by Cheryl Holt
Of all the boring, stupid fellows she'd met at Salisbury, she'd chosen him for a tryst, but he wasn't grateful. In the gazebo, he'd repeatedly insulted her, had
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touched her in terrible, exhilarating ways, and even though she'd ordered him to stop, he hadn't heeded her commands.
Then he'd had to gall to try and make her put her mouth on his ghastly, manly rod. When she refused, he'd taunted her, sending her away as if she'd misbehaved. His scorn continued to incense her. It was like a burr under her saddle, enraging her, aggravating her.
No one was ever rude to her. No one was ever condescending or belittling. Others knew who she was, who her father had been, and they exhibited the respect and deference that was her absolute due. Yet he felt as if he had the right to treat her like a common whore.
Who was he to deem himself so grand? According to her mother, he was naught but a poverty-stricken neighbor who came sniffing round at supper, just so he'd have something to eat.
How she longed to get even!
She yanked the pins from her chignon and let her hair swish down, preferring it free and loose, and it made her wild and reckless. She abhorred that Margaret insisted she keep it bound, that she use combs and caps to conceal it. When men espied her auburn tresses, they were mesmerized. They wanted to run their fingers through it, to smell and pet it.
If Blaine were to see her beautiful hair, he wouldn't regard her as a child. He wouldn't tell her her breasts were too small or that she was a tease. He'd desire her, as a man desires a woman. She'd humor him, would watch him become aroused, would feign a bit of passion, and when he was chafing and ready, she'd walk away.
She'd show him who was in control. She'd teach him the consequences of trifling with her.
The notion of how she'd humiliate him caused her to
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grow very excited. She'd welcomed their scuffling, how he'd bared her breasts and pinched them so hard. He'd hurt her, and for some reason, she was delighted that he had. She'd liked being anxious and unable to escape, and though she'd tried to deduce why it had been so stimulating, why she was so eager to do it again, she couldn't figure it out.
She'd flirted with many, many boys, but none of them had acted comparably, so she had no means of comparison. However, she'd relived that amazing encounter over and over. She wanted to dally with him, to experience what he would do to her, but when she'd had enough of his groping and pawing, she'd change the ending.
She would insult him. She would offend and slander, by remarking on his poor amatory skills, his sissified character, then she would have him trotting off like a coddled baby who hadn't got his way.
The idea of putting him in his place had her gleeful. In a thrice, she conjured a dozen methods by which she could extract revenge.
She would retaliate, and he would be so sorry.
At the window, she loitered. It was a warm, cloudless night, the stars twinkling, the moon illuminating the grounds and rolling hills beyond. She looked down into the yard, and she could detect the outline of the gazebo, the white paint stark in the dark garden.
A light glowed on the steps. She narrowed her gaze, focusing in, and ...
It was he! Freddy Blaine!
Bold as brass, he was slouched against the railing and smoking a cheroot. His horse was tied in the rear as it had been for their previous rendezvous.
Hah! He'd wanted her, after all. Oh, this would be so amusing. She'd settle the score between them and be
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back in her bedchamber with scarcely a minute wasted.
Marching to the wardrobe, she grabbed her cloak, then tiptoed to the corridor and peeked out. Everyone was downstairs socializing, and her mother believed she'd gone to bed with the woman's headache, so it was a simple matter to sneak out.
She crept into the hall, detouring through Olivia's room. Within seconds, she'd found her sister's portfolio of drawings, and she hefted it onto the bed and dragged out the sketches. There were many new ones, evidence of an increasingly torrid romance. The stablemaster was portrayed naked, his privates exposed, though for the life of her, she couldn't fathom how Olivia was managing to engage in such intimacies.
They went riding every afternoon, and twice Penny had tracked them as best she could, but all they did was talk. She hadn't come close enough to hear what was said, but she'd seen nothing they couldn't have done in front of Margaret. How was Olivia accomplishing it?
She pilfered three of the most indiscreet poses, in which the stablemaster's masculine staff was prominent and unmistakable, then she made for the servants' stairs and out the door.
When she revealed them to Freddy, he'd never call her child again!
Speeding across the grass, she slowed once she approached the gazebo. She wasn't about to let him know she'd rushed to be with him, and she dawdled, hiding behind a hedge so that her breathing could level off.
After calming, she ambled onto the pathway and sauntered over, but as she neared, he chuckled as if he'd been observing her through the entire journey.
"Well, well," he crooned, as he took a lengthy draught from a bottle of liquor, "if it isn't me spoiled little rich
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girl. What brings you out so late? Did you lose one of your dolls?"
Seething with fury, she strove to remain aloof and disdainful. "I don't play with dolls. I have many more interesting toys to occupy me."
"Really?" he scoffed. "Tea sets and samplers?"
Strutting past him, she seized the bottle and flounced onto a bench. She drank from the decanter, too, making sure he saw how she could swallow the vile stuff.
"No. I'm an artist," she lied, and she set the bottle on the floor and removed Olivia's illustrations from beneath her cloak.
As she'd calculated, he followed her like a fish on a line. "What have you there?"
"Some of my sketches."
