ThePleasureDevice (2 page)

The fate of the family rested upon her shoulders and she was
nervous.

Not scared, no. It wasn’t fear that rattled her, more like
trepidation and dread. While she had been prepared for marriage all her life,
and by fourteen knew it had to be to a titled man—an earl at the very least—the
reality of it was settling in. She was being introduced to men at every turn,
some attractive, some not so much, some old, some young, some interesting, some
tedious. Of course, she had confidence in her desirability to the men of the
aristocracy. Mama had assured her she was by far the most beautiful debutante
in London that Season and Papa had assured her his industrial fortune made her
by far the wealthiest. But she didn’t want a husband who wanted her for beauty
and wealth. She wanted a husband who would be her best friend, who would ask
her opinion, who would converse intelligently about the latest scientific
discoveries, who would make her laugh.

When they heard such “nonsense”, her parents would chastise
her for daydreaming too much, for reading too much, for laughing aloud too
much. They would complain she was far too clever and far too curious about the
world around her for any duke or earl.

Helena worried she would end up with a man who was not
curious about the world around her.

What if he wasn’t very clever?

What if he wasn’t very witty?

What if he was thoroughly boring?

Did she have to marry such a man? Make empty chitchat at
breakfast? Pretend fondness at soirées? Keep her children silent when he was in
his study?

Did she really have to share a bed with such a man?

Helena knew nothing of the marriage bed but could tell not
all husbands and wives shared the same level of satisfying intimate camaraderie
as her parents. Some wives looked utterly frustrated.

If it came to that, Helena knew how to relieve her own
frustrations. But what if her thoroughly boring husband forbade her to touch
herself?

She knew it was wrong to touch herself. Well, no one had
actually told her so. The mistresses at her finishing school avoided the
subject. Besides, they were too busy telling her how to hold a cup and saucer
or how to curtsy to a dance partner. But she had heard from some of her friends
that to touch the area reserved for the husband was unchaste and he would know
just as he would know if she were a virgin or not. Then there were the stories
of girls who went mad from hysteria, a peculiar disease that only struck those
who went against this moral code and touched themselves…there. The disease
marked them for life as trollops and strumpets, no better than gin-soaked
streetwalkers. And no gentleman, especially not a peer, would ever want to
marry such a girl.

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.

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.

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.