‘So, apart from selling yourself for her father’s money, your life will proceed very much as usual.’ Angela was trying hard to despise him, but was breathing in the arousing fragrance that was always Aidan; his unique skin and a certain pomade he used to control his hair.
‘That’s the general idea,’ he confirmed, and before she knew what he was doing he seized a rope that lay on a bench behind them and wound it round her wrists. Now she was restrained, and Aidan took fire from the sight.
‘You’re a bounder,’ she gasped. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word honour. I’m sorry for Penelope.’
‘Don’t be. She knows the score and doesn’t expect love. This is a business arrangement and once we’ve produced a couple of sprogs she is free to do as she likes.’
‘And you’ll carry on as you’ve always done. You disgust me,’ she stormed, yet her pubis ground into his through their censorious clothing and she longed to plunge into the dark pit of sensation that he always offered.
Her arms were tied behind her and Aidan twisted her round and had her face the wall. Her cheek was pressed to the plaster and she waited with baited breath as he became silent. Had he left her there? But there had been no sound of the door opening. The possibility of someone coming in and finding them like that appalled her, but it was exciting, too. He moved and kissed her neck, after brushing aside the wispy tendrils that hung there. She turned her face to smile at him, but he was gone again, until she felt him lifting her clothes and baring her bottom.
His hand, then, was to be her punishment? She waited, filled with longing and fear, that terrible, potent brew that she had missed with Max. Then she felt an alien touch on her skin and heard him saying, ‘So kind of the staff to leave their tools behind. This long-handled wooden spoon, for instance, will act as well as any paddle.’
He did not use it at once. Angela felt his hand on her, massaging gently, then raining down light slaps, and following this with an exploration of her cleft. Yet she was very aware of that which he held in his other hand, then without warning he brought it down on her rump. It snapped and stung and the heat was intense. She wailed and he stopped for a second, rubbing the crimson flesh. Then he whacked her with the spoon again, and again and again till she was on the edge of breaking. He drew back and the relief was unbearable – but inside she was screaming at him to go on.
‘You want me to stop?’ Aidan goaded.
‘Yes… no, please.’ She could not believe what she was saying.
‘And I am your master, your Nemesis from whom you can never escape, punishing you for being a filthy slut full of unbridled passion.’
The spoon hit her so hard that she bucked and writhed, remembering not to scream lest she be heard from outside, though this was unlikely, the entertainment in full swing in the distance, voices, laughter, and someone playing dance music on the piano. Aidan brought the spoon down harder, and she managed to get free of his grasp and fling herself to the floor. What price her new and expensive gown now? Her bladder had failed her and she was wetting herself all over the rose-hued satin.
Aidan lifted her to a kneeling position, whipped up her damp skirt and spanked her with his hand. ‘Dirty girl, now it is my time,’ he said softly, and unbuttoned his trousers.
His fingers dipped into her and came out covered in dew. This he applied to his swollen cock then lifted her under her waist and positioned himself at her anal entrance. His erection, though slippery, felt enormous, but he eased in, inch by solid inch. She had never become used to or enjoyed this way of being fucked. Besides which, he had made no attempt to bring her to a climax. She hated him, wanted to expel him from her most private passage but he was too strong, too large and too close to his moment of rapture. Nothing could stop him now and even though she swore and berated him, he came in spurts, fluid jetting deep within her rear.
Without pausing he raised her till she was standing in front of him, his cock still buried inside her. He slipped a hand round to her pubis, parted her lips and rubbed her slippery kernel. She responded in spite of herself, and came in a fierce explosion of sensation that left her trembling and bearing down on the rigid object that still filled her. When she came to her senses she disengaged herself from him and replaced her underclothes, keeping her face turned away from him.
Her skirt had dark damp patches where she had urinated, and she needed her wrap to cover it as she made her exit from the mansion. ‘Send Emily to me here,’ she said icily. ‘Give the duke my apologies, but say I am unwell and have had to leave early.’
Aidan stood there as if nothing untoward had happened. ‘I’ll do that for you,’ he said. ‘Good luck, Angela. You have Randolph eating out of your hand, and could end up a duchess.’
‘And that would be what I deserve,’ she replied haughtily. ‘I’m as wellborn as he, and probably more so than you.’
‘Spiteful,’ he teased, then paused at the door, turning and saying, ‘Will you come to my wedding?’
‘I’ll see you burn in hell first,’ she said.
‘I will make sure you receive an invitation,’ he concluded, smiling wickedly, then bowed from the waist and stalked out.
Angela was the talk of the town, The Gondoliers a box office sell-out. The world was her oyster, and all the well-heeled men in it. There was talk of her joining the touring company and playing in America, but Carte did not want to lose her yet; she was too valuable an asset for the Savoy. By now she knew most of the repertoire, constantly practicing, constantly rehearsing, giving herself no time to brood or become involved with those most dangerous of creatures – men!
Randolph was a kindly man, and a lonely one. He had adult sons and daughters, and Angela sometimes permitted him to escort her to some of the smart restaurants that had sprung up in and around the theatres in Leicester Square. She found herself warming to him. He reminded her of her father and, a great admirer of the stage and all its works, had offered to become her manager, making certain that she was always given a fair deal. It was around this time that she left Mrs Morrison and purchased a villa in Finsbury Park. Randolph helped her through the transaction and she could hardly believe that she had saved enough money to buy it – two hundred pounds! He also accompanied her when she went to Liberty’s to furnish it.
Elsie was married by now and living with her husband, Ewart. They, too, were doing well and being given leading roles. Then came news that shattered Angela’s feeling of contentment and success – Aidan sent her an invitation to his wedding, due to take place at St Martin’s Church, Westminster, a most fashionable and highly sought-after venue.
