by Emily Larkin
That was a terrible thought. One he’d never had before. He watched Ned strut around in his wig and plumed hat, watched Sextus unearth a wooden box from the very bottom of the trunk, watched Quintus sneeze yet again. “Women can’t refuse their husbands entry to their beds, can they?”
“No, they can’t.” Sextus opened the box. “I say, look! A beard and mustache.”
The beard was small and black and pointed and the mustache curled at both ends. Sextus held them up to his face.
“I think the mustache is meant to curl up, not down,” Quintus said.
Octavius put the petticoat back in the trunk. How could it possibly be right that a husband could bully his way into his wife’s bed and take what he wanted? The idea of someone having that kind of power over him was quite appalling.
It wasn’t right, any more than it was right for an employer to demand sexual favors from his servants or for a valet to try to rape a housemaid.
He bent and picked up the bodice Ned had tossed aside. It was low cut, but not as low as the one he’d worn to Vauxhall Gardens—and that was another thing that wasn’t right. It wasn’t right for men to force themselves on members of the muslin company, because even prostitutes should be able to say no.
He opened his mouth to ask the others what they thought on that last point, and then closed it without speaking. Ned was mincing up and down in the wig, plumed hat, and high cavalier’s boots, Sextus was peering at himself in one of the old mirrors while he held the mustache first one way, then the other, and Quintus was fastening a flowing cape over his shoulders. Grown men playing games, while women were subjected to their husbands’ sexual demands and female servants were assaulted by their employers and whores were almost raped in Vauxhall Gardens.
Quite suddenly Octavius had had enough. “I’m off,” he said, tossing the bodice back in the trunk.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Octavius walked for some time, crisscrossing London’s streets and squares before turning his steps towards Albemarle Street and his set of rooms, where he sat down to the next task on his list: writing a letter to his grandparents.
After ten minutes spent contemplating a blank sheet of paper, he poured himself a glass of brandy. It didn’t help. Or perhaps it did, because he decided to stop trying to be concise and unemotional and to just tell his grandparents everything, and perhaps his letter was a little messy and perhaps it was a little effusive, possibly even rhapsodic, but it also told them all they needed to know about Miss Toogood.
That task done, he examined the sword and kites Staig had procured, declared them perfect, and sent the manservant out to fetch them both a meal from the nearest tavern.
It occurred to Octavius while he ate beef collops and a raised pigeon pie that this could well be his last night in these rooms. If everything went as he hoped, he’d be married when he next came to London. He and Miss Toogood would stay in one of the guest suites at Hanover Square until they purchased a townhouse.
A house of their very own. One that they would choose together and live in together. He and Miss Toogood.
Octavius had a vague feeling that he ought to be nervous about acquiring a wife and a house and everything else that went with marriage, but he didn’t feel apprehensive at all. He felt excited, brimming with anticipation and eagerness. His life was going to change—it was going to change a lot—and he couldn’t wait for those changes to start, because whatever happened—the good things and the bad things—he wouldn’t be facing them alone. Miss Toogood would be by his side. Yes, he had his parents, and yes, he had his brother and his cousins and his uncles and aunts and grandparents, but Miss Toogood would be his partner. She would share his life in a way that no one else could—and for some reason that thought made him choke up slightly.
Octavius pushed his wineglass to one side. He had a horrible feeling that if he drank any more than he already had, and if he continued thinking about Miss Toogood any more than he already had, he might just turn into a mawkish, dewy-eyed watering pot. But it was confoundedly difficult not to think about Miss Toogood. He couldn’t wait to get back to Hampshire. Couldn’t wait to see her again. Couldn’t wait to talk with her and go rambling with her and climb trees and eat dinner and play jackstraws and kiss her.
Couldn’t wait to start their life together.
And, damn it, there was his throat choking up again.
