my/Angelina's wedding to Sir Gregory, but there was no wedding breakfast, no languorous bath, no fussing and primping and absolutely no ceremony. The bedroom door banged open and in strode the two maids, Meg leading the way and carrying a long cane, Polly following close behind, rope coils dangling from her arms.
I knew immediately that I was in big trouble and they lost no time in proving me right.
'On your feet, you idle trollop!' Meg bellowed and dealt me a swift backhanded cut from her cane, which fell across my thighs, the pain deadened by the layers of material in which I was still cocooned, but still sharp enough to draw a yelp of protest from me. 'Get up and let's get you out of that dress. You smell to high heaven now.'
I couldn't argue with her on that point. How long exactly Angelina had been wearing the dress and how long before that she had been given the opportunity to bathe, I had no idea, but I'd been in the thing for two days and nights and much longer and it was liable to walk off me of its own accord.
I was soon on my feet, thanks more to Meg's efforts than my own, and stood between the two of them, dwarfed even by Polly, with Meg a good two inches taller still. It was something I was not at all used to and, as they set about removing the dress, I calculated that Angelina could have been little more than five feet tall, five one at a push.
Tiny, slender and not very strong, as I quickly discovered. Not at all like Teena Thyme, seventies girl and sportswoman wannabe. I closed my eyes and wished to have my old body back, if only for thirty seconds. Big and powerful as Meg was, I reckoned I could floor her in a moment and as for Polly, she was too oafish, slow and clumsy and once her mentor was out of the way she'd probably run a mile, like any other bully would, once they realise the game's up.
However, it was not to be.
Two onto one isn't fair, as anyone knows, and either of these hefty wenches could have handled me in that body. However, I was only too well aware that the word 'fair' wasn't in their vocabulary and besides, they seemed in a hurry. No sooner was I out of the dress than they seized me between them, flung me face down upon the bed and then, as Polly sat astride the small of my back, Meg took the rope lengths and began expertly tying my limbs to the four corner posts, so that by the time she had finished I was spread-eagled like a human cross of St Andrew.
I groaned and bit into a mouthful of bedcovers, for I knew only too well what was coming next. Meg, however, seemed in no hurry whatsoever, not now she had me helpless before her.
'We'll leave your drawers on, I think,' she announced, prodding at my left buttock with the tip of her cane. I flinched automatically and this set her to laughing. 'Time to get some blood stirring again, I think,' she said. 'I told the master I thought you were just malingering and that a good thrashing would liven you up. He'd have been here to witness this himself, but of course, he's otherwise occupied in the chapel right now, marrying you, ha-ha!'
Marrying me? But I was here. Me and Angelina's body, so how could...? And then the penny dropped. Good old Angie must have convinced him that there was no way she was going meekly to the altar to say 'I will', nor anything like it, so Greg Hacklebury had brought in some sort of doppelganger. Private chapel, witnesses from among his own trusted minions, bung the vicar a backhander to ask no questions and keep shtum afterwards and all it needs is a decent forgery of the bride's signature and lo and behold, Angelina Thyme becomes Lady Hacklebury and Sir Gregory Hacklebury becomes an even more wealthy man than he is already.
And who would ever know different? Only if the real 'Lady Hacklebury', or Angelina Thyme as she still legally would be, popped up and started shouting the odds. And Greg was surely too wily a bird to chance that happening, which meant one of two possible alternatives.
Either 'Lady Hacklebury'
I knew immediately that I was in big trouble and they lost no time in proving me right.
'On your feet, you idle trollop!' Meg bellowed and dealt me a swift backhanded cut from her cane, which fell across my thighs, the pain deadened by the layers of material in which I was still cocooned, but still sharp enough to draw a yelp of protest from me. 'Get up and let's get you out of that dress. You smell to high heaven now.'
I couldn't argue with her on that point. How long exactly Angelina had been wearing the dress and how long before that she had been given the opportunity to bathe, I had no idea, but I'd been in the thing for two days and nights and much longer and it was liable to walk off me of its own accord.
I was soon on my feet, thanks more to Meg's efforts than my own, and stood between the two of them, dwarfed even by Polly, with Meg a good two inches taller still. It was something I was not at all used to and, as they set about removing the dress, I calculated that Angelina could have been little more than five feet tall, five one at a push.
Tiny, slender and not very strong, as I quickly discovered. Not at all like Teena Thyme, seventies girl and sportswoman wannabe. I closed my eyes and wished to have my old body back, if only for thirty seconds. Big and powerful as Meg was, I reckoned I could floor her in a moment and as for Polly, she was too oafish, slow and clumsy and once her mentor was out of the way she'd probably run a mile, like any other bully would, once they realise the game's up.
However, it was not to be.
Two onto one isn't fair, as anyone knows, and either of these hefty wenches could have handled me in that body. However, I was only too well aware that the word 'fair' wasn't in their vocabulary and besides, they seemed in a hurry. No sooner was I out of the dress than they seized me between them, flung me face down upon the bed and then, as Polly sat astride the small of my back, Meg took the rope lengths and began expertly tying my limbs to the four corner posts, so that by the time she had finished I was spread-eagled like a human cross of St Andrew.
I groaned and bit into a mouthful of bedcovers, for I knew only too well what was coming next. Meg, however, seemed in no hurry whatsoever, not now she had me helpless before her.
'We'll leave your drawers on, I think,' she announced, prodding at my left buttock with the tip of her cane. I flinched automatically and this set her to laughing. 'Time to get some blood stirring again, I think,' she said. 'I told the master I thought you were just malingering and that a good thrashing would liven you up. He'd have been here to witness this himself, but of course, he's otherwise occupied in the chapel right now, marrying you, ha-ha!'
Marrying me? But I was here. Me and Angelina's body, so how could...? And then the penny dropped. Good old Angie must have convinced him that there was no way she was going meekly to the altar to say 'I will', nor anything like it, so Greg Hacklebury had brought in some sort of doppelganger. Private chapel, witnesses from among his own trusted minions, bung the vicar a backhander to ask no questions and keep shtum afterwards and all it needs is a decent forgery of the bride's signature and lo and behold, Angelina Thyme becomes Lady Hacklebury and Sir Gregory Hacklebury becomes an even more wealthy man than he is already.
And who would ever know different? Only if the real 'Lady Hacklebury', or Angelina Thyme as she still legally would be, popped up and started shouting the odds. And Greg was surely too wily a bird to chance that happening, which meant one of two possible alternatives.
Either 'Lady Hacklebury'
Similar Books
