Loe raamatut: «A Gentlewoman's Quartet»

A Gentlewoman’s Predicament
Portia Da Costa

The Ladies’ Sewing Circle

Book One

Sofia Harewood’s problem: finding a partner who can please her in the bedroom better than her disappointing first husband! She senses there should be so much more to lovemaking—and she’s determined to discover what she’s been missing.

Sofia’s mission takes her to A. Chamfleur, purveyor of “Intimate Advice to the Gentlewoman”…but the encounter is not at all what she had imagined. For A. Chamfleur turns out to be Monsieur Chamfleur—and he and his associates are more than willing to introduce Sofia to a new world of sensual delights….

Contents

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1887

It all begins at the Ladies’ Sewing Circle.

Somehow, I find myself revealing my predicament to Lady Arabella Southern, and instead of being horrified, she’s unexpectedly sympathetic.

“Of course, my dear Sofia. It is a predicament, and you owe it to yourself to ensure things turn out differently in your second marriage. Especially as an independently wealthy woman like you can have her pick of any number of suitors.”

“But I’m not even being courted by any gentlemen yet, Arabella.” I smooth down my dove-grey gown. “Officially, I’m still in half mourning. Surely, it’s unseemly to be thinking about intimacy again so soon?”

“It’s never too early to educate oneself, Sofia. In this modern age a young woman is entitled to look out for her own welfare. Goodness me, my dear, we have a member of our sex on the throne of England.”

“I hardly think our good queen ever had any difficulties of an intimate nature, Arabella. Just think how many children she had, and it’s common knowledge that she and Prince Albert were idyllically happy.”

“As could you be…with Mr. Trentham…or Lord Lotherton…or the earl of Davy…if you play your cards right, my dear.”

“Ah, but that’s my problem, Arabella. I have to learn how to play the game itself first, so to speak.”

She gives me a little nod, and taps the side of her nose. Then reaches into her reticule and brings out a small white card.

Mme. A. Chamfleur, Intimate Advice to the Gentlewoman, it proclaims in a very handsome copperplate script, followed by an address in Hampstead, and the words Consultations By Appointment.

“Go here, Sofia my dear, go here.” Arabella smiles as she presses the little rectangle into my hand. “Go here and you’ll learn all you need to know.”

Is that so? I wonder… Shall I go?

Well, here I am, a week later, standing on the step of a rather imposing residence. My carriage is speeding away already and my heart’s thudding behind my corset I’m so nervous. I reach out and ring the bell before I can change my mind and bolt.

Within seconds, the door swings open and I get quite a surprise. Instead of the parlor maid I’d been anticipating, a handsome and rather cocky young man with light brown hair stands in the doorway. He’s fashionable dressed in a rather flashy waistcoat and sharp-cut narrow trousers. His level gaze is disturbingly bold.

Before either of us speaks a single word he looks me up and down, slowly and probingly, his blue eyes sharp as if he’s imagining my breasts, my hips and my belly beneath my clothes!

It’s a thoroughly disquieting experience, but it makes my heart leap and bump even harder, and a strange, tense feeling gather and twist in the pit of my belly. I’m almost compelled to reprimand him, but he forestalls me.

“Ah, you’ll be Mrs. Harewood, eh? We’ve been waiting for you. Do come in.”

He steps back, to let me pass, his eyes still on me.

The hallway is pleasant, high-ceilinged and airy. A number of small prints adorn the walls, but I’m in no mood to peruse them. Not while I’m still being perused myself, and so insolently.

“I’m Clarence. Pleased to meet you.” This personable, roving-eyed young man offers his hand, smiling broadly in a very knowing way. When our fingers touch, his are warm even through the kidskin of my glove, and they linger around mine far longer than is polite, and hold too tightly for common propriety. But despite that, they feel nice and I’m irrationally disappointed when he frees me. “Do come this way. I’m afraid Madame is with a lady at the moment, and the poor dear is proving exceptionally nervous and taking longer than expected.” As I follow him toward a door at the end of the hall, he turns suddenly, and I could swear he winks at me. “You’re not nervous are you, Mrs. Harewood? There’s nothing to be afraid of here. Not a thing.”

