She ignored his joviality. “The spinsters have discovered that I have been meeting you, and I confessed, by way of explanation, that you are giving me lessons.”
“And so I am.” His eyes twinkled impossibly brighter.
“They expect me to teach the girls.”
“And so you are.” His perfectly aligned teeth gleamed beneath the teasing curve of his lip. Teeth she recalled exploring intimately with her tongue. The missing moisture from her throat found its way to her palms, then spread throughout her body.
“About painting,” she said with exasperation.
“Oh.” Some of the mirth faded from his face. He shrugged. “Then we shall incorporate this topic as well into our lessons.” He held out his arm as if to invite her to step on the dais.
“But will I still have to remove . . . ?” She hesitated, glancing down at her dress front. “I have so little left.”
“Really, Mrs. Brimley, you do yourself an injustice.” He peered at her bodice as if he could see straight through to the stays beneath. “We are losing daylight with this idle chatter. Perhaps you’d like to take a position on the dais.” He turned his back to her and strode back to his easel as if she were no more than a servant bringing in the tea.
Stunned, she paused a moment, then remembered that he was probably used to women modeling in his studio on a daily basis. It should be no surprise that he took the act lightly. Perhaps she should draw on his resolve and act accordingly. She stepped on the platform.
“What am I supposed to do?” Shifting uneasily, she fumbled in the cuff of her sleeve for her mother’s handkerchief.
Chambers, without a glance toward the platform, draped a sheet over his canvas and easel, then moved them aside. Only two feet of empty space and a mile of uneasy anticipation stood between them. He settled himself on the stool and glanced to the platform with a cocked brow.
“You may begin by removing your clothes.”
Emma stood quite still, barely breathing. She knew this moment would come, but she had hoped . . . she had hoped he would dismiss her obligation out of compassion. Apparently this was not in his nature. She squeezed her handkerchief so tight, the lace dented the silk of her gloves.
Chambers crossed his arms and appraised her quite cruelly. “Is this a serious visit, Mrs. Brimley, or another subterfuge?”
“A serious visit, sir. I’ve come to honor my part of the bargain.”
“Very well. The divan is there for your comfort.”
She glanced at the rich velvet divan and waited while he positioned a piece of foolscap on a wooden board. Gripping the board in front of him, he settled back on the stool.
He glanced up once again and sighed. “Mrs. Brimley, this is becoming tiresome. We agreed on the terms of this arrangement, did we not?”
“Where do I remove these items?” She glanced about the room for a partition or perhaps a door to an inner chamber.
Lord Chambers held out his hand to indicate the stage.
“Here!” Her voice raised in alarm. “You wish me to disrobe here? While you watch?”
“I don’t see why not.” He shrugged. “I’ve seen your flesh before, Mrs. Brimley, or have you already forgotten?”
“Of course not,” she snapped. Indeed, that memory wove into most of her daylight thoughts and all of her nighttime dreams. A familiar heat that had sparked the moment he opened his studio door began to spread to her extremities. She chanced a quick glance to Chambers. The lift of his brow suggested he remembered that last meeting as well.
With a feigned sense of urgency, she removed her hat and pulled at the fingers of her gloves.
“That is all you will see unless you do me the decency of turning your back. I am not an actress to be gawked at upon the stage.”
He nodded, then shifted on his stool, presenting her with the broad expanse of his back. “Is this how you will teach the girls to disrobe in front of their husbands? If so, you are doing them a most serious injury.”
“You are not my husband.” Defiance tainted her reply while her fingers hesitated on the top button on her bodice. Granted, he had already seen her naked shoulders, but she had been unconscious. No one could fault her for that predicament. But this . . .
She unfastened the first three buttons and held her breath, expecting a bolt of lightning to strike her where she stood. Nothing. No lightning, not even a curious glance from her tormentor. Her fingers trembled yet continued to work down the row.
“It is common knowledge that wives have the privacy of their own rooms in which to disrobe,” she said, disappointed that her crinolines rustled louder than the crackling of the fire in the hearth, giving evidence to her activity.
“Heirs are not created in separate rooms. Clothes hinder the process as well. Indeed the artful removal of one’s garments can arouse a young husband, making the evening pleasurable for both.”
She had her doubts about that. This disrobing was not especially pleasurable, quite the opposite, in fact. She pulled her arms out of the bodice and laid the garment on one end of the divan, then hugged her bare arms. Consciously undressing with a man in the room was quite disconcerting, but she congratulated herself on her foresight to make him turn his back. Were she on display, this would be absolutely intolerable.
The room was quiet, not even the tick of a clock to distract from the sound of the unfastening of hooks and buttons. At least when they conversed she could pretend he wasn’t aware of her actions. Perhaps she could covertly gather information while he waited for her to complete the disrobing process.
“You have mentioned both pleasure and pain in coupling,” she said, unhooking the overskirt from the skirt beneath. “Can you assure me that there is more of one than the other?”
“Is that your question for our meeting?”
Obviously he was holding true to not giving free information. A more direct approach was needed. She took a deep breath and plunged forward. “I wish for you to explain how to mitigate the pain of coupling.”
“You know the price.”
