But when Helena had returned home to London, she slowly became aware that what she had overheard might be just myths and rumors. She found a book—quite a few, really—in her parents’ library in an area reserved for special books, some of which were very, very old, their gilt edges and flourished scripts forbidden to her. But next to these fragile ancient volumes were books about people exploring each other’s bodies and, she was most interested to see, sometimes their own bodies. The illustrations were quite delightful and remarkably instructive.
No one in the fascinating tales suffered from any disease. And not only did the young men favor the young women who had unleashed their desires, the young women in the stories enjoyed all the pleasures they experienced very, very much.
That’s when Helena decided to explore herself.
She had been clumsy at first, her trembling fingers feeling cold against the heated, moist flesh between her legs. Curiosity had led her to touch everything, every fold, every cleft, resisting the urge to put too many fingers inside herself, as the books had warned such an action would divest her of her virginity. Her tentative ministrations continued for several nights as a very pleasant diversion before she fell asleep.
Then one night, after everyone in the house had gone to bed, she stayed up to read a book with a curiously misspelled title and a handful of rather poorly done illustrations, The Bed-Fellows: Or, The Young Misses Manuel. Every night, Lucy and Kate, the eponymous young misses, both about her own age, exchanged stories about their erotic experiences, becoming so aroused by each other’s adventures that they began pleasuring each other, at which point Helena was so engrossed with the story that she simply stroked herself distractedly.
And that’s when she found the spot.
A delicate caress with a slippery finger sent the most amazing jolt of pleasure from her head to her toes. She pushed the book away and turned onto her back, closing her eyes so she could concentrate on the nub under her fingertip and the sensual pleasure the tiny spot elicited. She rubbed lightly at first, discovering this produced a sensation of gentle waves surrounding her, like relaxing in a nice warm bath. She increased her motions and the pressure, finding this increased the thumping of her heart and the expiration of her breath, like running quite fast in a warm rain, water cascading on her bare skin, dripping from her hardened nipples aching with sensitivity. Her free hand grabbed a breast, kneading it with the same rhythm as her hand below. Running became climbing, up a mountain peak, to stand, arms wide, wanting, willing heated showers to deluge her in pleasure. She teetered for a moment, her breath catching, her body arching, before she fell into the abyss of sybaritic serenity below.
Helena opened her eyes, suddenly more aware of what she was seeing, her body more aware of the mattress beneath her, the soft sheets covering her, her mind more aware of the possibilities of life.
And knowing she could never, ever marry a man who considered any of that wrong.
Chapter Two
Grace had been allotted a corner of the medical room to dress while the doctors drank port on the other side in celebration of their medical victory. Their chortles and toasts of praise for the extraordinary French machine were reminders of their presence and of the fact that she had no screen, only a straight-back chair to hide behind while she pulled on her drawers. Of course, her sudden feelings of modesty were somewhat unwarranted given what had transpired moments before. But the room was grand, with its Oriental carpet, vast windows letting in cloud-soaked daylight, and intricately carved wood paneling. Surely they could have afforded her a dressing screen?
“And how are you feeling, my dear girl?”
She looked up at the concern-laden voice and was pleasantly surprised. The entire time, she hadn’t noticed this particular gentleman when she really should have, as he stood out like the queen at a debutante ball. He was younger than most of the men present—although still middle-aged—and far more handsome than any of them. Tall, lean, with a trim black goatee and moustache, a touch of gray at his temples, he angled over her and smiled. His brilliant blue eyes were hypnotizing.
“Hungry.” What was she supposed to say?
“Is that your only coat?” He pointed to her moth-eaten green wool sacque sagging on the rack.
“No,” she said sharply. “Me other one’s at me country estate.” She sat down too hastily on the hard chair but ignored the ache in her bottom as she pulled on a stocking.
The handsome man chuckled. It wasn’t the reaction she had expected. She flushed in embarrassment.
