by Jane Feather
When the table had been cleared and they were finally alone, Guy sat on the sofa and beckoned to Petra. “Come to me, madam wife.”
She crossed the room to the sofa and he drew her down onto his knee, shifting her so that she lay back with her head against his shoulder, her legs stretched across the sofa. His fingers moved to unbutton the tiny pearl buttons of her silk robe, his hands slipping inside. “Ah,” he murmured on a sigh of satisfaction, “I had hoped you would be naked beneath this.” He cupped the soft rounds of her breasts, a fingertip teasing first one nipple then the other, bringing them both to hard peaks. He stroked down her body, playing a tune on her rib cage, before circling her navel. His fingers dipped lower, twined in the dark tangle of hair at the base of her belly, slid lower, teasing the full lips of her sex, opening them as one finger tantalized the swollen opening of her vagina before sliding within her, moving with wicked intent as a liquid warmth spread through her loins, weakening her limbs, a pulse throbbing fiercely against his probing finger.
And just as the wave was about to break over her, it all stopped. He withdrew his hand and matter-of-factly rebuttoned her robe.
“What . . . what’s the matter?” Petra stammered, too stunned by anticlimax to form a coherent thought.
“It’s as hard for me, my love,” he said, his smile teasing her as he kissed her lightly. “But sometimes, deferring delight is a powerful spur to greater heights. Trust me.” He tipped her off his knee and stood up. “Go upstairs now and I will join you in bed in half an hour.”
Petra looked at him for a moment, unsure of what was happening, but his smile was reassuring as he said, “Go, do what you have to. I promise it will be worth it.”
Pulling her robe closer about her, Petra left the library. The house felt cold as she crossed the hall to the stairs after the warmth of the library fire. She hurried up the stairs to the bedroom, glad to see a fire kindled in the hearth there, the curtains drawn against the night, the lamps softly lit. She threw off the robe and climbed into the deep feather bed, her hands moving over her body of their own accord, keeping alive the spark that had been kindled downstairs.
“Wait for me,” Guy’s voice broke into her reverie. He closed the door behind him and turned the key in the lock. He came over to the bed, tossing his own robe over a chair. “Don’t you even think of doing my work for me, madam.” He knelt over her, taking her hand in a firm grip, guiding it to his penis. “Work your magic there, while I get on with what I was doing.”
Petra chuckled weakly. Her husband was in his managing mode and she was perfectly happy to be guided by him. In this area at least.
* * *
Sated, lost in the deep afterglow of love, Petra lay curled against her husband, her body throbbing pleasantly. “If that was ravishment, my lord baron, please feel free to do it any time,” she murmured, kissing his nipple, moving her hand down his body to cradle his now flaccid penis. “Shall I wake it up?”
“Have mercy,” Guy groaned into her hair. “I need time to recover.”
Petra laughed softly. “Actually so do I. I can barely move a muscle.” They lay quietly for a while watching the firelight flickering on the ceiling before she said, “If I asked you to be home on Friday afternoon, do you think you would be able to be?”
“Why do you want me here?” Guy asked sleepily.
“Oh, I have a little surprise planned,” she murmured, trying to keep her voice lazy and neutral, as if his answer didn’t really matter.
“This Friday?”
“If you could?”
“Well, your surprises, my love, tend to be irresistible, if tonight’s is anything to go by,” he said. “So, yes, I can arrange to be home this Friday afternoon.”
“Four o’clock?”
“If you say so.” He rolled her on her side, molding himself around her like spoons in a drawer. “Go to sleep now.”
Petra closed her eyes, feeling his breathing deepen as he held her close. Her last waking thought was the hope that she wasn’t about to tear this wonderful closeness apart.
* * *
“My lord, may I have a word?”
Guy, on his way out of the door the following morning, paused and tried to disguise his annoyance at his secretary’s hesitant yet always impossible to ignore pleading tone. “Make it quick, Freddie. I have things to do this morning.”
“Yes, my lord. It’s just something I thought I should bring to your attention.” Freddie stepped back, gesturing to the door to the office.
Guy sighed. Obviously it was not going to be a quick word if it couldn’t be had in the hall. He turned aside and went into the office. “Well, Freddie, what’s so important?”
“Well, I know you’ve been taking an interest in the activities of the Women’s Social and Political Union, sir,” Freddie began. “I know you’ve been to several meetings recently at Westminster about the issue of universal suffrage.”
“Yes, so what?” Guy’s tone sharpened. He hadn’t involved his secretary in his interest in the movement’s doings. It fell too close to home with his wife’s open involvement in the Union to be discussed objectively.
“I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, my lord . . .”
“Oh, cut to the chase, Freddie, for God’s sake,” he exclaimed. “I don’t have all day.”
“Well, I heard that there are plans for a large march on Westminster.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Guy said, but with an acute sense that something unpleasant was in the offing.
“As I understand it, my lord, this time the marchers intend to enter Parliament, to enter St. Stephen’s Hall with their petition.”
“What?”
“I have it on very good authority, sir. And as I believe Lady Ashton—”
“My wife has nothing to do with this,” Guy interrupted fiercely. “And her affairs are no concern of yours.”
