A Gentlewoman's Quartet

I try to imagine looking into the eyes of Mr. Trentham, or Lord Lotherton, or the earl of Davy whilst experiencing this glorious lassitude, and I find I cannot picture them. They are nothing to me. Just ciphers. Only this man—and his delightful companions—have any reality for me.

I can see that my previous plans will have to change.

1888

She draws me aside at the Ladies’ Sewing Circle. Young Lucy Montgomery. Mrs. Montgomery, as of a few months ago.

Her eyes are strained. Her face is pinched. Experience tells me that all is not well in the bed of her new husband. Mr. Montgomery is older, so much older, and her family’s choice for her.

I remember when I felt as she does. Disillusioned. Disappointed. Yearning for a certain magic that I was convinced existed but had not yet experienced.

Not until I met a man named Ambrose, who has some revolutionary ideas about how ladies should learn about matters of the bedroom.

As she haltingly describes her dilemma, I find myself drifting back to that first time, just after I’d behaved like a wanton libertine, and discovered my true erotic nature in the arms of Ambrose and Yuri and Clarence.

Afterward, alone, he tended me with all the delicacy and scrupulousness of a perfectly trained lady’s maid. Washing his jism off my body with a soft muslin cloth dipped in rose-scented water, talking to me in quiet tones, and all the while smiling as he described to me all outrageous delights and glories that lay ahead of me in the world of sensuality.

Alas, with such heated descriptions, and such intimate handling, it wasn’t long before my dear Ambrose was spending his dear, precious essence all over me again, although this time we both naked, his clothes being off.

In the peaceful aftermath, I outlined my plan, and though nervous at first, I warmed to my theme. And so did he.

A process that led delightfully to yet more spending.

“Er…um…Lady Arabella said that you might be able to advise me…offer a consultation and perhaps some…therapy?” She twists her handkerchief in her fingers, mangling the poor scrap of lace near to destruction. “Obviously, on a professional basis, of course…. She said you were a…a consultant.”

“Of course, my dear. I’ll be happy to help.” I still her hands with mine, then reach into my reticule for my card case. “Why not come to this address at around three p.m. tomorrow? I’m sure that my associates and I can provide you with all the answers—and the therapy—that you need.”

“Associates?” She looks doubtful.

“Don’t be concerned. They’re the most trusted of professionals. You’ll be safe in their hands.”

She smiles. Her spirits seem to be lifting already and her eyes are brighter.

“Thank you so much. I’ll be there.” She almost seems about to kiss me in gratitude. “Bless you, Madame Chamfleur. I knew I could rely on you.”

As she turns away, and begins to discuss cross-stitch with another of our number, I glance down at the top card in my little case.

Mme. Sofia 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.

I smile, happy anew every time I think of my plan, the way I invested some of my fortune, and the delicious arrangements I made. Beneath my skirts, my body warms as if readying itself for the attentions of my beloved Ambrose.

You see, I did decide to marry, after all.

A Gentlewoman’s Ravishment

Portia Da Costa

The Ladies’ Sewing Circle

Book Two

“I’d love to be abducted and ravished by some handsome brigand or pirate…”

When the women of the Ladies’ Sewing Circle share their private fantasies, some are shocked by Mrs. Prudence Enderby’s secret desire. But Prudence cannot image life without such exotic daydreams—especially since they arouse her husband, too!

Yet Prudence never imagined she would actually be whisked off the street by a mysterious masked man who has his wicked way with her in a carriage. Taking her back to a boudoir appointed for pleasure, he continues to bring every one of her fantasies to life. But nothing could be more surprising than when Prudence finally learns who is behind this gentlewoman’s ravishment…

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1888…

“Personally, I’d love to be abducted and ravished by some handsome brigand or pirate…swept away into a story from the One Thousand Nights and One Night, and subjected to desperate passion in a seraglio or the lair of some ruthless, brawny rogue!”

“Goodness me, Mrs. Enderby! Where in heaven’s name do you get such ideas? Why ever would you want something like that to happen to you?”

“I don’t know that I do want it to actually happen, Mrs. Brigstock,” I reply, wickedness stirring in me as I stab another ill-formed, meandering stitch into what passes for my embroidery. “But imagining it excites me… That and the idea of being debauched and pleasured by more than one man at once, with perhaps a whole crew of them looking on.”