‘Strange,’ Randolph remarked when she told him. ‘I was not aware that he knew you.’
‘We had met before your soirée,’ she told him. ‘We come from the same corner of Somerset.’ By now she had told him the truth about her father’s death but had omitted Aidan’s part in her history.
‘Fine, well, in that case, perhaps you will allow me to be your escort. We can travel in my carriage.’
‘Thank you, Randolph, I would like that,’ she replied, smiling at him across the restaurant table whilst thinking that would be one in the eye for Aidan, if he realised that maybe she was about to take his advice about netting a duke.
It was summer again, over a year since her life had changed so drastically – for the better, as it transpired. She was at the height of her beauty, elegant, stylish, setting fashions in fact. Her female audience looked to her for guidance regarding the latest vogues. It was a heady feeling, but Aidan marrying rankled, and sometimes she tossed and turned in bed at night, burning with desire, giving herself relief, but it was never enough.
They arrived at the church on time, she and Randolph, and his coachman dropped them off and drove round to the rear to wait for them to be taken to the reception. The press and photographers were there. The crowd thickened, a swarming gaggle of women from all walks of life, all eager to see the bride and dream that it was them wearing a veil and a slipper satin gown, headin
g for a life of luxury instead of being downtrodden.
Angela walked in, imagining the whispers and speculation that went round the church. An actress on the arm of a duke! There was an air of anticipation. Young men in morning suits, white gardenias in their buttonholes, were acting as ushers. As she sat with Randolph, she could not help brooding on how it might have been if she was Aidan’s bride.
She did not enjoy the ceremony, the music, the flowers and Aidan standing at the altar exchanging vows with Penelope. It had been cruel of him to invite her, and foolish indeed to have accepted and put herself through this anguish. It wasn’t that she still loved him. She knew him too well for that, but her body, that perverse animal side of her, remembered his lips, his cock and, most of all, his blows. Even as she occupied the pew beside Randolph, surrounded by grand and snobbish guests, with many of Penelope’s American relations among them, so her nipples ached under her chemise and her clit throbbed and she wanted Aidan with a lust beyond all reason. It was as if his whip had traumatised her bottom, the memory of it branded into her flesh for all time.
The service seemed to drag on interminably, but at last the wedded pair walked down the aisle, stood outside amidst showers of rose petals, and then led the coach and motor cavalcade heading for the reception. The whole event passed in a daze. Angela drank a little too much champagne and Randolph was charm itself, looking after her as if he instinctively guessed there was something wrong. The food was superlative, the wedding cake a shining example of the chef’s art, and Angela was treated with respect, simply because the duke was escorting her. No one asked her to sing, and she thanked God for it. The music had already been arranged and a string quartet played beneath the shell-like roof of an alcove.
Speeches. Jokes. More wine. The cutting of the cake. Then dancing led by the bride and groom. ‘Shall we?’ asked Randolph, and guided Angela to the floor.
She held her head high and ignored Aidan as they joined the other couples whirling to a waltz. She could feel him looking at her, his eyes boring into her back, and she saw Valerie among the dancers, in the arms of Lord Alfred Codford. There were other men that she recognised from orgies in which she had been included as the prime cut. Such hypocrisy shocked her, yet she had expected it.
Randolph was called away to chat with some of his friends and Angela wandered out into the lush and beautifully tended garden. There was a small pool into which a waterfall splashed. It made her homesick and she wished with all her might and main that she might find herself at Lairdland.
‘If you marry the duke he may be able to buy it back for you,’ said a familiar voice from behind her.
‘How did you know I was thinking of home?’ she asked, unsurprised to find Aidan there.
‘I know everything about you,’ he said, and ran his fingers across the nape of her neck where her spine linked with her shoulders. She shivered with delight.
‘Where’s Penelope?’ she asked, trying to be sensible.
‘With her relations, rejoicing in being addressed as Lady Driscol.’
‘Have you had her yet?’ she asked waspishly, hating the idea.
He pulled a reproving face. ‘My dear, of course not, she’s a virgin and the alliance will be consummated tonight, on our honeymoon. Meanwhile, what about coming into the potting shed with me?’
‘What?’ she cried, her heart leaping traitorously. ‘We can’t, not at your wedding!’
But for answer he linked his arm with hers and led her along a bush-shrouded path to the headquarters of the gardener and his assistants, now off duty. The shed was adequate for Aidan’s purpose, and he slipped the bolt behind them. Then he lifted her up onto the tool bench, despite her protest about damage to her gown, and there rummaged beneath her skirts.
‘Oh, dear me,’ he muttered, lifting his lips from hers. ‘No knickers, Miss Trelawney? How vulgar.’
‘I left them off deliberately,’ she gasped, as he found her notch and started to fondle her nubbin.
‘For me?’ he whispered, and the bulge in his striped trousers was huge.
‘No, it pleased me to know that my arse was bare when I was with those toffee-nosed bitches in the church.’
He kissed her deeply, and then slipped down her body till he could kiss her lower lips, too. He licked and sucked at her till she was pulsing with pleasure, then he raised his face to her and said, ‘I want to spank you, Angela, and I shall do so, wedding or no damned wedding.’
‘Yes, master,’ she whispered, and yet again surrendered herself to his will.
Also Available From AUK and Chimera
Table of Contents
Cover
Front Matter
Title Page
Publisher Information
Advisory Note
Introduction
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Part 2
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part 3
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part 4
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part 5
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Also Available
From AUK and Chimera
Fate's Victim Page 25
