Blooming: Veronica

by Louisa Trent

  He could not fool her. Not in this area. After reading Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray in Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine, she knew all about such things. In theory. On the pages of a novel or journal. All one need do was read between the lines!

  She grinned in happiness. She had read between Talbot Bowdoin’s lines, and so she knew he would make her the perfect husband. He had taste in clothes and would stay out of her bed.

  And, in giving him a wedding band to hide behind, she would keep him out of prison for his predilection, a quid pro quo arrangement if ever she heard one.

  A slight rat-a-tat came at the door.

  That must be Mr. Bowdoin now.

  “Come in,” she called.

  In he came, as any husband might, only unlike most husbands in the morning, Talbot Bowdoin looked fresh, while in a complete role reversal, she was a messy mess. “Pardon my regrettable dishabille this morn, sir.”

  “Nonsense! You look delectable. A scrumptious morsel, entirely enchanting.” He bowed, and quite elaborately too, one arm behind his back.

  Veronica twirled a strand of bed-mussed hair around her finger.

  Oh, the groom was a gay blade to be sure. No ordinary husband, not even one in the first blush of a honeymoon, would spout such utter claptrap and with such a jaunty flair.

  “Are you well?” he asked.

  “After my excesses, I am. Though, owing to a certain fuzziness of thought, not nearly as amenable.”

  “That having not been my experience, I shan’t even notice.” He presented her with a box, taken from behind him. “For you.”

  “Another wedding gift?”

  “A token of my esteem. You were wonderful last night.”

  “Wonderful?” She tore at the pretty blue wrapping paper. “I was?”

  “I have never had better.”

  “Even with my somewhat shaky recollection, I am sure you did not have me at all, sir.” But he had given her a gift anyway. Extraordinary!

  And far too considerate for a man of natural sexual inclination.

  She held his token of esteem up in the air. “A gilded music box. How perfectly wonderful! I always wished to have one just like this.”

  “I had the Henriot sent from Switzerland. Well, open the lid and see what the blasted thing plays.”

  She beamed. “My favorite Mozart aria, Don Giovanni. You can read my mind.”

  “A wild guess,” he said modestly. “Now, tell me—did you enjoy last night?”

  “As I say, last night is a tad foggy.”

  “But you do recall some of it.”

  “I recall something eruptive. What was it?”

  “An orgasm.”

  She briskly shook her head. “You are quite mistaken, sir. That eruption was not an orgasm. Only men can orgasm because only men can ejaculate, a necessity to perpetuate the species. If not for the pleasure derived from orgasm, men would not bother, while women participate only to have children.” Which she could no longer do, so why bother with the rest?

  “There is pleasure to be had for the woman too.”

  His statement confirmed her suspicions. Her husband was definitely queer in his thinking. No wonder he was not disappointed at her inability to bear him a son. He most likely thought never to have a wife or children.

  Rather than repulse her, his orientation made her feel ever so safe. He would never pull at her heartstrings, as he favored pulling a different organ.

  Putting his arrogance and manipulation aside, she smiled at him fondly. “I must disagree. The eruption I felt last night was a release of internal tension, similar to a belch.”

  “A belch? You view climax the same as a burp?”

  “I think so, yes. The eruption felt good and necessary in the moment with no lasting result. I would do it again, mind you, but I shall belch again too, given the right circumstances, especially now that I know how to do it.”

  Putting her new music box aside, she sprang from the bed and whipped off her nightgown, no modesty whatsoever. Her husband had no interest in her that way. He might have been her personal maid, so little did her nudity matter to him.

  “We go to the dressmaker today, Mr. Bowdoin?” she inquired, bending over to retrieve her scattered hose from the floor where whoever had gotten her ready for bed had dropped them, along with her frilly white garters and gold-buckled shoes.

  “Why…er…yes.”

  He sounded strange. When she turned round to see why he should sound so strangulated, she saw that his gaze was riveted on her upturned bottom. “Is everything as it should be, sir?”

  “Why, naturally, Mrs. Bowdoin. You know I like to look.”

  “Look all you like,” she said breezily.

  Assured in her knowledge that he had no designs on her, she made her toilette as if she were entirely alone in her bedchamber, scurrying to her traveling chest, tossing her clothing about hither and yon as she hunted down something appropriate to wear her first full day of married life. Something dull, something that spelled her new change in position and status. After all, she was a married lady now.

  For all that she had spent her wedding night alone.

  * * *

  At Talbot’s order, Jim, the stable lad, had already brought the four-wheeled rockaway around to the front of the stone carriage house in readiness for that day’s excursion. All they need do was hop up onto the bench and take off.

  Easy for Talbot to say. With inches to spare at the leg and wearing trousers, not skirts, climbing into the rig amounted to more than a hop and a jump—even for a cripple.

  Not so for his lady bride. Tiny in stature, hindered by voluminous petticoats and weighed down by everything else, she required assistance.

  Only a boor would stand by while a female struggled to board a conveyance.

  A firm grasp under her elbow and a gentle upward push, his walking stick dug into the drive for leverage, he hoisted his bride up onto the high bench.