She glanced to the back of the divan. “I’ve removed my bodice.”
“I removed both a bodice and a jacket just three days ago,” he said, holding up his fingers to tally the count. “As well as skirts and—”
“I forfeit a petticoat,” she interrupted before he could complete the litany of her disgrace. She glanced down at the fastenings on her skirts, to avoid staring at the strong broad back of the man before her. Her fingers began to work. “Explain, please,” she said, embarrassed by the tremor in her voice.
“A woman who has not experienced a man generally has a tight sheath, much smaller than the thickness of a man’s shaft. The man may enlarge the passage by probing the area with something smaller, often his finger.”
“He touches her? There?” For a moment, she forgot to breathe. She herself was hesitant to touch that forbidden area. That a man . . . that his fingers . . . She stole a glance at Chambers’s long, agile fingers as they moved silently over the brushes and painting implements by his side, imagining them gliding up her thigh in approach to that most intimate of places. Even as she contemplated the matter, a stirring in that very region generated tiny tremors, like ripples in an internal pond. A shudder tripped up her spine. Dear heavens! How could she imagine such a thing about a man not her husband? If imagination alone generated such a powerful physical sensation, his actual touch would surely . . . Her skirt fell to the floor in an audible swoosh.
“I . . . I don’t understand how a touch there would mitigate pain.” Oh, but she was beginning to. She fought for control of her voice. “If anything, I think it would be even more painful.” If only from embarrassment, she silently added.
“More than a touch,” Chambers continued. “The man explores her. He stimulates her, makes her slick with her own wanting.”
At his very suggestion, moisture pooled between her legs. The juices! Was this what he meant by “slick”? She clasped her thighs tight together, appalled at h
er body’s reaction. She was beginning to understand “slick,” but what bothered her most was his use of the word “wanting.”
“Often he’ll use his hand to ease her passage wider to accept his manhood. However, if the woman is lucky . . .” He paused. “He’ll use his tongue.”
“His tongue!” After the initial shock, she laughed. “Now I know you jest. No gentleman would participate in such an scandalous activity.” The idea was so absurd. Had he truly expected her to believe it? “You promised honest answers, sir. Perhaps I should demand you forfeit an item of clothing.”
The moment she uttered the words, she wished to retract them. Her own curiosity aside, a proper lady would have bargained for the retention of her own garments, not the removal of his.
“I would happily oblige if I had indeed been dishonest, but I have not. Such a ‘scandalous activity,’ as you describe it, is mild compared to some of the diversions of the polite world.”
He hesitated as if he were waiting for her request for elaboration. Although her curiosity was aroused, she glanced at the growing pile of clothes and decided to hold her tongue.
“Did you not explore me with your tongue when we kissed?” he challenged.
Indignation shot through her. “How rude of you to mention that indiscretion.” She hardly needed a reminder of something that never traveled far from her consciousness: the texture of his lips nudging hers, the intimate sharing of a breath.
A sigh slipped unguarded from her lips. Remembering her audience, she renewed her attack on the stubborn knot of her bustle. “That . . . that was different!”
“Was it not pleasant?” he asked, his tone suggesting he knew the answer. “I assure you, I found your exploration most pleasurable. Should you wish to explore further . . .”
Yes! Yes! She bit her lip to sharpen her focus before such errant thoughts would find a voice. Surely her mother’s experience had taught her not to wish for exploration of any man, without benefit of marriage, especially when that exploration involved the employment of one’s tongue! An internal tremor shook the flounces of her petticoat. She took a breath to clear her thoughts. “Have you forgotten my stipulation so soon?”
“I had hoped you had reconsidered.” Was it hope or laughter she heard in his voice? She almost wished she could view his face, but that would mean he could see her as well.
“I have not.” She relaxed a little, empowered by those three words. He would honor his pledge not to touch her, of that she was certain. After this latest revelation, however, she was not as convinced about the truthfulness of his statements. For the girls’ sakes, she must be certain.
She studied her fingers, afraid to raise her eyes and expose the warmth creeping into her face, even to his turned back. “A tongue is not as rigid as a finger. I do not believe a tongue can expand a passage.”
“I would be willing to demonstrate,” he said with experienced authority. “You could remain standing and I would kneel before you and—”
“Lord Chambers!” Her knees buckled and she grasped the back of the settee for support. The image he invoked released vibrating tremors throughout her body, particularly in the area where his tongue . . . Sweet Lord, what was happening? “I do not require a demonstration,” she huffed. “Just honesty in your answers.”
Honesty demanded, however, that she continue her disrobing. She began work on her caged crinolines, avoiding the temptation to stare at his head. With her position on the raised dais, his head would be at the proper position if . . . No! She couldn’t allow her thoughts to follow that path.
“Shall I continue to explain how this mitigates the pain?”
“Please do so.” She could barely find breath to issue the words.
“A man employs his tongue to pleasure a woman as well as to introduce more moisture into the area.”
“He spits into her?” This made more sense than inserting one’s tongue.
“Moisture, Mrs. Brimley.” His voice slowed as if speaking to an irate child. “The custom is not meant to degrade or show displeasure, quite the opposite, in fact. The additional moisture helps to lubricate the passage, much the same way a wheelwright would grease an axel.”