He went to bed early, all the better to leave London early the next morning, but as he slid between the sheets he realized that there was one other important task that he really ought do while in London—namely, to look for the governesses who’d worked for Baron Rumpole previously and ask them why they’d left his employment.
“Damn,” Octavius said, and scrubbed his hands roughly through his hair. He didn’t want to spend another day in London. He wanted to get back to Hampshire as quickly as possible and make certain that Miss Toogood was safe.
He climbed out of bed, rummaged through his drawers, found paper and a quill, and dashed off a note to his brother.
Quin, old fellow, would you mind scrying for the governesses who left Rumpole’s employment? If any of them are in London, could you ask them whether he attacked them? I’d stay to interview them myself, but I need to return to Hampshire with all haste and ensure that Miss Toogood is safe.
Yours in gratitude,
Otto
He climbed back into bed, blew out his candle, and tried to go to sleep, but his thoughts were buzzing around in his head like bees at a hive.
The next time he came to London, he’d be married.
He and Miss Toogood would go to balls and soirees together. They’d look for a house together. They’d share a bed.
Now that was a thought that made him shiver with anticipation. But on the heels of that shiver came a twinge of nervousness.
What if he had vigor but no finesse? How would he know? Dex hadn’t known, after all, and he’d spent a lot of time in women’s beds.
In fact, if Dex had no finesse, then it was extremely likely that Octavius had even less finesse, because he’d spent much less time than Dex practicing the featherbed jig.
What if Miss Toogood didn’t enjoy his lovemaking? What if she found his caresses annoying rather than titillating? All the females he’d ever bedded had been professionals. They could have been pretending to enjoy his touches. How was he to know? It wasn’t as if he had breasts of his own.
Octavius’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt.
He could have breasts if he wanted. He could have a quim, too. And he could experience exactly what it felt like when both of those things were touched—whether it was good or bad, titillating or tedious.
Octavius sat up and peeled out of his nightshirt. He thought for a moment, then modeled himself on a painting of Venus he’d once seen. Magic crawled over his skin and along his bones . . . and he was a woman. He brushed a hand over his torso and encountered a soft, hairless stomach and breasts.
It was the first time he’d deliberately touched his breasts. He experienced two conflicting emotions. One was curiosity. He loved breasts. Loved looking at them, loved touching them, loved kissing them. The other emotion was embarrassment, because these were his breasts. It felt very odd to be stroking them. Did women fondle their own breasts?
The curiosity easily prevailed over the embarrassment. Octavius lay back down and began exploring his breasts. He was relieved to discover that it felt quite pleasant. He experimented for several minutes, caressing, kneading, pinching, tickling, learning what felt good and what didn’t, but even when it felt good, it didn’t feel great. Not as great as stroking his cock would feel. Which was disappointing.
He slid his hand down his body, over that soft, smooth belly and found his quim.
His body gave a little shiver from head to toe. Not a good shiver; a bad one.
Octavius removed his hand and shivered a second time. He didn’t know why he was shivering, except that not having a cock and balls felt profoundly wrong. Wrong in hi
s bones. Wrong in his gut. So wrong that he almost changed back into his own body, then and there.
The only thing that stopped him was thought of Miss Toogood. How would he learn sexual finesse if he didn’t explore his own quim? If he wanted her to enjoy sharing his bed, how could he not do this?
Octavius made himself touch his quim again. He felt the same sense of wrongness, the same little shiver that combined confusion and dismay and something close to horror. The emptiness beneath his hand made him feel as if part of himself had been amputated. An essential part. Which was ridiculous. He wasn’t his cock and balls and their absence shouldn’t make him feel this way.
Octavius set his jaw. Ten minutes. He’d explore his quim for ten minutes, learn what felt good and what didn’t, and then he’d change back into himself and get his balls and cock back.
Reluctantly, he began to acquaint himself with his quim. In a tiny corner of his brain he acknowledged that his reluctance was ridiculous. He loved quims. They were wonderful things, fascinating and tempting and sublimely feminine. He’d never had a chance to explore one so thoroughly before. He should be enjoying this opportunity.