  Afterward, and badly shaken from the contact, he climbed up himself, concentrating on handling the team while he regained his composure.

  His love of all things leather helped.

  When staying at his estate on the North Shore, he took his pair of reddish brown horses out for a drive whenever possible. His team needed the exercise, and he enjoyed the feel of the reins in his hands.

  Straps too. Whips as well. Floggers that slashed trough the air before landing, not on horseflesh, but on a woman’s soft skin. In specific, his wife’s highly spankable backside. Leather would look good on her. Across her breasts, encircling her tiny waist, going over her mons and between her buttocks.

  Back to her buttocks again. Her eminently spankable buttocks.

  Lord, what he would give—perhaps even his publishing empire—to be able to lay his hand on her ass, to pinken the cheeks with his very own palm, to kiss the bruises he left behind, to lick the crevice and then dart his tongue inside to lick that pretty little hole he longed to enter.

  But not until after spanking her delectable derriere.

  If there was a God in heaven, please? Please, let me be able to work up the courage to touch her that way. Just one spank would do him…

  A lie. If he were going to pray to a higher authority, the least he could do was own up to his weaknesses.

  One spank would never do him.

  Ugh. A whistle to his chestnuts truncated the direction of those thoughts, and off they went, galloping down the drive.

  Veronica—he occasionally called her so now in his thoughts, not always bride or wife or madam, not even Mrs. Bowdoin, though he did like its sound on his lips—held on to her precariously perched hat. “It feels most peculiar not going to Hamilton Place for a new outfit.”

  “Outfits, plural,” he corrected, pleased with her ease of conversation with him. Veronica seemed comfortable around him altogether now. A remarkable accomplishment, and not entirely believable, given her earlier hostility to their marriage, her unspoken antagonism of the night before, and consideri
ng they were still relative strangers to one another.

  He would like to see all that change, especially the last. He would especially like to know what had altered her mindset about him. He would have named the orgasm, but she denied having ever experienced one, claiming a belch instead.

  Laughter rumbled in his chest. What a bundle of contradictions she was, so intelligent and yet so deplorably naive, all at the same time. Her ignorance of men was astounding. She might as well have joined a sewing circle of cloistered nuns than attend any of those free-love sessions. At least there, she would have learned a thing or two about priests. How she could write a bestselling book of erotica and know nearly nothing about sex remained a mystery.

  To keep up their exchange, he glanced away from the rutted road and felt a warm glow just from observing Veronica’s animated countenance.

  Her sadness had not gone completely, but their interlude last night had helped lift her spirits. He would do all he could to see that progress continued, and not only because a happy writer was a prolific writer. Although today Veronica looked tranquil enough to produce that second book. At her tender age, she had an illustrious career ahead of her.

  When the carriage hit a rut in the road and they bounced on their plush bench, his adorable bride giggled like a schoolgirl.

  Ah, yes, his wife’s melancholy mood definitely showed signs of improvement. Her one-sided foray into sex the night before had been therapeutic. Her color had improved, the dark circles under her eyes were all but gone, and her formerly blue-tinged lips now contained the rosiness of good health. From all appearances, Veronica had slept like a baby.

  Alas, the same could not be said of him.

  Putting her through her paces had aroused him to the degree that only a visit to Sonya had unwound him enough to think of retiring for the evening. Even afterward, when he had spent himself and finally sought out his bed, he had tossed and turned for the remainder of the night.

  Today, he remained keyed up, on edge. A need for sex did that to him. And this was not Boston, where he could find his release by squinting through his usual peepholes. Here, on the North Shore, he would need to go elsewhere.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You made mention of a Hamilton Place earlier in our ride,” Talbot said amiably, pulling up to the hitching post in front of the shop located in the center of Pride’s Crossing. “I have walked all over Boston but have never encountered that address. Where exactly is the street located in town?”

  “Between Tremont and Washington.”

  Commonplace, getting-acquainted small talk between two married strangers, a little stilted, very uninteresting, and nothing that would upset his bride’s present peace of mind.

  Excellent. He could not have asked for a better start to the new day.

  After disembarking from the carriage, Veronica walked bedside him. She was such a little thing! The crown of her bonnet reached only to his shoulder, if one discounted the feathers, which he could not. A hideous shade of brown, the plumage was offensively ugly.

  As was the rest of her ensemble. How any one woman could own so many homely outfits was beyond him.

  “All the shops on Hamilton Place are owned and operated by female dressmakers and milliners,” she continued along the same chatty vein. “A talented seamstress can make a tidy profit off her work, enough for a single woman to support herself. Not lavishly, of course, but adequately. I frequented the dress reform parlors to buy the emancipated waist. No restrictive fashions for me, no farthingales and dress hoops that trip one up. No more yards of cloth and pounds of petticoats to carry around like an anchor, like a veritable albatross around my neck. Months ago, I took the pledge to dress rationally.”

  A rationality that was painstakingly unattractive and still looked heavy enough to sink Old Ironsides. Lord, but he detested her wardrobe. Clothing should be fun. Joyous. Otherwise, why bother?