Mrs. Mary Brigstock’s eyes bulge wide and her prim mouth drops open as if I’ve suddenly grown two heads. Does our hostess not have any imagination? Any secret dreams and desires? Does she not have any exotic fantasies herself?

For my own part, I can’t imagine not having them.

“Well, I think your daydreams sound perfectly delicious, Prudence, my dear,” counters Madame Chamfleur, a sly smile playing around her lips. She waggles her neat, dark eyebrows at me, as if she wants to expatiate on the topic, but is holding back in respect of Mrs. Brigstock’s delicate sensibilities. Which seems odd, because Sofia Chamfleur was the one who started this game of “let’s reveal our most scandalous fantasies” in the first place.

“Doesn’t anybody else have any lewd and outrageous daydreams?” I demand of the Ladies’ Sewing Circle. “I can’t believe that Sofia and I are the only ones.”

A ripple of smiles and titters circumnavigates the room. One or two very smug and secretive looks pass across certain faces, which seems to suggest that those ladies don’t actually need fantasies. Other circle members focus earnestly on their needlework, as if they have them too, but perhaps deemed them too outrageous to utter.

“Well, I’ve always had a fancy to be thrown on my back and serviced by a couple of my grooms in the hayloft…perhaps even three or four of them,” announces Lady Arabella Southern, before pausing for effect and stabbing her needle into her own sampler. I can see from here that her stitches are even more haphazard than my poor efforts, although at least she hasn’t pricked her finger and splattered blood over the cloth, as I have. “Oh, no, wait, I think I really did do that, didn’t I?” Her patrician eyes sparkle as the room erupts with a fusillade of gasps and snorts and giggles.

I fall silent though, not at all scandalized by Arabella’s claims. In fact, she’s set me thinking, thinking, thinking…

Perhaps I should fabricate my own little story about grooms—multiple—and haylofts? Something especially piquant like that would amuse Mr. Enderby no end. He’s extremely fond of my outrageous little fictions, and frequently asks me to impart them to him late at night, when the candle burns low, and we’re in bed. The more outlandish and daring the exploits I manufacture, the better he likes it. And the better he likes it, the more ardent he becomes afterward.

And I adore it when Mr. Enderby becomes ardent.

Over tea and cakes after our sewing labors, Arabella regales us with more tales of her supposedly scandalous private life with her grooms, her footmen and certain enthusiastic friends of her husband. I’m not sure any of us believe everything she tells us, but I think most of us, apart from Mary Brigstock, enjoy the confabulation. Especially Sofia, who smiles at me slyly, again and again, as if she knows something that I do not. Something deliciously indecent.

I smile back. I like Sofia. I like her very much. Even though I sense she’s a bottomless well of guile and secrets. And she’s definitely the lady amongst us who least needs to make up stories about her love life. Her husband, Monsieur Chamfleur, is tall and well set up, jolly but sophisticated. Exactly the sort of man who doesn’t need any lessons in the art of pleasing a woman. He looks as if he’s a veritable encyclopedia of sensuality and daring. Much like my own Mr. Enderby, who also knows his stuff.

Eventually, our little sewing circle breaks up, and Mrs. Brigstock’s maid brings us our hats and cloaks and walking jackets. Several ladies have carriages to collect them, and one or two elect to share cabs. The Honorable Lucy Dawson even has her bicycle. But I decide to take a constitutional for my health. My home is but twenty minutes’ walk away, along pleasant, suburban streets, and I could do with the spring breeze upon my cheeks to cool the heat from my lewd, excited thoughts.

“Will you be all right on your own, Prudence, my dear?” inquires Sofia Chamfleur as we’re about to part on the pavement. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to take you home in my carriage? It’s barely out of our way.”

“No…no, thank you, Sofia. It’s very kind of you, but I really need the exercise. Mary’s cook doesn’t have the lightest hand with pastry, but I’m afraid that didn’t stop me overindulging.”

“Very well, then, my dear. But take care, won’t you?” She kisses my cheek in a waft of perfume, then takes her leave.