He wasn’t enjoying it, but he was damned if he was going to stop. He concentrated on his task, tracing the folds, investigating their topography and their texture—that was familiar, he’d done it with women before, but it was disconcerting to be on the receiving end and to discover that it didn’t feel particularly pleasurable. If he’d spent two minutes touching his cock, he’d be rock hard, heat pulsing in his groin, but two minutes spent touching his quim resulted in . . . not a lot. A mildly pleasant sensation of warmth, that was all. Nothing close to arousal. In fact, if he was asked to describe how it felt—titillating or tedious—he’d have to say tedious.
Was this yet another disadvantage that women were born with? The inability to feel strong sexual pleasure? Because that was a deeply disturbing thought. He didn’t want to have sex with Miss Toogood if he enjoyed it and she didn’t.
Three minutes later Octavius’s fingers found something that felt rather nice. Not as nice as touching his cock and balls would have felt, but still better than nothing.
He persisted at his task and a few minutes later found something else that also felt quite nice. It was a relief to discover that women could experience arousal, because he’d begun to fear that they couldn’t, but that warm, tingling sensation was definitely arousal. He began to think that climax might be possible.
Diligently, he continued with his quest. The tingling grew stronger. Quite nice became very nice. A feeling of urgency and heat took hold of him. Suddenly, climax wasn’t just possible, it was inevitable, his body straining towards it as single-mindedly as it did when he had a cock.
Finally, Octavius reached the prize he’d been seeking: sexual climax. The orgasm was different from the ones he was used to. No clenching balls, no spurting cock. He felt spasms of pleasure in his quim, but he also felt a delicious clenching and unclenching deep inside himself. The sensation was strange but extremely pleasant.
He lay bonelessly afterwards, catching his breath, drifting on a wave of sexual contentment. That feeling of warm, sleepy satisfaction was the same whether he was male or female.
It was nice not to have a mess to clean up. That was definitely an advantage to being a woman.
Octavius changed back into his own body. The first thing he did was reach for his genitals. The deep, visceral burst of relief when he cupped himself was embarrassing. He wasn’t his cock and balls, but some atavistic part of his brain appeared to think that he was.
Octavius pulled on his nightshirt, rearranged the bedclothes, and lay back to contemplate what he’d learned.
One: that women could definitely feel sexual pleasure from being touched.
Two: that it took longer for a woman to come to climax than it did a man.
If he’d been touching his cock it would have taken a couple of minutes to reach orgasm, not nearly twenty—but perhaps that was because he’d been unfamiliar with his female body? Perhaps, with practice, he could learn how to touch a quim more adeptly?
And that was the most important lesson he’d learned tonight: that people experienced arousal differently. His female body liked different things from his male body, and it was entirely possible that Miss Toogood liked different things again. All men weren’t the same, and neither were all women.
If he wanted Miss Toogood to enjoy the marriage bed, he needed to tailor his lovemaking to her. He needed to be guided by her responses. Fast or slow, gentle or rough—if he paid attention he’d know exactly how and where she liked to be touched.
Octavius felt for his balls to reassure himself they were still there, then curled up on his side and went to sleep, no longer worried about his wedding night.
Chapter Twenty-Six
At Lord Newingham’s suggestion, the girls had their French lesson outdoors. They played “I spy,” first in the stables, then the kitchen garden, and lastly the shrubbery. The French lesson segued into a botany lesson, and then into a lesson on insects. Newingham, Mr. Pryor, and the girls enthusiastically turned over leaves, discovering worms and beetles and centipedes.
“By Jove!” the viscount exclaimed. “Have a look at this one. It’s enormous.”
The girls clustered close.
“Do you know what it’s called, Miss Toogood?” Newingham asked.
Pip shook her head.
“We need to give it a name,” the viscount declared. “What do you think, girls? The Monstrously Large Beetle-shaped Beetle?”
