Taming Maria (4 page)

When she was
completely nude, Robin worshipped her beauty as an artist will
adore the perfect female form. 'Now I know why God created Eve,' he
whispered.

He was naked,
too, impressing her with his broad chest and shoulders and narrow
waist, his sleek hips and long legs. Somehow his cock did not seem
so absurd now that he was as nature intended, a prime example of
young, virile maleness. She could almost find it beautiful, was
glad to stroke it, her fingers responding to the softness of the
skin that covered the stem as she admired the crimson glans rising
from the flared ridge and the dew seeping from its single eye.

His touch on
her delta was inexpert and she guided his fingers. 'Gently,
gently... don't rub it so hard. Make it wetter... that's right...
softly, softly, leave the tip for a moment and stroke either side.
Can you feel it swelling? Oh, oh... now back to the head. Harder!
Harder!'

She could no
longer wait, his unskilled fingers following her instructions,
getting into the swing of it until she forgot who she was and
where, only knowing that she was climbing to the peak, reaching
that point of no return, overwhelmed with a blinding ecstasy that
robbed her of consciousness for a second.

The next thing
she knew was urging him on top of her, taking his prick between her
thighs and rubbing herself up and down on it till he, too, cried
out as he came, spattering her belly with his emission and then
collapsing.

So, we didn't
have complete intercourse, she mused, running her fingers through
Robin's hair as he dozed beside her. There was no actual carnal
knowledge and no fear of a baby, but oh, it was so enjoyable
nonetheless, and she made notes in her head in order to relate
every aspect to Maria.

'She's a
stunner! I've never seen such a lovely girl,' Damien observed as he
stared down.

Unaware of his
scrutiny, Maria was romping in the garden with Arabella's miniature
spaniel, Poppy. The tiny creature was as much a fashion accessory
as her fan, or the young black page in his turban and colourful
livery.

'I'm glad you
like her.' Arabella nestled back against Damien as they stood in
the window recess. His breath lightly fanned her ear and she could
feel the baton of his sex pressing into her, the material forming
hardly any barrier between their bodies.

'I do indeed.
It was worth staying away until she matured. A most pleasant
surprise.'

'I did tell
you that she was growing into a beauty.' Arabella caught her breath
as his hands encompassed her breasts and his lips continued
cruising around that sensitive spot at the back of her neck.

'I can't wait
to indoctrinate her into our ways,' he murmured, thumbs revolving
on her nipples. 'She doesn't know I'm here?'

'No. You
wanted to introduce yourself in your own time, didn't you?'

'That's right.
If she is biddable, and I'm sure I can make her so, then I will
marry her. She is an heiress with a vast fortune and I wouldn't
like to see it squandered by some spendthrift rake.'

'As her
guardian you will have the last word,' Arabella reminded, standing
like a statue as he raised her skirt, parted her buttocks and
inserted his erection into her. She moaned and eased herself down
on it.

He kept his
eyes riveted on Maria while he mounted her aunt, and the lust that
drove him had little to do with Arabella. It was fired by his
ambition to own both the girl and her money.

Armitage
House, town residence of the Earl of Westwood and his wife, Lady
Arabella, was situated in a half-moon terrace of elegant houses
close to Hyde Park. They were much sought-after, a stone's throw
from the city, within easy reach of shops and theatres, the Palace,
and the seat of Government, the Houses of Parliament,

The park was
the largest of those green, tree-shaded areas that brought a breath
of the countryside to London, reminding the occupants of how it had
once been. Originally a port on the River Thames, it had gradually
absorbed the surrounding villages until it became a powerful
city.

Among many
other entertainments, Maria was taken to this popular venue by her
aunt. In daylight it was a meeting place for the rich who liked to
enjoy refreshments at small cafes, to gossip and preen and stroll,
showing off the latest fashions while their coachmen waited in a
space reserved for their ornate vehicles.

'At night,'
Arabella told Maria, 'it acquires a different aspect, the haunt of
thieves and harlots, vagrants and villains and is certainly out of
bounds to genteel young ladies. You must never even consider coming
here.'

