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Chapter Six
The teams trotted off the field for another change of mount and a much needed drink. Dominic, too, rose from his seat and murmured a “be back in a sec,” to the Dowager Duchess who looked mildly scandalised at this apparent show of disinterest, even though many others in the crowd were doing exactly the same. She found it necessary to sit through anything and everything for as long as it took, very much like she imagined the Queen had to do. It was just as well that she had a bladder of cast iron really.
Dominic walked unhurriedly away from the edge of the field and up to the club's pavilion. It was a standard clapboard building, smothered in glossy green paint that, although fairly recent, contrived to give it a dilapidated air, something much beloved by the English. He ascended the three wooden steps to the porch, and passed through the half-glassed door to the small cream-painted panelled entrance lobby, which smelled slightly of must and old polish. To one side was an oak-framed glass display case, agleam with silverware from the club's past exploits on the field. Next to this was a green panelled door bearing a shining brass sign marked “Office”. To the right the door to the kitchens, and straight ahead the entrance to the teams' changing rooms. Dominic looked thoughtfully at this door for about thirty seconds then walked purposefully towards it.
“Excuse me, sir?” A thin, birdlike elderly gentleman, with a beaky nose and stringy white hair dangling limply from the back of his head, but smartly attired in blazer, striped club tie and sharply pressed grey slacks, had just emerged from the office. His watery blue eyes were slightly narrowed behind his rimless spectacles but his voice was just hovering on the fine line between polite and haughty.
Dominic turned and looked at him. That “sir” was a bit too disdainful in his opinion…
“May I help you at all?” Still the same air of forced politeness, but with an unpleasant edge, like Dominic was obviously up to something.
Dominic smiled inwardly. “Dirty old bastard,” he thought, knowing the old fool had leaped to completely the wrong conclusion, that Dominic was heading for the changing rooms, and by doing so was just projecting his own lecherous ideas onto the visitor. “No thanks,” he replied mildly. “I'm just looking at the bulletin boards.” he nodded towards the cork-board screwed to the wall next to he changing room door. “Unless you want to read it for me?” Then he grinned wolfishly, not being able to resist. “Ohhhh, you thought I was heading for the changing room?”
The old man's face coloured, and Dominic knew he'd hit home. “You're from London .” It was a statement, with disapproval obvious in the reedy old voice. Disapproval which translated, not just from London , but a particularly seedy London housing estate.
Dominic sighed, he had heard this tone a lot in this stuffy social climate, and was beginning to get a bit sick of it. He knew from painful experience that his acquired accent was easy to dissect and pigeonhole by those from the Home Counties. Any trace of roughness in the voice was instantly equated to some Cockney low-life. Though there were differences between East and North London accents, most people couldn't tell them apart. “I'm the 4th Duke of Malmsbury,” he replied, ice in his voice, and was gratified to watch the old bloke shrink by several inches, obviously reducing his height to match his social station.
“I do beg your pardon, Your Grace,” he muttered, and retreated back into his office again.
Feeling somewhat cheered by the encounter, Dominic approached the notice board and skimmed over future fixtures, fund-raising pleas and a neatly-written white card offering Persian kittens for sale until he found what he was looking for, the team roster for today's match. There, number 4 - Tara Gordon. Now, he had her name, maybe he could just find out a little more about her, and then…well, one step at a time…
***
Tara mopped her flushed face and swigged down most of a litre bottle of water in one go. It was freakin' HOT out there! Not as bad as summers at home, but a slow baking heat, with more humidity than she was used to. There wasn't much time in the intervals but time enough to attempt to cool down. The other girls were discussing tactics with Mark, their manager. He was trying to bring a touch of reality to their understandable excitement.
“So, fine, you pulled one back, but let's not get over-excited, my little treasures.”