Edie and Fanny giggled.
“It’s got horns,” Mr. Pryor pointed out. “I think we should call it the Horned Behemoth.”
“What’s a behemoth?” Fanny asked.
“Something very large,” Pip told her.
“Myrtle!” Lord Newingham said. “Myrtle, the Monstrously Large Beetle-shaped Beetle.”
Mr. Pryor shook his head. “It’s a Horned Behemoth.”
“There are some books on insects in the schoolroom,” Pip said. “I’ll fetch them and we can find out its real name.”
“Nothing will be as good as Myrtle the Monstrously Large Beetle-shaped Beetle,” Newingham said as she headed for the house, and Pip privately agreed.
She let herself in through a side door and climbed the servants’ stairs quickly. On the second flight, she met the baron’s valet coming down.
He halted. “Miss Toogood.”
Pip halted, too. “Mr. Donald.”
Mr. Donald was an unremarkable-looking man. Not handsome, not plain, just ordinary. Before yesterday she’d not given him a second thought. Now that she knew what he was, Pip had to stop herself from recoiling.
It seemed scarcely credible that this ordinary-looking man was capable of attacking a female violently, but she didn’t doubt that Lord Octavius had spoken the truth, so she gave Mr. Donald a polite nod and moved past him carefully. The valet nodded politely back and stepped to one side, but not quite far enough. His arm brushed hers. Before yesterday Pip would have dismissed that brief touch as accidental. Today, she was certain it had been deliberate.
The hairs on the nape of her neck all stood on end. She continued up the stairs, not looking back, not hurrying—although she wanted to do both.
When she reached the next landing, she glanced back. Mr. Donald hadn’t moved. He stood exactly where he’d been, watching her.
A shiver prickled its way across Pip’s scalp and down her spine, and even though Mr. Donald was unremarkable and ordinary, she knew in her bones that he was dangerous.
Predator, a voice whispered in her head.
She crossed the narrow landing and continued up the stairs, faster now, glancing over her shoulder. Mr. Donald didn’t follow her, but even so, Pip felt a little afraid. At the schoolroom, she hesitated over whether to shut the door or not. A closed door felt simultaneously safe and not safe, as if it could be both a defensive barrier and a trap.
She tapped the jamb three times with h
er thumb. Those three light taps made her feel calmer and safer. Pip decided to leave the door open, because one could flee through an open doorway.
She crossed to the bookcase and scanned the shelves, finding both Harris’s Natural History of English Insects and Forster’s A Catalogue of British Insects. A quick look through the latter told her that the beetle Newingham had found was named the Rhinoceros Beetle.
Two whole minutes had now passed since she’d met Mr. Donald, but Pip still felt tense. Her ears were pricked for the sound of footsteps. This must be how mice felt when they knew a cat was nearby.
Pip tapped the cover of A Catalogue of British Insects three times. It was absurd how comforting those taps were, how a barely audible tup-tup-tup could soothe her ears and her soul.
Absurd. Childish. Irrational. Foolish.
She really ought to stop doing it. If Lord Octavius noticed, he would think she’d taken leave of her senses.
Pip grimaced slightly and put A Catalogue of British Insects to one side. She perused the shelves further, hesitated over Instructions for Collecting and Preserving Insects by William Curtis, and then discovered that the bookcase contained a copy of John Coakley Lettsom’s The Naturalist’s and Traveller’s Companion. She paged through that latter book, marveling at the beautiful illustrations, and while she was paging through it someone slid his arms around her waist and kissed her on the ear.
Pip yelped and struck out with the book, connecting satisfyingly hard with her attacker’s head.
He yelped, too, and released her.
Pip turned and hit him again, a mighty swipe across the face with The Naturalist’s and Traveller’s Companion—and then she realized that the person she was hitting wasn’t Mr. Donald at all. It was Lord Octavius—and he was bleeding.