His frisky demeanor quite takes me aback, and I don’t quite know what to say. But it doesn’t seem to matter. He smiles at me as if we’re having the most civil of conversations and ushers me in to a small but cozy parlor.

“I’m sure Madame won’t be too long. I’ll come and fetch you when she’s ready to receive you.”

What is this strange emphasis on the words Madame and she? And why does he seem to chuckle he says them? I thank him and attempt to maintain my equilibrium. A difficult task given the delicacy of my mission here, and the unnerving, heated scrutiny of Clarence.

“Read a journal while you’re waiting,” he recommends, waving in the general direction of a pile of periodicals stacked on the top of a bureau. “They’ll relax you, they will, and put you in the mood.”

Exactly what mood would that be? I wonder when he’s gone, given the kind of advice I hope to receive at the hands of “Madame” Chamfleur.

Expecting the Ladies’ Home Journal or the Tatler, something familiar that will settle my mind for the approaching interview, I don’t recognize any of the titles. The top one on the pile, a journal called Divertissements seems innocuous enough, so I take it with me and take a seat next to the window, overlooking the garden.

I open the magazine at a random page, and my jaw drops in shock. I suddenly feel hotter than ever. With it laid open on my lap, I loosen my walking jacket, and take off my gloves.

The page in question consists of one large illustration, an extremely fine lithograph.

And it’s a lifelike engraving of yet another handsome and personable young man, exotically dark this time, rather than fair like Clarence, but this young man is naked. Completely bare. Not a stitch on him from head to toe.

Oh, dear, I feel breathless. But I can’t look away. I suddenly wish Clarence would return so I could ask him to bring me a glass of water. But then, perhaps better not. I’m so overheated by the sight of this beautiful, unclothed youth in a state of masculine excitement that I certainly don’t want cheeky Clarence to see me blushing.

After a moment, I settle down.

Is this not what I’m here for, after all? To learn more about the sensual side of life? Madame Chamfleur has probably left this journal here in her waiting parlor for that very reason. Allowing her female clients to be gently introduced to masculine nudity and its pleasures.

And he is a very fine specimen indeed.

Slim and muscular, with a head of jet-black curls, perfect clear skin and a vigorous growth of dark hair on his broad chest. As well as lower…

He has a thick thatch of black hair at his groin, and protruding below, an extraordinarily large and vital member.

Dear me, it’s enormous. And he’s touching it, his long fingers resting languidly on the thrusting branch, lightly curled around it as if to draw attention to its splendor.

As if it needed attention drawing to it. My curious female eyes can’t be torn away from it.

What would it be like to touch such a mighty staff? Feel it throb and burn in my small hand. The late Mr. Harewood was not abundantly provisioned in his intimate areas. Possibly the reason for our disappointing marital endeavors? In addition to the fact that he didn’t quite seem to know what to do with what he did have.

And being neither experienced nor bold, I suffered his inept fumbling whilst knowing there was more, so much more to connubial joining, if only I could work out what was missing.

But that’s all behind me, and I’m resolved to make sure that I get what I want when I marry again, and I’m here to learn precisely what that is.

From “Madame.”

Touching my fingertip to the smooth paper, I wonder if Mr. Trentham, or Lord Lotherton, or even the earl of Davy are as generously proportioned as this beautiful young man.

What it would feel like to have such a magnificent organ lodged inside me?

“Ah, I see you’ve found Yuri,” says an amused masculine voice from somewhere near my elbow. “He has a magnificent cock on him, doesn’t he? Not as big as mine, of course. But he’s still a very fine fellow.”

Blushing furiously, I look up to find that Clarence has crept up on me like a cat burglar and is staring down at my fingertips, where they rest incriminatingly at the base of handsome Yuri’s abdomen.

I open my mouth to speak, and find myself completely incapable of uttering a word. Not satisfied with ogling the image of one young man’s nakedness, I suddenly find myself speculating about Clarence’s body. And whether his member is as big as he says. Goodness me, it must be enormous!

Dangerous thoughts stir, as does that strange and delicious heaviness deep in my belly and the very quick of my body. It’s uncomfortable, but also curiously exciting.

“Not to worry, Mrs. Harewood. Ladies do like looking at pictures of naked men, you know,” continues Clarence cheerfully, “and pretty pictures are the very least you’ll see in this house.”