As part of her
introduction to the high life, Arabella had taken her riding in
Rotten Row. They sat side-saddle, their skirts trailing down across
their mounts' withers, the wind pressing their hat veils against
their faces and elegant gentlemen cantering alongside. Arabella
flirted with them outrageously. Maria was beginning to get her
measure. It seemed that she did what she liked, indulged by her
elderly husband. He did not object if she entertained gentlemen in
the privacy of her boudoir, and followed his own inclinations in
the company of common women, maidservants, shop-girls and the
like.

Maria kept her
mouth shut and her ears open, absorbing the nuances of this
unconventional household. Arabella had given him a legitimate heir,
in the shape of little James, and it appeared that should she have
any more children he was quite prepared to accept them as his own
even if they were of some other man's spawning.

Although she
had only been in London for a short while, Maria was already
causing a stir. Eighteen years old and an heiress. The world was
her oyster. Doors had opened for her and she found herself
accepted. Her aunt was taking an interest in her, no longer handing
her over to governesses, although there was a chaperone. Mrs Sarah
Jenkins, a portly widow, had been engaged for the post. She fussed
over her charge, but had an eye for any attractive footman or other
male member of staff who might be disposed towards her. Maria had
deduced that it would not be difficult to twist her round her
little finger and probably get away with murder. She had a
maidservant called Emily who was pretty and pert, but she missed
Jane dreadfully and, so far, they had not met up.

One morning
they went to take the air in the park. The earl's coach had
deposited them and now waited in the carriage rank. It was midday
and warm. Children accompanied by nursemaids were running around
the pond and feeding bread to the ducks. Girls fresh from finishing
schools were walking with their duennas while their mothers chatted
to cronies, the latest court scandals on everyone's tongue, the
goings-on of the heir to the throne, George, Prince of Wales and
his numerous mistresses. Maria had not yet had the honour of being
presented to His Highness.

Attended by
her entourage, Arabella, wearing floating white, held up an
unfurled parasol to fend off the sun's rays. 'One must preserve a
pale complexion at all times,' she instructed Maria as they walked
along a tree-lined avenue. 'It is essential that one isn't confused
with a gypsy or, heaven forefend, a working woman!'

Mrs Jenkins
was in tow, and Arabella's personal maid, Kitty Ford. The page-boy,
Ali, brought up the rear, with Poppy on a scarlet lead attached to
a bejewelled collar. They reached Rotten Row, that meeting place
for equestrian fanatics, where gallant men rode noble beasts, much
admired by their ladies. There was a high-perch phaeton race in
progress and people stood aside to let Arabella through. Maria
found it exhilarating, the two vehicles flashing round the course,
hooves thudding on the turf and iron-bound wheels rumbling. Light,
high carriages, fast and dangerous, each was drawn by a pair of
sweating horses. The spectators yelled with excitement, a
collection of quarrelsome young bloods who were obsessed with
gambling. They had put money on the outcome.

'Will you look
at them?' Arabella said scathingly. 'They are a conceited bunch,
racketing around London as if they own each stick and stone.'

'Who are
they?' Maria was intrigued, for several were smiling and bowing as
they caught her eye.

'Blue-blooded
sons of the nobility, who care for nothing but the cut of their
jackets. They drink and whore and are usually deep in debt with
their tailors and fellow gamblers.' Arabella sounded unusually
stern as she added, 'Beware of them, Maria, for if they haven't
already succeeded in netting a rich wife, then they are on the
lookout for one. Keep them at arm's length, my dear, for the word
is already out that you are a "fortune".'

'That's not
very nice,' Maria protested, turning her back on them, too absorbed
in the race to pay them much heed.

'They aren't
very nice. I'm warning you. Leave any prospective suitors to myself
or your guardian.'

'When shall I
meet him, this mysterious man who is in charge of my affairs?'
Sometimes Maria longed for her twenty-first birthday when she would
be allowed to manage her own estate.

'Very soon, my
love.' And Arabella tapped her lightly on the cheek with her closed
fan.

'I'd like to
race like that,' Maria cried, as the phaetons thundered towards
them, one gaining on the other. She longed to feel the reins under
her gloved hands and experience the speed and exhilaration and
receive the adulation of the crowd.