Catherine Johnson told him to fuck off like the well-educated young lady she was and landed a punch on his arm. He grinned. He just loved winding them up like that. “Seriously though, they don't have the same kind of skill as you lot do, and so they are going to try and sneak something, like they did before.” he glanced over at Tara . “Don't let it bother you, love, you learned from it, that's the main thing. “
Tara smiled gratefully at him. The girls had been a little patronising about her error, and she had wondered if she was going to get chewed out or not. Mark tended to get a little excitable about these things…
His answering smile faded as he went on. “But, that little push forward you started to make later on could have cocked up the whole thing. Whenever the rest of the team is in the other half, I need your arse riveted to that goal, understand?”
She nodded, her mood evaporating. She could see from the looks on the other girls' faces that they were still to be convinced of her usefulness to the team. That rankled, and she knew she had a lot of work to do to regain their confidence, more apparently than a good save and assist such as she had pulled off in the last period. She sometimes wondered if it was the fact that she was a) foreign and b) not one of “the set”, that distanced the others from her. There was little time to worry about it though, as it was time to head out for the fourth period. She strapped her helmet back on and, stretching her legs a bit to ease out the cramp from sitting in one position too long, she followed the others out.
As they crunched down the gravel path back to the stable area, they passed the front of the pavilion. There was a man standing there, who looked like he had just exited the building himself. Tara glanced casually at him as she passed, however, just as she was about to let her attention slide away from him, she realised that his gaze had locked on to hers, as if he knew she would look at him and had been waiting to make eye contact. She gave him a polite smile, but he did not return it. His face was impassive, but the eyes seemed to be attempting to scan her soul… With difficulty, she tore her own gaze away from him and went on her way, shrugging inwardly. Maybe she had an admirer, and a pretty good-looking one too…and then her mind returned to the more important matter of the next period.
***
He smiled. She was even more beautiful close up, and her smile was the most dazzling thing to light up his life for a very long time. It appeared that she'd been rather struck herself, at least for a moment, however if he was in any way right about her, she would be careful not to show too much interest, to feign indifference. Some people used that as a shield for their true feelings - he wondered if she was one of them.
***
Once again the ball was thrown between the two ranks of women on horseback, and the fourth period commenced. Tara was delighted to be reunited with Days of Thunder, and the pony seemed to pick up that emotion, for he was even more good-natured and responsive than ever. And how he needed to be!
Norton broke away immediately and Hannah Chakravarty seized upon the ball, making a quick shot to goal. To the huge relief of Thurlingham, it went wide, leaving Tara to bring the ball back in play, and knock it back out of the danger zone with a neat nearside forehand shot. For an intense five minute period the ball was pushed from one side of the ground to the other, finally going out of play within 30 yards of Norton's goal.
As the umpire threw in the ball once again, it was flicked out of the line-up by Saunders of the Norton team, who followed it up to circle round the pack. Then, with a half shot from the boards at the 25-yard line she claimed another goal before ten seconds had registered on the clock. Tara had not been in any way to blame for this, and like her team-mates had been left standing by the speed and ruthlessness of the play. Yet, from somewhere deep within, the sense that she was somehow not worthy of being part of this team and MUST prove herself beyond all doubt had started to smoulder.
***
He caught it instantly. He had retaken his seat just as the next period had started and witnessed the lighting-fast goal. Even he could see that the goal had been a tribute to the skill and reflexes of the Norton team-member and not due to any error on Tara's part. But yet…there it was - a deep, almost palpable resolve. The desire to serve, the NEED to be accepted, to be part of the team. Oh yes, she was showing potential all right, and not just as a good polo player. Something had changed – that shared glance, although it may have meant nothing to her, had kick-started his senses. More than ever, he felt he knew her. There was no sound logical basis for this at all, but he *knew* he had somehow linked to her. The match no longer mattered to him at all; he was no longer the Fourth Duke, he was the One who watched, who waited, assessed and noted the behaviour of his potential slave. This wasn't a game any more, it was a test, and if she passed, then, one way or another, she would be…his.
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