Freddie looked stricken as he realized his faux pas. “No, my lord . . . of course not. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”
Guy frowned. He was seriously put out that his staff had obviously discussed his wife’s annoying commitment to such a contentious political issue. He didn’t want to discuss it further but he needed information. “When is this march to take place?”
“I believe soon. I can confirm the exact date with my source, but it’s definitely to be within the next several weeks,” Freddie told him, looking increasingly uncomfortable. He was only doing what he thought was his business but he had the unmistakable impression that Lord Ashton was far from appreciative.
“Find out and let me know.” Guy turned on his heel and left the office. He still hadn’t the faintest idea how to deal with Petra’s affiliation to the Union, not to mention her active participation in the protests. He was not fool enough to imagine he could forbid her having anything to do with the Union. She would ignore him and he would have to respond. The consequences were unthinkable. Neither did he think she would respond well to a request that she leave the Union, or, at the very least, play only a passive role. He knew his wife well enough by now to know where she drew her lines of autonomy. And, in truth, he respected her for it. It was just damned inconvenient in this instance, but he would have to find a way to deal with any active participation in the invasion of Westminster, which, he strongly suspected, was what she had in mind.
He shuddered at the thought of the scene in St. Stephen’s Hall, the sergeant at arms and his men wrestling with a horde of women suffragists, trying to evict them without causing physical injury. There would be police, bystanders, newspapermen and photographers. Lady Ashton was a prominent society figure, married to an influential member of the peerage. There was no way she could escape notice and her inevitable arrest would be on the front pages of every newspaper and scandal sheet in town. It didn’t bear thinking about.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Are you going to Westminster this morning?” Petra asked her husband as he finished dressing on Friday morning.
Petra shook her head vigorously. “Not a smidgeon. Have a good morning and enjoy your luncheon.” She slid out of bed, blowing him a kiss as he went to the door. “Until this afternoon.” The door closed in his wake and she went to the window, looking out on a brilliantly bright morning. The trees in the square were a mass of red and gold, the sky a cloudless blue. It promised a perfect day.
How would it end? She still had not said a word to Diana or Fenella about her plan, but now wondered if it would ease her nervousness to share it. What if it was truly harebrained and would cause more harm than good? Was she certain her husband’s sense of humor was strong enough to see the funny side? What if she was about to make a colossal mistake?
Guy had seemed preoccupied since their intimate evening two days earlier, but he hadn’t seemed out of sorts particularly. It was just that she thought occasionally she had caught him regarding her rather speculatively, an almost calculating look in his eyes. It was disconcerting because if she asked him about it he merely laughed and offered some vague explanation that had nothing to do with her.
She spent the morning on tenterhooks, not even the company of her friends helped. “You’ve hardly eaten any lunch, Petra,” Diana pointed out as a waiter removed Petra’s barely touched plate of duck confit. “That dish is one of your favorites.”
“Yes, is something the matter?” Fenella asked, leaning over the table with an air of concern.
“No, nothing at all,” Petra denied. “Everything is perfect, I promise. I suppose,” she added, “I might be a bit preoccupied about arrangements for the march.”
“Everything is nearly in place,” Diana said, taking a spoon to her chocolate mousse. “We’re just waiting to hear from the Manchester folk as to how many to expect from there. Emmeline is in charge of that contingent.”
“I like her idea of putting the word out to the world in general with the wrong date,” Petra commented. “That should at least prevent any attempt to stop the march before we get to Westminster.”
“You can always trust Emmeline to be devious,” Diana said on a note of admiration. “We’ll catch them completely unprepared.”
“And there’ll be several hundred at the least,” Fenella put in. “If we can make five hundred it will really cause a stir.”
“Oh, I think we’ll cause a stir however many women storm St. Stephen’s Hall,” Petra declared. “We’ll probably all be arrested.”
“Probably,” Diana agreed. “Rupert and Edward will stand bail for us all, including you, Petra, just in case . . .” The sentence trailed off.
Petra grimaced but said confidently, “Guy will stand up for me. He’ll hate to do it, but he will. What happens afterward is anyone’s guess.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly three o’clock. How could the time go so fast? I have to go, I’m meeting someone at home at half past.” She gathered up her things, kissed her friends, and hurried out of the restaurant, hailing a cab at the door.
Rachel Young arrived promptly and was shown upstairs to Petra’s dressing room. She laid the parcel she was carrying on an ottoman.
“Take off your coat, Rachel.” Petra was wearing a dressing robe over a chemise and drawers. “Would you like a glass of sherry?” She poured a glass for herself from the decanter on the dresser.
“Perhaps after the demonstration,” Rachel said. “I am working after all, even if it’s a somewhat unorthodox fitting.”
Petra laughed a little, but it lacked conviction. Louisa arrived soon after with a portfolio under her arm. She knew Rachel from the Union and willingly accepted a glass of sherry, asking Petra quizzically, “Do I need Dutch courage?”
“No, of course not,” Petra replied, taking a gulp of her own sherry. “Guy has a sense of humor.”
