A Gentlewoman's Quartet. Portia Da Costa
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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