Ignoring him, she tipped one drawing toward the moonlight. The individual Olivia had depicted was difficult to identify, but she could discern that it was a man and that he was nude.
"It's one of my lovers," she fibbed. "He was so pleased with me that he permitted me to draw him after we were finished."
"Did he enjoy fucking a child?"
"I'm not a child!" she repeated.
"You could have fooled me." He snatched the pictures away from her, leaning toward the railing so that he would have a better perspective. "This chap's hung like a racehorse," he declared. "Did he take you like a bitch in heat?"
"Of course," she claimed. "I let him do whatever he wanted."
"Do you know what I think?" he asked, bending down. "You didn't create these. You've never come within a hundred yards of a naked man."
"I have too," she maintained. "I'll prove it to you! I
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would sketch you, right here, right now, but I'll wager you're too scared to disrobe."
"As if I'd strip down for the likes of you." He scrutinized the pages. "They're very good. Very sensual. Where'd you find them?"
"They're mine." The illustrations weren't having the effect she'd hoped. She stood and attempted to yank them away from him, but he dangled them just out of reach. "Give them to me."
"No." He lifted them higher, and she jumped in her efforts to retrieve them. "Is your mother aware that you have these? I wonder how she'd react if I told her?"
"Blackguard!"
"Tut, tut," he scolded. "Is that any way to speak to your elders?"
She started to struggle in earnest, kicking with her feet, and lashing out with her fists, but she couldn't land any blows. Tired of pestering her, he tossed the papers away, and he pinned her wrists behind her.
"Your mother has failed in raising you." His fingers slithered inside the bodice of her dress, and he tweaked her nipple. "You could benefit from firmer discipline. Perhaps a whipping would suit you."
"Let me go!" she hissed.
"Is that what you require? A spanking?" He was angling her onto the bench. "You ar
e such an impossible brat. I'd be more than happy to administer one."
Suddenly, she was lying down, and he was on top of her, though he was too tall to fit completely. A knee was on the floor, the other draped across her legs.
He loosened his grip, and she endeavored to slap his arrogant face, but he easily prevented her. "If you don't behave, I'll tie you up. Now do as I say."
"I won't!"
She continued to battle him, but not vigorously. It
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was so fascinating to be held down, to be incapable of moving, while guessing what he might do next.
He'd tugged at her dress so that her breasts were bared, her nipples visible, and he was twirling and squeezing them in a painful fashion that made her squirm and grow wet between her legs.
He began kissing her, and she turned her head back and forth, striving to avoid him, but he clutched her chin. He stuck his tongue into her mouth, and he tasted like an adult male, like brandy and tobacco.
She hadn't been kissed like this before, and she was titillated by the naughtiness of it, by how different it was from the tepid mauling of the boys in the stable, but she wasn't about to let him know. She bit him. Hard.
Lurching away, he retaliated by crushing her nipple so that she cried out in agony, but he smothered the sound with his large palm. He whispered, "You hellcat. Try that again, and I'll strangle you."
Dipping to her bosom, he rooted and gnawed on her nipples, and she battled him, feigning aversion. It seemed much more gratifying, much more depraved and dangerous, when they were wrestling.
The alcohol she'd gulped was disorienting her. Before coming outside, she'd filched plenty of sips in the house, and the total quantity, coupled with the glasses of wine she'd had at supper, had her dizzy, irrational.
He was being very rough, and in a tiny part of her mind, she recognized that this wasn't going as she'd planned, that he wasn't pleading or groveling. They'd traveled beyond any sensible limit, and she should call a halt, but she truly didn't wish to. She craved this, had yearned for it for a very long time. It was far and away the most revolting, shocking thing she could conceive of doing.
There was no adult present to dissuade her, or order
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her to refrain. No one knew where she was, or what she was about. She was free of her mother's criticisms and complaints, unfettered,and on her own.
He was hoisting her skirt and petticoats, meandering up her calf, then her thigh. She wasn't wearing any drawers, and with no warning or delay, he slipped his fingers inside her, and crudely stroked them.
"You're dripping, you strumpet."
"I loathe you. I'm sickened by the sight of you."
"That's not what your body is telling me."
As he pushed her skirt up to her waist, she glanced down at her crotch. Most of his hand was impaled, and the vision was bizarre, absurd. She couldn't credit that she was lying there like a limp noodle and allowing him to fondle her.
He sundered her nether lips and inspected her.
"I don't like fornicating with a woman who has hair on her privates. Steal a strop and a razor, and shave it off before our next meeting."
"That's disgusting. I won't."
"You will," he decreed. "Shave under your arms, too, so I won't have to look at it. I want you smooth and soft, like a young girl."
He wanted her to seem younger than she was? How very peculiar. She'd been trying to act mature, so he would reckon her to be much older. There was something important and vital concealed in his ultimatum, but she was too inebriated to deduce what it was, and she giggled, deeming the circumstances to be hilarious.
Down below, he was fiddling with his pants, and promptly, he was propelling himself into her, but not with his fingers. Whatever he was using was enormous, blunt, and it was stretching her to an uncomfortable width.
