Free Teena Thyme by Jennifer Jane Pope

and lace, royal blue, with white and black trimmings, the bodice tailored so that it clung to even my nipped waist and the skirts billowing out to form a contrast as complete as any imaginable. Every step, every move, even a sudden breath, was accompanied by a soft symphony of whispering and rustling and, as I turned towards the door, it was as though a gentle wind was stirring in hidden trees.
    'A glass of wine, my Lady Thyme?' I said aloud, my voice pitched half an octave above normal. 'And perhaps we could take a turn on the terrace before dinner?' I giggled stupidly, but I really did feel completely different dressed as I now was.
    'Thank you, duchess,' I replied to myself, in something nearer my normal tone, although with every vowel and consonant enunciated with unaccustomed care. 'You are so very kind.' I pronounced that last as 'kaned' and once again could not suppress a snigger. Ah well, I thought as I turned the door handle, the worn brass slippery in my gloved hand, little things please empty minds.
    What I would be like after a whole bottle of wine I didn't even want to think about. So, maybe only half a bottle. After all, I reasoned with unaccustomed caution, I still had to get myself out of this little lot before bedtime. I couldn't imagine even thinking about sleeping in this corset, let alone actually attempting it!
     
    'You look most fetching in your new corset, my dear.' Gregory Hacklebury stood in the bedroom doorway, leering at Angelina with undisguised lust. In one hand he held a half empty brandy goblet, in the other a slim cigar smouldered away unheeded. Angelina, perched back on the edge of the bed, recoiled from him in horror, but he made no move towards her, preferring to savour her discomfiture from a distance.
    'Yes, indeed,' he continued, his languid drawl plainly brought on partially by the alcohol he had consumed, 'a very attractive sight indeed. I shall take great pleasure in taking my conjugal rights, when the time comes.'
    'Except that I shall never marry you!' Angelina hissed. 'No matter what you may do to me, I shall never consent.'
    'I expected as much from you,' Hacklebury nodded, apparently unconcerned by this assertion. 'However, it matters not. As far as the outside world is concerned, you and I are to be married in two days' time. Your presence at the ceremony will not be necessary and neither will you ever be in the position to deny that it was you that plighted your troth to me.' He laughed and hiccoughed at the same time and a trickle of spittle ran down his chin. Angelina stared at him in horror.
    'What do you mean?' she demanded. 'You cannot marry a person unless they give their consent in person.'

'Of course not,' he agreed, recovering some of his composure and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 'But then, it will be a private ceremony in the family chapel, here on the estate. The bride will be demure and veiled, as is the new custom, the witnesses will be trusted servants. As for the priest, well, it is surprising what the promise of a hundred guineas can persuade a stipendiary parson to turn a blind eye to.'
    'You fiend!' Angelina gasped, as the full import of what he was proposing sank in. 'You would use an impostor and bribe a man of God! Are there no depths to which you will not sink?' A crooked smile spread across his flushed features.
    'Frankly, my dear,' he replied easily, 'I don't think there can be. If there are, be assured I have yet to find them, at least. No, my dear, you and I will be married as far as the law is concerned, and your inheritance will pass to me as per the law, too.'
    'And what will you do with me?' Angelina asked querulously. 'Will I perhaps meet with an unfortunate accident and leave you as the grieving widower?'
    'The idea has merit, I must admit,' Hacklebury sniggered, 'but I see little point in killing such a pretty little bird. No, I have no intention of killing you, but you will have no further contact outside of these grounds.