“I’d reckon you would like another wrap, especially during the wintertime.” His gaze wandered to the shabby bonnet perched on top of her coat. “And perhaps a hat as well?” His voice was kind, not mocking, but possibly a little too keen.
Grace tensed as she slipped on her other stocking. Was he offering to buy her clothes? By the look of his own attire, a fine-gauge wool suit tailored precisely for his lean form, he could afford to spend a bob or two on her. But what would she have to do to earn it? While what she just went through was astonishingly pleasurable, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be on display like that ever again. And besides, the man’s charismatic presence was making it very difficult for her to put her shoes on. He unnerved her. She wasn’t sure if it was in a good way.
“Right now I only want me tea.”
“Yes, of course, my dear,” he soothed. “You may have your dinner in the kitchen, then when you are finished we can discuss my offer.”
Offer? She glanced up. “What offer?”
“Why, I would like to buy you a new hat and coat for the chance to practice using this new device on you.” He waved his hand to indicate the French pleasure machine.
Grace looked him in the eye. He seemed sincere. Still… “I don’t wanna buncha old men gawking at me.”
“Oh, heavens, no. It will be just you and I, so I can become adept at using the technology as well as exploring its possibilities.” It was said matter-of-factly. “Very private, I assure you.”
Alone with this handsome gent? “Where do I go?”
“To my offices in Chelsea.”
So far from the East End. She’d probably walk, but… “I’ll need cab fare,” she blurted.
“Of course, my dear.” The handsome man reached into his frock pocket and pulled out a fine leather coin purse. He counted out six shillings. “Will this be enough?”
His smile was disarming. Grace could swear his blue eyes twinkled at her. “Yes, sir.” It was more than enough.
“Good, good.” He put his purse away and pulled out a calling card. “This is where you will go. I hope to have the device installed tomorrow, so perhaps if you could come by Monday after luncheon? Around three in the afternoon?” He handed the card to her.
Grace looked at the card, then back up at him. His lips twisted in concern. He must have noticed her defeated expression.
“Oh dear. You do know how to read, don’t you?” His voice dripped with genuine sympathy, devoid of contempt.
“A bit.” Grace swallowed the lump in her throat. She didn’t want to appear unworthy of such a charming man.
“Well, my dear girl—what is your name?”
“Grace Danby, sir.”
“Well, my dear Grace—what a lovely name, it suits you—”
“Thank you, sir.” Grace blushed again.
“Why don’t you remember this, then. I am Dr. Julius Christopher of 16A Chelsea Manor Street off the King’s Road. If you’ve gone to Flood Walk you’ve gone too far.”
Grace repeated what Dr. Christopher had told her. As he listened, his captivating smile sparked mini-fantasies in the back of Grace’s mind.
And then he bent down and put his warm hand on her very cold one.
Grace practically jumped from the chair, but a gentle caress calmed her.
“I will see you Monday, Grace,” he murmured in her ear. “I promise we will have much enjoyment from our little exercise, wouldn’t you agree?” Dr. Christopher winked at her.
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Grace watched intently as he glided across the fancy carpet to join his stodgy colleagues on the other side of the room. Monday couldn’t come quickly enough.
* * * * *
“Christ, Lavinia! You vixen! Whatever are you doing?”
Nicholas was about to spend when his lover had decided to stop bouncing on his now painfully erect cock and just sit on top of him and smirk.
She narrowed her lovely amber eyes at him. “Say you’ll escort me to Lord and Lady Wrexham’s ball tonight and I’ll continue.” As a token of trust, she flexed her muscles, tightening temptingly around him.
God, that felt good! “All right, all right, I’ll take you to that blasted dance! Now just let me spend!”
“Very well, Nicky,” Lavinia said coolly, as if she herself were neither involved nor interested in their physical union. She proceeded with her movements, riding his shaft excruciatingly slowly, increasing her rhythm far, far too languidly.
Nicholas sighed. He so needed the release. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the inevitable.
But Lavinia was an expert. She held him at the point just before bursting.
“And you’ll bring me roses beforehand.”
