A Gentlewoman's Predicament

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….

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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 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 her.”

“Right ho, Mr. C.!”

As Clarence speeds away, my new companion focuses all his considerable attention 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.