'And why not,
my darling? You are a splendid horsewoman. Your father trained you
well and this would be a novelty and rouse much interest... a
female taking part,' Arabella agreed, a thoughtful look in her
eyes. 'I know of one person who would be overjoyed to accept such a
challenge.'

This was
intriguing and, 'Who is it?' Maria asked eagerly.

'That's a
secret. You'll meet him on the appointed day and not before.
Doesn't this make it all the more thrilling? Do you want me to act
as go-between and arrange matters?'

Maria's
challenge had been accepted by this unknown adversary. It was
fascinating and her pulse was beating fast when she arrived at
Rotten Row on the morning of the race. A groom drove the high
phaeton and she sat beside him. It was a splendid vehicle, its
green varnish gleaming, picked put with gold lines. It was pulled
by a pair of matching greys, fierce-eyed and spirited, with flowing
manes and tails. Arabella had said airily that she had the equipage
on loan from a friend. Sarah Jenkins, all of a flurry because they
had left the house so early, was driven in an open-topped gig,
somewhat mollified because the coachman was young, personable and
flirtatious.

Maria had been
practicing daily, and the groom had shown her how to steer the fine
sporting vehicle and the best way of handling the horses. It had
proved more difficult than she had at first thought, but her early
training with her father proved vital and she had not forgotten any
of it.

Under
Arabella's guidance and with the help of a fiercely expensive
tailor, she had elected to wear a scarlet jacket cut like a man's,
military in style. With it was a long straight skirt of matching
fabric slit to the waist on one side and worn over close-fitting
breeks and riding boots. The only time breeches were acceptable was
as part of a lady's riding habit, but even so Maria's outfit was
daring enough to cause a ripple among the spectators as she took
the driver's seat. The groom jumped down and held the horses'
heads. They snorted and tossed their manes, fidgeting nervously,
flight animals ready to bolt.

Arabella had
arrived in her chaise, and was waiting for her at the start line
where the Master of Ceremonies was ready to drop his kerchief,
signalling the off. She was escorted by half a dozen personable
fops, all agog to meet Maria, their jaded appetites titillated at
the notion of a woman racing against a man. This would set a trend,
and they loved novelty, gambling lavishly on the outcome.

Maria paid
them little attention. She was concentrating, gentling her nervous
team, speaking softly to them, their twitching ears convincing her
that they could hear her and were soothed. Then Arabella reached up
and touched her hand, bringing her back to reality and saying,
'There he is, my dear. There's your adversary.'

She was
pointing to the right and Maria followed her direction. Her
challenger was standing by the heads of an ebony team, his dark
blue phaeton gleaming. The group of admirers around him were
laughing at some remark he had just made. She feared it concerned
herself for they were looking her way.

It was
impossible to drag her eyes from him, for he was a tall, striking
man, splendidly attired. His figure was shown to full advantage
with the coat cut away in front and the wide lapels folded back.
His tight white breeches were so high in the rise that they
disappeared under his beige waistcoat, his torso and legs displayed
in an unbroken line that ended in polished black top boots with
brown leather trim. Maria's eyes kept returning to the fullness in
his crotch, his cock pressed against his left inner thigh,
emphasised by the close fitting buckskins.

He was
extremely handsome, a stiff collar and black stock wound several
times round his neck, framing his patrician features. He was
bare-headed, his curly-brimmed topper in his hand, and his black
hair fell about his ears and neck and over his brow. But it was his
eyes that captivated her, even from that distance; their power and
persuasiveness. Were they grey or icy blue? He was too far away to
tell, but there was a ruthless slant to his mouth that made her
weak at the knees.

This was the
man she would ride against! The task ahead seemed almost
impossible. Then their eyes met and she read something in them that
stiffened her resolve. He was mocking her, challenging her, certain
that she would fail and make him the conqueror. Damn him, she
thought, fury welling up. I'll show the arrogant bastard! Who the
hell does he think he is? But this was really of no consequence
against her desire to prove herself to him and end up in his arms
and in his bed, kissed by that arrogant mouth, possessed by that
strong body.