Good God, the woman was infuriating! “Yes, yes, Vinny, love. Anything!”
Lavinia smiled and slammed her body down onto his prick, then gripped him as she pulled up only to crash her hips against his once again.
It was all Nicholas needed. He howled his orgasm as he jetted his sperm inside the fair lady’s cunt.
Lavinia laughed and rolled off him to stretch, sated, at his side.
Nicholas lay panting, his heartbeat slowing as he came down from his sensual height. “Why do I put up with you, Vinny, love?”
As she nuzzled against him, he knew exactly why. At forty-five, his lover had a body to rival any twenty-year-old’s, plus the sexual skill to rival any whore’s. She diligently maintained all the connections built up by her late husband and now had the power to rival most men’s as well.
“Because the Honorable Nicholas Atherley needs an entrée into Society.”
Nicholas cringed. “Don’t call me that,” he said a little too curtly. “And don’t you mean a re-entrée?”
“Yes, darling.”
Lavinia got up to put on her silk dressing gown, much to Nicholas’ disappointment. He’d really rather have her naked at his side.
“You do have proper evening attire, don’t you, Nicky? Nothing too exotic?” Her rich brown hair flecked with gold and gray dazzled in the late-afternoon light as she walked past the window.
“I was thinking of an elaborately embroidered kaftan I picked up in ’Stamboul.”
The shock on Lavinia’s face was well worth the joke. She sneered at him the moment she realized he was having his fun with her.
“Darling,” she said as she made a nest of pillows on her side of the bed, “this will be your first Season in seven years. It is very important you meet all the right people, make the right connections. I made a promise to your mother you would not end up in some squalid hell-hole in the East End, or, God forbid, some uncivilized viper’s den in the colonies.” She lay down, comfortably bolstered and sidled up to him.
“Thank you, Vinny,” Nicholas said softly as he put his arm around her. He knew Lavinia felt the weight of that promise daily. Lavinia and his mother had been the best of friends.
“Louisa knew you would never return to the family home. But she also knew you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life traipsing across the barren outlands of Asia. Before she died, we used to plot how she would be able to slip away to visit you in London without the earl knowing.”
The casual reference to his mother’s death chafed him. “Murdered, you mean. My mother did not merely die. She was murdered, Vinny.”
Lavinia fussed needlessly with her robe. “Let’s not talk about that now, Nicky,” she said darkly.
He kissed her forehead. “Yes, love.” Nicholas would do anything to satisfy his late mother’s wishes. His only regret in life was that he had not been by her side at her deathbed. Instead, he had been in the mountains of Anatolia learning native and Muslim healing arts. It had been Lavinia who had written to tell him of her untimely death and who had assured him her last thoughts had been of him. In her memory, he took her maiden surname of Ramsay.
“Also,” Lavinia continued cheerfully, poking him in the chest, “don’t forget I promised that you would meet a pretty girl and settle down. That’s one reason I’m making you go to the Wrexhams’.”
Nicholas put his face in his hands and groaned at the prospect. He rarely heard of marriage being a good idea for any of the parties involved. Lavinia’s wasn’t. His mother had only tolerated his drunk of a father because he was an earl and had given her two sons. “I’m dreading that, you know.”
“I don’t see why. You’re handsome, charming and witty. You even have a respectable income. You’ll have admirers at your feet.”
“All the talk about the latest fashions and who’s marrying whom, it’s just a varnish over self-doubt and fear, if not an outright expression of a poor intellect.”
Lavinia laughed. “So you want a girl who speaks plainly.”
“And who reads more than just ladies’ magazines.”
“And one who can recite The Iliad in Greek, I suppose?”
Nicholas flashed her a disapproving grimace. “Look, I just want to be able to have an interesting conversation. That should not be too much to ask.”
“There will be plenty of young ladies having their second or even third Season.”
“For good reason, I expect,” Nicholas grunted.