Showing no propriety whatsoever, he takes me by the arm and almost lifts me to my feet. “Please come this way, won’t you? My employer will see you now, if you’re ready.”

Too flustered to speak, I snatch up my gloves and my reticule and follow his lead along the corridor and then up a flight of stairs. He doesn’t urge me to precede him, but instead climbs ahead of me, offering me a clear view of his buttocks in his pale, fashionable trousers. They look firm and muscular, and the tips of my fingers tingle with the compulsion to reach out and lay hands on him. The flesh of his backside is so inviting. It lures me to exploration and the desire to fondle.

Whatever is happening to me? I’ve only been in this house around ten minutes or so, and already I’m turning into a wanton.

But isn’t that what you want, Sofia?

Of course it is, but I’m still not ready reach out and goose Clarence spontaneously.

On the first floor he escorts me to the door at the end of the landing and knocks.

A peculiarly deep voice for a woman calls out, “Enter!”

The room beyond is even cozier and more inviting than the parlor below.

Heavy mahogany furniture gleams, as do the spines of many, many books ranked in floor-to-ceiling shelves. A cheerful fire burns in the hearth, and to one side of the room stands an imposing leather-topped desk, to the other a very inviting chaise longue. Underfoot, the Persian carpet is dense and soft.

A hugely tall and very strapping gentleman comes out from behind the desk to greet me, a warm smile on his lavishly whiskered face. His eyes are bright and brown, his thick dark hair is a little silvered but most attractive, and his teeth look very white between full, almost sultry pink lips. He’s beautifully dressed in an elegant morning coat, narrow trousers and immaculate linen.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Harewood,” he says in a deep, ever so slightly accented voice, his eyes twinkling. “What an enormous pleasure it is to meet you.” He catches my hand in both his colossal ones and gives it an enthusiastic squeeze.

I’m befuddled.

Another extraordinarily good-looking man. Another lewd flutter down below that exceeds even my response to Clarence and Yuri. For a moment, outrageous ideas prance fully formed through my mind, all featuring this mighty, well-set-up gentleman with his virile mutton-chop whiskers, his merry smile and his exceptionally strong-looking body.

But where is Madame Chamfleur? There’s no sign of her. And what I have to confess here can only be told to a woman.

I open my mouth to speak, but once again, I’m struck dumb.

“Come, my dear lady, let’s sit down.” Still holding my hands, my host leads me to the chaise longue and settles me upon it, most courteously. “Clarence, kindly bring some spiced Madeira for Mrs. Harewood. I’m sure a taste of it will calm and relax her.”

“Right ho, Mr. C.!”

As Clarence speeds away, my new companion focuses all his considerable attention upon me.

Up close, he seems even bigger than I first thought. His hands are massive, as is everything about him. Deep chest, huge thighs…and, oh, dear, I can’t prevent myself from glancing at his masculine endowments.

And in that department, he’s even more blessed than young Clarence and Yuri!

Blood rushes into my face, especially as he seems to notice me noticing him. A delightful knowing smile creases his broad face as he sinks onto the chaise beside me.

All of a flutter, I blurt out, “Sir, thank you for your kindness, but could you tell me when we can expect Madame Chamfleur? I’m anxious to meet her.”

His laugh is like deep, sonorous music.

“I’m afraid there is no Madame Chamfleur. Except my late mother. I’m sorry you’ve been deceived.”

“But…er…why would you do that, Mr.…er…Monsieur Chamfleur? Why would you advertise the services of a woman when you are in fact a man?”

Very much a man, my wayward eyes confirm again. Why can’t I keep control of where I’m looking? I can’t seem to stop staring at his groin.

Still smiling, he chafes my bare hands, his fingers warm and clever and soothing. “My name is Ambrose. Please call me that.” I find myself calming, and settling, while paradoxically the tension in my nether regions increases. “I use my mother’s name out of expediency, really. It’s more convenient. Most ladies wouldn’t dream of discussing their intimate problems with a gentleman, but when the name of ‘Madame’ is presented, they eagerly come along.”

“But…”

Still his fingers move over mine, gently, rhythmically. “Believe me, Mrs. Harewood, I can help you. Choose whatever problem concerning intimate human relations you have, I can advise you in the most perfect discretion. You can trust me completely, and also those who serve on my staff.”

