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

      Begin Reading

      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