A Gentlewoman's Predicament Read Free

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