It seems preposterous. Indeed, it is preposterous. But still his steady brown eyes, and his softly moving fingers, continue to lull me. Maybe he can help, this huge man, with his twinkling smile, his ever-so-slight French accent and his perfect self-possession?

Clarence arrives with the Madeira. He pours it from a jug into a Russian tea glass with a silver-plated holder. It’s warm when he puts it into my hands.

“Try it. It’s my own special infusion of spices. I think you find it both soothing and invigorating,” says Monsieur Chamfleur. Or Ambrose, as I suppose I must think of him. I feel like telling him that I find him both soothing and invigorating, too.

The spiced Madeira is delicious, and all the more potent for my nearly empty stomach. I was too nervous to eat before I came out.

I drink deeply and find that I’ve all but emptied the glass. Clarence takes it from me, and seems about to refill it when I wave him away. He puts it aside, retires to the far end of the room and sits down on a hardwood chair.

“Please, Mrs. Harewood, won’t you tell me what’s been troubling you?”

Ambrose reaches for my hands again and folds them into his.

The room is warm, and I feel so comfortable now that I open my mouth…. Then I remember that Clarence is still with us.

“Don’t worry. No secrets from Clarence. He’s my most trusted associate and he assists with the therapies.”

“Therapies?”

“Yes, of course, my dear lady, there are therapies. How else could we help resolve intimate problems?”

Indeed. I glance at Clarence, and he gives me a small nod, his merry face serious for once.

I return my attention to Ambrose. His expression is composed, serious and professional. And yet, somehow, far back in his eyes, a demon twinkles.

What is this place? What new predicament have I got myself into?

Still his fingers gently stroke mine, slowly and soothingly. I imagine them touching me elsewhere, just as slowly, just as soothingly.

Ambrose doesn’t prompt me, but suddenly I find myself pouring out my story. The words are halting at first, then rapidly grow more fluent. I blush like the very devil, but still I can’t stop myself, and I describe the deficiencies of my marriage bed, my confused feelings, my sense that there should be more, so much more.

And my dogged determination to ensure things are better, the next time round.

“I want to be sure that I know in advance how to please my husband…and…um…that he knows how to please me in return. Mr. Harewood was not at all diligent in that quarter.”

“And did you receive no pleasure at all from him?”

Ambrose’s face is still calm, his demeanor attentive. Did I imagine that naughty gleam in his eye, I wonder? He seems all sober and thoughtful now, and to my shock, I feel bitterly disappointed. I suddenly want wickedness, and daring, and seduction, and something that I don’t yet quite understand.

“None. Just discomfort…and certain female friends hinted that there would be rapture, transports of bliss, helpless passion.”

“Quite so. Indeed there should be.” Ambrose makes a gesture, and Clarence efficiently provides me with more Madeira. Just a few sips, but I’m grateful for the richness and the spices.

“I can help you, Mrs. Harewood. Indeed I can.” His voice is softer now, almost a whisper as he leans close and allows me to smell his intoxicating shaving lotion. “But first we must examine you to see if there’s anything physical amiss.”

A thousand questions and protests speed through my mind. Is Ambrose a physician? And if not, how outrageous and inappropriate is it for him to lay hands on me?

Whirling hot blood rushes to my face. “Examine me?” My senses teeter and tilt as the blood seems to rush to other places, too, making them agitated. The tips of my breasts, the pit of my belly, my secret recess.

“Why, yes, of course.” Ambrose’s smile is gentle but his brown eyes are shining like dark stars.

What is this place? Who is he? Who are they? I ask myself, aware that Clarence is hovering still, close by.

“Don’t be shy, Sofia. You’re safe here. No need to worry.” Ambrose’s fingers have slid under the sleeve of my frock and are stroking, stroking. “Come on, my dear, let’s be off with all these heavy, constricting clothes.”

So this is how it happens?

He urges me to my feet, and it’s off with my bonnet, my jacket and my boots, followed swiftly by my bodice and my skirts and petticoats.

Both Ambrose and Clarence handle my clothing with smooth efficiency, and I wonder vaguely just how many other nervous gentlewomen they’ve cleverly undressed in this warm room.