* * *
Guy arrived at home just as the clock struck four. “Is Lady Ashton in her parlor, Babbit?”
“No, my lord, she asked that you join her in her dressing room,” Babbit said without expression, taking his lordship’s coat and hat.
Guy raised a quizzical eyebrow and took the stairs two at a time. He opened the door to Petra’s dressing room and stopped on the threshold. Whatever he had expected it wasn’t his wife in dishabille, and two other women, both of whom looked solemn and businesslike.
“This is a surprise,” he said. “Good afternoon, ladies. Petra?” He looked at his wife for an explanation.
“Guy, may I introduce Dr. Louisa Garrett Anderson from the Royal Free Hospital.”
“Dr. Garrett Anderson.” Guy inclined his head in a small bow. “I know of your work, and of your mother’s, of course.”
“And may I introduce Mrs. Young. She is head of the lingerie department at Marshall and Snelgrove.”
“Mrs. Young.” Guy gave her the same courteous nodding bow. His curiosity was piqued but he was beginning to get an inkling of what his determined and impetuous wife was up to.
“Sit down, Guy,” Petra said, taking his hand. “We want to show you something. Would you like a glass of sherry, or there’s whisky, if you’d prefer?” She indicated the decanters on the dresser.
“Am I going to need it?” he asked, taking a small armchair beside the dresser.
“Maybe,” Petra responded, shrugging out of her dressing gown.
Guy tapped his mouth with a fingertip as he examined his scantily clad wife. “Whisky, then.”
Petra poured a measure and gave him the glass. “Now for the demonstration.” She stood in her chemise and drawers, looking expectantly at Rachel.
Rachel fitted the long S-shaped corset to Petra’s slight frame, straightening the rigid whalebone rib cage, pulling it down over her hips before she began to lace it.
Louisa had opened her portfolio and took out a series of anatomical drawings which she held up for Guy to examine. “As you can see, Lord Ashton, when the top laces are drawn tight the woman’s breast is pushed up and forced outward and the ribs are compressed, crushed, you might say. As the lower laces are tightened the internal organs including the lungs are also compressed, the stomach is displaced, pushed above the waistline, as is the liver, as this drawing illustrates. This leads to the digestive distress from which many women suffer. In addition, with the lungs compressed, breathing becomes shallow and the S-curve causes the spine to become misaligned, which results in pain and crippling displacement in later life. As you can see from this drawing.”
Guy listened to this matter-of-fact explanation and looked at the illustrations as they were proffered without a flicker of expression as Petra struggled to catch her breath with Rachel’s final tightening of the laces. Then he took a sip of whisky and stood up, going to the armoire, opening it and after a moment’s thought selecting an evening gown of deep red taffeta. “If you would be so good as to help Lady Ashton with this gown, Mrs. Young.”
Petra could think of nothing to say and it wasn’t for either of her companions to comment on his lordship’s response to the demonstration. She submitted to Rachel’s assistance with the evening gown, still struggling with the discomfort of the corset, wondering what her next move should be.
When Rachel stood back, having fastened the last tiny button on the gown, Guy said with cool courtesy, “Thank you for your time, ladies. Allow me to show you out.” He opened the dressing room door with a bow.
Rachel and Louisa had no choice but to accept their dismissal and with a murmur of farewell to Petra left the dressing room. In the hall beyond Guy summoned a hovering footman. �
��Escort the ladies to the door, please, and hail a cab for them. I give you good afternoon, Dr. Garret Anderson, Mrs. Young.” He bowed punctiliously, then turned on his heel and went back into the dressing room.
“I’m not at all sure what that little demonstration was intended to achieve, my dear Petra,” he remarked, closing the door behind him. “But it gives me the opportunity to demonstrate something of my own. Come to the mirror.” He took her waist and turned her to face the long pier glass. “Look at you, how graceful and elegant you are.” He turned her sideways to show her profile. “Don’t tell me you can’t see the difference the corset makes. It gives you stature.”
“Which I lack,” she retorted, spinning round to face him. “I grant you the semblance of elegance and grace, but that’s all it is, a semblance, a manufactured look produced by artificial garments made of cords and whalebone invented by men to create just for them their ideal shape of a woman.” She spun back to the mirror. “Look at me. I look like Clothilde Delmont. Is that what you want, Guy? Is that really what you want? Because if so, why the hell did you marry me?”
“Because you’re not Clothilde,” he said softly into the pulsating silence.
Petra’s mouth opened, then closed as she struggled for words. She was ready to fight and with that soft statement he had cut the ground from beneath her feet.
“I don’t know how many times I’ve told you that you need never give Clothilde a second thought, Petra.”
“Yes . . . I know,” she stumbled. “But then you go and do something like this, trying to make me look like her.”
“Nonsense, you don’t look remotely like her, corset or not,” he retorted. “You have a lot more in common with the Macedonian guerrilla than the vicomtesse.”
“Oh,” Petra said. “Did she ever wear a corset?”
“Good God no. I don’t think she ever wore anything but britches and a jerkin,” he said.