“Not always. Some are very pretty, rather clever too, just very shy. I’ve found that once they’ve resigned themselves to a life of spinsterhood, they gain confidence in their relations with the opposite sex. They no longer need to be careful about what they say or how they act. What you see is the true woman.” She wrapped a lock of his hair around her finger. “Should make wife-hunting that much easier for you.”
“Does that mean they’ll be friendly in dark corners? I remember the last time I went through all of this, it seemed girls wouldn’t even let you hold their hands.”
“Rake!” she said with a swat. “Keep your hands off, and I mean it, Nicky. That’s what I’m here for. You don’t want to make any mistakes or else your career as a doctor may be ruined before it’s even started.”
“Yes, Lady Foxley-Graham, ma’am,” teased Nicholas. He pulled her more closely to him and kissed her forehead again. “Will this mean I’ll have to give you up?”
Lavinia snuggled more deeply against him at the thought of the inevitability. “Eventually, dear. And definitely after you are married. Well, for the first year or two.”
“Hmm.”
“But you may find someone you really like. You may fall in love, Nicky.”
Nicholas found the idea unlikely. After traveling across Europe and the Near East for seven years, he had not once discovered love. Erotic experiences beyond his imagination, yes, but love, no. He was beginning to think that, at the advanced age of twenty-eight, he would never fall in love. And with Lavinia at his side, he was happy just as things were.
Chapter Three
Helena tugged at her gloves, then traced the arabesque on the brocade of her silk skirt, then toyed with the fringe on her cashmere sortie de bal. And when the jostling carriage finally slowed to a jerky amble, she gripped the leather seat cushions for dear life.
“Helena, a lady does not fidget so,” Mama scolded gently as they pulled up to Lord and Lady Wrexham’s Mayfair residence. “You must calm yourself. A man does not want a girl who fiddles and twiddles. He wants a fine young woman who will attend to him without distraction.”
“Yes, Mama.” Helena drew in a fortifying breath as she stepped down from the brougham and mounted the marble steps of the Neoclassical mansion. She fought back desperately against pangs of anxiety. The stakes were high. If she succeeded in a good mat
ch, her grandparents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Richmond, might not look upon her and Mama as the black sheep of the family.
Well, at the very least, Mama had intimated to her, they might have more respect for Helena. As far as the Marquess of Richmond was concerned, Mama was no longer his daughter—much less the Lady Sophia Harwell—after she had married Joseph Phillips, a commoner and, even worse, an American.
At the top step, Helena sighed, preparing to meet her destiny.
“Sophie, you’re looking radiant. And Helena, all grown up.”
The familiar voice filled her with a glow of joy. “Uncle Arthur!”
Uncle Arthur, ever so dapper in his evening attire, stood next to a column with his arms open wide waiting for her to hug him. Helena knew she had to restrain herself in such a public place. Still, he was her favorite uncle, and she, his favorite niece, a private joke since neither had any more of such relations. He wrapped his arms around her and patted her politely, then turned to Mama and kissed her on both cheeks.
“I didn’t expect you, Arthur.”
“Ah, but ‘Lord Petersham’ must make an appearance every once in a while,” he said with a smirk. “Otherwise the gossips of the ton might think me dead.”
“And not throw eligible widows your way?” Mama teased. She and Uncle Arthur shared a wonderful rapport.
Uncle Arthur was terrifically handsome yet remained a confirmed bachelor, something having happened in his past that her parents just hinted at but would never actually discuss. Helena only knew that the lady in question had been beautiful and that it had happened a very long time ago, before she was born.
Uncle Arthur turned to her. “I received a letter from your father. He told me all about our business overseas.”
“Oh?” Helena tried to be polite, but it was not quite what she wanted to hear.
“And that he sends his love.”
She bit her lip in abashment. “Thank you.” She smiled up at him. “Are we allowed to dance?”
“Together? I think not.” He glanced at Mama. “I’m sure you’ll have legions of suitors and I should not stand in their way.” He winked. “I’ll keep an eye on you, make sure none of the young men misbehave.”
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