A Gentlewoman's Quartet. Portia Da Costa
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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