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Chapter Ten
MILDRED NEARLY LOST her footing as she landed on the adjacent balcony. Perhaps leaping from one balcony to another while one's faculties were a little clouded by wine was not the wisest. But she would not be made a prisoner in her chambers, especially by her cousin, who had no right to interfere in her affairs—well, not since he had declined to intervene in her engagement. She tested the balcony doors and found them locked. She looked to the next nearest balcony. Fortunately, it was not a far jump. She climbed onto the railing and leaped. She stumbled and fell to one knee as she landed. A bruise might come of it, but she was otherwise unharmed. She dusted off her gown and tried the balcony doors. This set was unlocked, and she let herself in.
"Pardon me, monsieur," she gasped when she saw the naked couple. The woman was tied to the bedpost. The man held a flogger, which he had just whipped across her bare rump. They were, unsurprisingly, startled to see her.
"I, er, lost my way," Mildred explained as she made for the chamber doors.
“You are more than welcome to watch," the man said.
Mildred felt her face burn. “A gracious invitation, sir, but I must return to the assembly room."
She hustled out of the room and down the hall. She could not recall a more embarrassing scene, though discovering her cousin during dinner was more upsetting. What an insufferable man he was. He had never before shown any interest in her. Why did he choose now to meddle? And how was she going to rid herself of his intrusion?
Hoping that she would not cross his path, she hurried back to the assembly room. She would not be surprised if Lord Devon had forsaken her and chosen another, but she had to find out. She opened the doors to the assembly room, only to find it empty. The pairings must have been completed. Perhaps Lord Devon had gone off with Miss Hollingsworth.
Disappointment welled in her bosom. She had truly thought Lord Devon might choose her for the night. If he had, the château would've surpassed all expectation. She would not have been surprised if she had gone unselected. Thus, the fact that she was alone was something she had been prepared for, but it was not as easy to bear once her hopes had been raised. Now all hope was dashed, thanks to her cousin.
Or perhaps he was right that no one would have chosen her. Perhaps Lord Devon was merely being nice to her. When presented with the chance to be with the likes of Miss Hollingsworth, what man of sense would choose Mildred Abbott?
With a sigh, she sat down on the settee and wondered what she should do with herself. Should she return to the room she had left a moment ago and accept the man's invitation to watch? Could she be so bold? Why not?
But what if Alastair objected? Well, it was not his place to dictate what she could or could not do. He might think it because he was providing her dowry. Nevertheless, it was not her place to be ungrateful.
Regardless, she had not come to the château to twiddle her thumbs. She rose to her feet and looked about. If Alastair found her, he would lock her in her chambers once more, and she had no wish to go to bed just yet. Leaving the assembly room, she made her way down the corridor, away from the stairs that led to her chambers.
What was it that Madame had said about the East Wing? Mildred found herself wandering in that direction. What could possibly take place there?
Continuing down the corridor, she half expected the scenery to take on ominous overtures, but the corridor, well lit by wall sconces, its floors covered with warmly hued rugs, was no less inviting. Only the art upon the walls betrayed the difference and set this part of the château apart.
The first painting she came upon was of a woman bent over a wooden board, her ankles shackled to its corners. Her bare rump bore several red marks from the flogging she had received by a hooded man standing beside her. The next painting portrayed a naked woman sitting atop a narrow wooden beam that cleaved the folds between her thighs. Her countenance was contorted in pain, for two men, each holding an ankle, appeared to pull her legs down.
Any person of common sensibilities would be appalled by such scenes, but Mildred found herself intrigued—and aroused. The women, their hips rounded, their thighs and breasts supple, appealed to the sense of sight. The vision of a naked woman, no matter the circumstances, always called to the carnal within. Though Mildred could not see the expression of the first, she expected the woman to be, at the least, in great discomfort, and yet this aspect only served to titillate further. Perhaps it was the wickedness, the wrongness of such things that toyed with the perverse nature she had been born with. It was comforting to know that she was not alone in being stimulated by the notion of pain.
A warmth spread through her loins as she contemplated whether or not she could withstand the circumstances that the women in the paintings suffered.
Walking farther, she passed by a painting of a naked man, his form as sculpted as the statute of David, bound to a St. Andrew’s cross. His member stood at stiff attention. A woman in a mask, wearing nothing but her corset and long leather boots, the sort worn by military men in the 16th century and that extended to the thighs, held a crop beneath his scrotum. Mildred wondered what this woman intended with the most sensitive part of a man’s body?
Beside the painting was a set of doors that stood slightly ajar and through which a faint light emanated. She put an ear to the doors but heard nothing. She pushed against one of the doors and waited for someone to call. When met with silence, she opened the door farther and peered inside. Her pulse quickened.
The flame from the hearth provided enough light for her to see the familiar apparatuses from the paintings: a wooden board over which a person could be bent, a wooden beam with a pointed edge, and a St. Andrew’s cross. But there was more. Three cages of different heights and widths were interspersed among the equipment. There was also a wooden table, upon which lay what could well be medieval instruments of torture. She recognized the crops, paddles, and floggers. But there were others that she could not name.
She picked up a ball made of rubber, slightly smaller than fist-size, with a leather belt attached to it. What could possibly be the use of such a contraption? She undid the buckle. The belt was not long enough to circle the waist. She laid the ball and belt over her wrist. It was long enough to circumscribe two of her wrists. Perhaps it was meant to bind the hands together? She imagined being so restrained. It was a little frightening…and provocative.
“That is no bracelet.”
Startled, she dropped the ball and belt.
Alastair stood at the threshold, his arms crossed, his lips in a frown.
She bent down and struck the back of her head on the underside of the table in her attempt to retrieve the ball. She placed the item back on the table and rubbed her head. Squaring her shoulders, she met her cousin’s raised brows.
“Then what is it?” she asked.
“A gag.”
She glanced once more at the ball. Now it made sense. “Ah. Of course.”
“Of course?”