Denuded down to my corset and bustle, I shudder and sway as if in a fever—especially when Ambrose slides his fingers down my throat and across my bosom and beneath the edge of the sternly laced garment.

“Dear God, this is like armor! How can women possibly feel free and experience pleasure while trussed up on monstrosities like this? I suggest that when you get home, you fling it on the fire.”

Before I can protest, he and Clarence attack the garment that offends him so. Bustle dispensed with, two pairs of extraordinarily deft male hands negotiate the corset’s hooks and lacing, and within the wink of an eye, Ambrose flings the entire construction across the room in disgust.

“There, that’s better.”

I gasp as his whole hand settles lightly on my breast, through my chemise. He cups the soft orb with a delicate touch, his fingers curving and caressing. I stand like a statue, shaking and confused in my just the chemise, my drawers and my stockings. The heat of the softly glowing fire is like a caress, too, warming me through my linen. A hot blush surges through my skin and through my veins. Between my legs, I feel a pulse, slow and liquid.

“You’re very beautiful, my dear,” whispers Ambrose, hand still upon me, “but you’re a modest young woman and I know all this is new to you.” His mouth is so close to my cheek that I almost imagine he’s going to kiss me. But he doesn’t. “Perhaps you’d like to retain your undergarments for the moment, to spare your blushes?”

Spare them? Too late for that. My entire body is in a state of conflagration. He’s barely touched me but I’m an inferno down below.

“Come along, Mrs. Harewood. Let’s get you settled comfortably on the chaise.”

Like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter, I let him lead me to the plush, upholstered couch and help me up onto it. As I settle into place, not knowing what to expect, I close my eyes. And as I prepare to meet my fate, Clarence’s skillful fingers ease the pins from my hair and fan it out across the cushions. All the while, Ambrose lightly strokes my hand.

What am I doing here? Why am I allowing these two men that are scarcely even acquaintances make free with my clothing and my body? I must have lost my wits or the Madeira was drugged.

But I know that’s not so. And I know this is what I’ve wanted for a long time. The thing I knew existed but was missing from my life.

When my pulses have settled, and I’ve calmed a little, Ambrose releases my hand and gets straight down to business. Slowly, seductively, he strokes my cheek, then my chin, then my throat. A moment later, he’s at the tiny silk ribbons that fasten the front of my chemise, undoing them swiftly.

Without speaking, he folds the soft fabric aside and exposes my pale body to his gaze, and to Clarence’s.

When he touches me, really touches me, I cry out like a child, and instantly Clarence is at my head, stroking my hair like a skilled groom calming a skittish pony. He murmurs to me, “There, there…” while Ambrose handles my breasts, gently fondling and cupping and kneading.

His actions are light, circumspect, almost respectful, but their effect is like nothing I’ve ever known. I squirm on the upholstery, my body excited, twisting and uneasy. When he increases the intensity of his caresses, I whimper helplessly. How can this be? How can such simple manipulations create such a cornucopia of delight. My late husband mauled my bosom, and I felt nothing then.

But now…now, Ambrose’s fingers are so clever, so devilish. He plucks at my nipples, playing with them in a way that feels like he’s playing with my entire body and setting light to the most divine, unknown sensations. I wriggle shamelessly, scissoring my thighs in a lewd and passionate frenzy, wanting more, more, more. Anything to assuage the rapidly gathering inner tingling.

“You see, Mrs. Harewood, you are a sensual woman!” Ambrose’s voice is both cajoling and triumphant, and yet an intimate whisper, right in my ear. While he still plays with my breasts, Clarence moves again, toward the foot of the chaise.

My eyes fly open.

Whatever are they planning now?

“I’ll need your help now, Clarence, if you will?” Ambrose almost kisses me, his breath hot against my brow. “I’d like you to unfasten Mrs. Harewood’s drawers and stockings, and then ease them down as far as her knees.”

“Oh, no, please, Monsieur Chamfleur, please no!”

Oh the shame, to be exposed so…. Why does it excite me and make me want to wiggle and wriggle even harder?

“Calm yourself, sweet Mrs. Harewood, rest easy.” His lips brush my skin, just for a moment. “And please do call me ‘Ambrose,’ I beg of you. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Except myself, and a degree of lust and licentiousness I’ve only just this afternoon become aware of.

