The strain on her arms was almost unbearable, and she was humiliated to see some of the male guards taking pictures of her. Someone with a hose directed a stream of water over her. At first, she was thankful to have the filth, her own excrement, washed off her, but then she began to be really chilled, cold water combined with cold wind. One guard, a short guy with acne, probably nor older than she, took a hand-pump sprayer and soaked her hair, on her head and below, with some smelly chemical. Iman had to squeeze her eyes shut, as it dribbled down her forehead. In seconds, she felt the burning sensation of the chemical on her skin, and she screamed and screamed. The pain was worse than anything she could remember. She had to tell herself, one more second, one more second, I can stand it for one more second, and then another. Had she known how long the pain would last, she might have resolved to kill herself, but she held on, until the guy with the water hose washed the chemical. ‘Marcus?’ Joan was aware of the sudden silence and her husband’s heated gaze. She had come to know that look and felt her body throb in response. ‘You could never embarrass me,’ he assured her. ‘Besides, I don’t give one whit what anyone there thinks.’ Marcus tipped back his flask, surprised at finding it already empty. Going to have to do something about that. The Huntington’s townhouse was in the most fashionable area of London and invitations to the ball the most sought after of the season. It would take some time for them to reach their destination. With nothing else to do, Marcus sat back and allowed himself the pleasure of watching his wife. A short time later Joan allowed Marcus to hand her down from the carriage and caught her first glimpse of the Huntington residence. The house itself was massive, dwarfing its neighbors on either side in both size and structure. Inside, guests moved about the ballroom, the sounds of music and conversation carried through the open windows.
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