actor, expertly playing the part of a strict headmaster for my benefit, and of course for his own. At the same time, he was more than a headmaster, for in his performance, there was a great deal of Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre, the hero I read about during my childhood in England.
“Robert, however, surpassed Rochester. He began his lecture with the following announcement: ‘Miss Pamela, since we took you into this school and gave you the responsibility of being head girl, entrusted you with the well-being and disciplining of your fellow students, it has come to my notice that you have proved to be arrogant and conceited, and extremely unfair in your treatment of the other girls. Therefore, after much consideration, I have concluded that you require a protracted amount of extreme discipline, meted out to you without mercy.’
“Then he moved so close to me that my immediate impulse was to step back from him, even an inch, but I knew that if I did, that would make him madder than mad. So I remained stock-still where I was.
“ ‘Now, Miss Pamela, a little information, if you please: as an almost grown-up woman, one who was raised with the benefit of the best education money can buy, what would you define as your particular field of expert knowledge?’ he demanded.
“Taken by surprise by his question, I stood there, tongue-tied.
“Seemingly out of nowhere, he produced a long, thick, wooden school ruler and rapped it against the desk, over and over again, while I flinched each and every time he did.
“ ‘Astrology, I know about astrology,’ I said finally.
“This was what Robert said next: ‘Astrology? A trivial pursuit, if ever there was one. So what star sign are you, Miss Pamela?’
“ ‘Scorpio,’ I said.”
Of course! Georgiana is a Scorpio just like me!
“And then he gave me one of those deep, unblinking, unwavering stares in which dominant men tend to specialize.
“ ‘That fits. And why, pray, Miss Pamela, do you know so much about astrology?’ he said.
“ ‘When I was at Swiss finishing school, the school governors decided that astrology was a great conversational icebreaker and offered the students a course in it. So I took the course, developed an interest in the subject, and after that learned as much as I could about it,’ I said.
“ ‘So you consider yourself to be knowledgeable, educated about astrology, an authority?’ he said, then rapped the ruler on the table so loudly that I jumped up in shock.
“ ‘Yes, sir, I do,’ I stammered, once I recovered.
“ ‘Well, Miss Pamela, unfortunately for you, I happen to have started out my career owning a newspaper, and writing for it as well. And one of the first things I wrote was a daily astrology column. Which is why I happen to know a fair amount about a subject that I wholeheartedly despise,’ he said darkly.
“Then, with a movement so swift and so dramatic that it struck fear in my heart, he grabbed me by the right wrist and turned my palm upward. Then he held me in his grip so tightly that I knew it was useless for me to attempt to move a muscle even slightly.
“At the same time, I was relieved that he picked my right hand to punish, not my left, but then realized that his decision was not random. For as brief as our acquaintance had been and bizarre as it was, he’d already noted that I was left-handed and didn’t want to do me any damage on the hand I used most.
“ ‘First question, Pamela: how many animal signs are there in the zodiac?’ he demanded.
“My brain turned to marzipan.
“ ‘Two . . . no . . . three . . .’ I stammered.
“ ‘Wrong! Seven! Aries, ram; Taurus, bull; Cancer, crab; Leo, lion; Scorpio, scorpion; Capricorn, goat; Pisces, fish.’
“With an almighty whack, he slammed the ruler down on the palm of my hand and I let out an a yelp of agony.
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“ ‘Don’t be so dramatic, Pamela, I hardly hit you at all! Next question: how many human signs are there?” he asked in an arctic voice.
“And all I could think of was one, Virgo.
“ ‘Four: Gemini, twins; Virgo, the virgin; Sagittarius, only half human, being a centaur; Aquarius, the water bearer.’
“Another whack.
“ ‘Not so clever anymore, Pamela, are we?’ Robert said, and—all artifice forgotten, all acting out the window—I blushed crimson, bowled over by his dominance, his ability to unnerve me more than I’d ever been unnerved in my life.
“Ten more questions followed, some, like ‘How many times does Mercury go retrograde each year?’—three times—were as easy as pie for me, but I was so flustered, so intimidated by Robert, that I got all of them horribly wrong.
“And so he gave me twelve strokes of the ruler on the palm of my hand, not hard strokes, but hard enough to sting, hard enough to assert himself over me, to establish his unquestionable dominance over me, my submission to him.
“So much so, and so quickly, that I couldn’t believe that I, one of the most dominant women who ever lived, could be reduced to a whimpering, simpering, slavish little fool by a man I just met—a man whom I was programmed to lure into a trap, though not one of my own design.
“That first evening in the dungeon, Robert had me at his first command. And, much against my deepest instincts, my will, my very nature, I discovered that I wanted him, almost as much as he wanted me.”
I can’t believe she thinks I will believe this! And I hope to God that Robert won’t, either.