The introduction of the wheel and axel allowed some much needed distance from the topic at hand. She slowed her breathing and let the air in the room cool her inflamed cheeks. For a moment she appreciated her lack of clothing. Adding wool to this incendiary topic would surely have rendered her prostrate once again. She stepped out of the crinoline cage.
“Do you believe my girls will be forced to submit to such practices on their wedding nights?”
“Only if they are very fortunate. Too many men look to their own pleasure before that of their brides. Your young ladies will most likely be expected to provide similar services to the man.”
One minute, she thought she understood; the next he described something totally incomprehensible. “The man’s passage will need expansion?”
“Is that another question, Mrs. Brimley?”
She hesitated in the process of removing her already forfeited petticoat. She only had one short one left. If she removed that last barrier, she would be forced to pose in naught but her corset, chemise, drawers, and stockings. He had already seen her exposed to her corset, but her drawers . . .
She thought of the slit between her legs that allowed her to tend to private necessities. If she kept her legs tightly together, he might not notice its existence.
“Mrs. Brimley, if we are to continue this conversation, I feel I should turn around. The back of my studio is not conducive to finishing my painting.”
“No,” she fairly shouted. “I’m not ready,” she said, still considering.
She thought of the girls. She thought of herself. Would it be preferable to be knowledgeable about the expectations of coupling, including these “explorations,” before confrontation on the wedding night? Or should mystery prevail? She mentally rummaged through her readings for guidance. Keats provided her answer.
“An extensive knowledge is needful,” she softly quoted, “to ease the burden of the mystery.”
“I’m sorry,” Chambers said, his back still to her. “Did you say something?”
“I am removing my last petticoat.”
Eight
“I FEAR I’VE FORGOTTEN YOUR QUESTION,” HE said.
The man was incorrigible. She occupied her hands with the removal of the final two petticoats. “You suggested a husband might require his wife to employ her hand, or . . .” this was most difficult to say, “tongue to a man’s . . .”
“His manhood, yes. That indeed would facilitate his arousal, I should say. A husband would treasure a wife who aroused him in such a manner.”
“This would be expected?” She thought of the drawing Chambers had provided earlier. Placing her hand on a man’s manhood might be similar to grasping a low branch of a tree. There existed similarities.
“Expected by some, appreciated by all.”
“A wife would be expected to taste the man with her tongue?” The image of the tree branch worked exceptionally well to keep her mind away from the human element. However, placing one’s tongue on a branch seemed ridiculous at best. One would only gain a mouthful of splinters.
“She’d be expected to use her hand, or her tongue, or both. There are many ways this can be done, but perhaps the most enjoyable is when the man and wife pleasure each other at the same time. She positions her nether regions about his head, and he does the same. Either the—”
“Merciful heavens,” she gasped at the mental picture inspired by his words.
“Mrs. Brimley? Are you all right? Do you require some water? A brandy, perhaps?”
She couldn’t look at him, much less answer. The muscles in the very areas he described tightened and shuddered. She could no longer focus on his broad back, his thick black hair, his narrow hips. His words and her imagination made every part of his body too provocative to consider.
Her gaze drifted to a spot j
ust about his left shoulder. She gasped. The gilt-framed mirror on the wall captured not only her horrified expression, but Lord Chambers’s smirk as well.
“How dare you! You’ve been watching me all this time? You positioned that mirror for the sole purpose of observing me while I disrobe. You . . . you miscreant!” Mortified, she looked to the door, but surely only further humiliation would follow if she were to arrive back at the school half-dressed. Fleeing the room wasn’t an option, so she settled for crouching behind the settee.
“I assure you, Mrs. Brimley, that mirror has occupied that wall for so long, I had forgotten it had existed until you so delightfully reminded me.” He turned to face her. “I use the mirror to reflect light unto my easel. However, today it reflected an innocence and beauty I can only hope to capture with my paints.”
She would have hidden her face with her hands if they weren’t already engaged covering her chest from view. She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Come now,” he soothed. “What harm has been done? You are the same chaste, untouched woman you were when you stormed my studio with your unusual demand. I saw nothing in the mirror that should prove embarrassing to you.”
“A lady does not subject herself to public view. A lady doesn’t . . .” The constriction in her throat prevented further explanation. She had violated so many of the constraints of being a lady, she wasn’t sure if she still qualified.
“Mrs. Brimley, outside of this studio, I promise to treat you with all the accord due a fine lady. But inside this studio, you are a woman, nothing more than my model, and most certainly, nothing less.”
His words gave her the strength to slowly stand up and step from behind the divan. Sheer willpower kept her knees from buckling. Her arms continued to wrap around her trunk, hiding her chest from his view. She slowly lifted her gaze to his, grateful to see that he appeared serious.
“You are a beautiful woman,” he said. “I promise to—”
“You think I am beautiful?” She breathed through the gap between her lips a moment or two, then recognized what must be an unseemly expression. After a lifetime of scorn and ridicule, she’d never considered a different opinion regarding her appearance could exist. She held her breath, searching his face for confirmation.
The Education of Mrs. Brimley Page 10