She whimpered, even though she hadn't meant to,
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and she grappled to press her legs together, but he was wedged between them and inching into her, and his purpose dawned on her. For an eternity, she'd been weary of her tiresome virginity, and she'd sought methods to be relieved of it, but she was questioning her decision, and not positive she should go through with it.
Especially not here. And most especially not with him. He was too elderly. Too assertive and domineering. Too diabolical.
"You're hurting me," she protested. "Desist! At once!"
"Not bloody likely." He clasped her arms to her sides. "Go ahead. Fight if you want. Your petty skirmishing is amusing to me."
"I don't like this."
'Too damned bad. You're about to get exactly what you've been pleading for me to give you."
"Well, I don't want it anymore!"
"How many lovers have you really had?" He flexed his hips, and with a single lunge, drove himself into her.
The pain wasn't nearly as intense as she'd imagined or had heard it could be, but it wasn't as exciting or romantic as she'd heard, either. It was actually quite foul, and she mentally detached from what was transpiring. Her state of intoxication made it seem unreal, as if it were happening to someone else.
They were both sweating, and there was a strange smell in the air created by the joining. He was thrusting into her, squashing her so that she could scarcely breathe. While he appeared to relish what he was doing, she didn't note any emotion except for a fervent desire that it would soon be over.
He spilled himself inside her, and even that was a disappointment. He groaned and shuddered, then he collapsed onto her, and she suffered a frantic instant when she wondered if he'd had an attack of the heart.
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Good God, had the oaf died?
But as he exhaled, her fear's were allayed. Pulling out of her, he stood and adjusted his pants. He was calm as you please, while she was partially naked, her bosom still exposed. She didn't want him seeing her so disheveled, and she sat up. At her center, she was sore, wet and sticky, and she dragged her skirt down and tucked her breasts into her bodice.
He was insolent, preening, and he glared down at her. "We've determined, without a doubt, how many lovers you've had, haven't we?"
"You may have more experience than me," she sneered, "but the extra practice hasn't helped. I've dallied with boys who are better than you. You don't even know how to kiss!"
"I don't have to waste time kissing to get what I want from a woman." Scooping up the brandy, he took a swig, men wiped his sleeve across his lips. He offered her the bottle, and when she refused, he grabbed her by the neck and forced her to imbibe.
"You must learn to do as I say."
"You'll never make me."
"Don't be too sure."
He compelled her to drink, and she tried to keep her mouth shut, but he would have gladly sloshed it down her front, so she complied, gulping several draughts that burned her throat and watered her eyes.
"You need a stern master," he announced, "and I'm just the man for the job."
"Hah! You're never going to see me again."
"Yes I am," he replied. "You're like a dog at a bone, sniffing around. You've had a small taste, and you'll be back for more."
"I won't!"
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"Your soul's as black as mine. You won't be able to resist."
Did she have a black soul? Was he correct? She'd always been different from everyone else, bored with the morals and restrictions others placed on her. It was thrilling to he and steal, to engage in stealth and secrecy. There was constantly the risk of being caught, and it spurred her to increased recklessness.
Trifling with him was the very worst thing she could have done, the farthest line she could have crossed, yet she felt no remorse. At the very least, the loss of her virginity warranted that Margaret couldn't auction her off like a prized cow to a pompous, fusty old man, as she was trying to do with Olivia.
Was she evil? Debauched?
She grinned. Corruption was a bloody sight more fun than being a bluenosed puritan. Snatching
up the brandy, she partook of a lengthy swallow, and he smirked, clearly expecting nothing less.
"Be here tomorrow night," he said. "I'll bring more liquor. And some opium. Have you ever tried it?"
"No."
"It will tickle your fancy." He picked up Olivia's sketches and held them out. "Now, return to the manor before you're missed."
"So what?" she chided. "I don't care."
"I'm not ready to be discovered with you. Not yet, anyway."
She had no idea what he meant, and it didn't occur to her that she should ask. Too rapidly, she rose and reached for the drawings, but she was dizzy and muddled. He attempted to steady her, but she yanked away.
"I don't need your assistance."
"That's what you think."
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"You're a pervert, a prig, a ... a..." Her brain wasn't working as it should, and she couldn't muster the names she yearned to hurl at him.
"Yes, I am," he freely admitted. "Tomorrow at midnight."
"I won't come. I hate you."
"If you don't show up, I'll sneak into your bedchamber. I'll tie you up and whip you. Then, I'll make you do it to me with your mouth. Even if you beg me not to."
"You're despicable, repulsive."
"So are you. We're destined to be great friends."
He shoved her toward the stairs, and she stumbled, then straightened, and departed without giving him the satisfaction of glancing back. She started down the pathway, and had just rounded the curve, when she ran into Olivia who, apparently, was out for an evening stroll.
"Penny?" she queried. "What on earth? I thought you went to bed an hour ago."
"I needed some fresh air," she fibbed.
"You've been tippling."
"What if I have?"
The gazebo was a few yards away, so they could hear Freddy mounting his horse and trotting off. Olivia frowned and peered through the shadows, trying to identify who was quitting the property.
"Who was that?" she inquired. "What have you been doing?"
"None of your business." She endeavored to walk around her stepsister, but Olivia blocked her.