Clarence makes himself busy at my waist, and a moment later I feel cooler air whisper across my belly and my thighs even though the room is warm. His hand beneath my bare bottom, he lifts me, and then settles me back on the fine plush velvet upholstery. To feel it’s sumptuous texture against my naked skin is willfully decadent.

“Magnificent,” they exclaim, almost a chorus. Then Ambrose kisses my face, just once, in a kind of signal, and the two men change places.

Clarence, at my head now, is just as gentle and solicitous as his master was. I look up into his periwinkle-blue eyes, almost afraid to let my glance stray toward Ambrose and his intentions, and I see Clarence’s expression is both kind and impish. He cradles me with one arm, and lets his free hand drift to my breast and take up the delightful ministrations that Ambrose began. I groan with delight while he teases and tickles me, at the same time anticipating more, much, much more, down below.

I close my eyes. Not because I don’t want to look at their handsome, fervent faces, but because I’m not sure I can bear such intense wonders in the light.

My cries increase as I feel an ethereal, indefinable pressure slide unhurriedly across the skin of my belly. In a ferment now, I could swear it’s a feather that’s caressing me. A long, stiff, resilient feather whose soft tip glides first across one thigh, then with tantalizing slowness across the other. Having tormented me thus, it returns to the plane of my abdomen, floating like mist into the pit of my navel and circling there, making me squirm on the chaise.

“Quietly, quietly…” purrs a voice so softly that I’m not even sure whether it’s Clarence or Ambrose, and as I endure the feather, I’m all the time aware of skilled fingers still at work on my bosom. A multitude of nerve ends have woken from their slumbers, in both the zones my new friends are exploring, and in others, as yet unvisited.

Between my thighs, I’m intensely troubled. If that be the word. My feminine parts are wracked by simmering heat and agitation, a wicked, wicked craving to be touched and rubbed and played with. It’s so excruciating, I want to play with them myself.

I feel confused, my head whirling, lost but also strangely safe. These must be the sensations that I dimly imagined I was missing in my marriage bed. But they’re so powerful, so befuddling, yet so beautiful. My eyes fill with tears, but I’m not sad. No, never that.

Reaching for knowledge, I almost coo in response to my two paramours.

Who respond to my silent, formless prayers.

Clarence kisses me, his tongue pressing importunately into my mouth, searching, tasting. At almost the same moment, I heave up from the surface of the chaise in delicious shock.

A finger—a stiff, warm, clever finger—pushes inside me.

Ambrose breaches my hot body in a smooth, bold action, and as his finger enters me, his broad, flat thumb settles on the tiny sensitive bead at the apex of my womanhood. Instantaneously, delight seems to pierce me like a spear, touching not just the warm, sticky crevice of my sex, but also my breasts, my lips, my toes, my heart and my very soul.

The men move in. They overwhelm me. I’m exquisitely assaulted by questing fingers and warm tongues, and by the scents of my body and the clean odors of their linen and their flesh.

The heat and the tension in my flesh soars to a sweet, unbearable pitch, building like a raw flame in my loins…and then, and then… I cry out into the kissing mouth of Clarence, when without warning, all that selfsame pressure seems to release in a great, wild rush and throb through my body in a wrenching wave so profound I almost swoon.

Goodness, what’s happened to me? Did I lose my senses?

Opening my eyes, I realize that I’m just lying here, on the chaise, my heart and my body all of a flutter. My breasts and belly are still naked and I’m cradled in Ambrose’s arms. My face is wet, and I realize I’ve been weeping.

Struggling to sit up, I look around and find that Clarence has discreetly slipped away.

“Were those the transports of delight that my friends have whispered of?” I ask Ambrose as I struggle to gather just a few of my scattered wits. The deficiencies of my marriage are now readily and distressingly apparent to me. Are all men as lacking in the sensual arts as my poor late husband was? “I confess that’s the first time I’ve experienced them.”

“They were indeed, my dear Mrs. Harewood.” Ambrose’s voice is quite grave as he moves away quickly, only to return with a little more Madeira for me. It’s cold now, but just as delicious, and very welcome. “And it pains me to hear that such an obviously sensual woman as yourself is only now discovering the joys of eroticism.”