  He snickered to himself. His bride should wear naked more often. Her nakedness suited him just fine. Her body was choice and everything a woman’s body should be. Her titties were full and jiggly, her legs long and shapely, her arms elegant and slender, her ass a nice handful. Not that he would ever fill his hands with any part of her, but he would enjoy observing while someone else did, be that someone a man or a woman. He was not at all picky.

  His erection rose uncomfortably, and he shifted his gait from a clumsy roll to an awkward pivot in compensation. “I agree. Tight lacing is unhealthy. And furthermore, your waist is already tiny.”

  “I am glad we see eye to eye on this.”

  “Hardly. I could eat off the top of your bonnet.”

  “I meant that we agreed.”

  “We do, in principle—so long as you avoid anything earth toned. I told you last night, bright colors only. And only those styles where the natural shape of your bosom is emphasized.”

  “What? Dress-reform parlors will make nothing like that.”

  “Which is why I am taking you to my personal tailor. I use several in Boston, but when up here on the North Shore, I go exclusively to him.”

  She looked at him askance. “Is he your sort?”

  “I suppose so, as he insists that women look like women. Natural woman. Oscar Wilde is a proponent of the style for men.”

  “I see. He is your sort, then. I am all for a natural silhouette, but—”

  “Next week, we attend a house party at Hawk’s Nest, a seashore summer cottage in Beverly Farms, and I envision you wearing an aesthetic gown to highlight your innate sensuality. No corset, no boning, no restrictions whatsoever, and with sumptuous amounts of cleavage showing.” He studied her. “Your cleavage is amazing. Why not show it off?”

  “Perhaps because it is indecent!”

  Had this prim female really gotten down on her knees on a South Boston pier?

  Seeing was believing, he supposed, because her sucking off a man was difficult for him to fathom in the abstract. “The style is after the Arts and Crafts movement and is medieval in origin. No hourglass figure, a shape that is individual to you.”

  “I am no freewheeling artist.”

  “You are a writer.”

  “No more. And the style you suggest is not in vogue.”

  “Set fashion, do not mimic it.”

  “Easy for you to say, sir. You have not recently been painted a harlot.”

  No, but some might have painted him far worse in his checkered youth. Even now, in fact. Voyeurism was not exactly an acceptable hobby.

  Talbot sighed. Thumbing one’s nose at society was never easy. But she had it within herself to be an original, a one-of-a-kind woman others would wish to emanate. He knew her mind was amazing and unique and that she was temperamentally suited to lead, not to follow like a sheep, so he held firm. “No corset. A loose and free-flowing style, with some smocking and perhaps medieval-peasant-inspired trim. The fashion will liberate you.”

  Her attitude turned stubborn. “My breasts will bounce without a corset. That is not the sort of liberation I seek.”

  “Bouncing breasts is a circumstance that properly aligns with nature. Many in the movement are vegetarians who shun the wearing of animal furs. And feathers,” he said pointedly, his nose twitching as a particularly long plume on her ugly hat tickled his nostril and threatened to make him sneeze. “Plus, they eschew affected decoration. They use natural dyes in the coloring of fabric. You should approve.”

  “I know of this movement. These women are considered loose. Bohemians. Immoral. One lover does not make me immoral.”

  “No, but your unconventional attitude toward carnal activity does make you a free thinker.”

  She still walked beside him, but she had submissively lowered her chin, the very picture of cowed wife. She was trying her damnedest to disappear, he daresay, her stride only a shadow of its prior militancy.

  His efforts to see her blossom into the woman she was meant to be had failed. Before her miscarriage, she had blazed new trails; now she clung to the well-worn path. He lo
nged to restore her to her true self, that determined female who fearlessly read naughty prose in public, who could not have cared less what others thought of her, who experimented with sex to satisfy her intellectual curiosity. He hated this new fear of hers.

  As a couple walked by on the cobblestone walkway, she hid her face behind a hand, no doubt humiliated by their intent glances. Bostonians were not the only ones privy to Veronica’s scandal. His wife’s ruin had spread far and wide.

  He would have done anything to spare her that. Though he had acted swiftly, his single regret in all this was that his maneuvering had not been fast enough. He had not convinced her father to release her into his care in time to avert disaster.

  Why could his bride not see he only had her best interests at heart?

  “I can understand a person of your persuasion desiring freedom for all, but to rub the faces of the majority in your inclination in this manner, well, I am aghast. Consider the laws of the land, sir! Are you not afraid of public exposure?”

  Disappointment had him by the balls. And here he thought she would revel in the perceived danger of public exposure.

  He sought to reassure her. “I have always taken great care to keep my habits discreet, both in the present and in the past. There are ways to do these things, you know.”

  At a decorated store glass window, Talbot came to a stop and held open the ornate front door. “Everything will be all right. You will see. Now in you go.”

  She obeyed, taking a meek step over the threshold.

  Inside, the tailor stood at his cutting board, his measuring tape draped around his neck like a Parisian scarf. The man did everything with theatrical flair.

  Talbot advanced into the shop, his bride clinging to his side, not touching him, but close. Too close.

  He stepped away, placing the safety of distance between them. “Ah, Alfred, dear fellow, how very nice to see you again. You received my note. You were expecting us, I hope?”

  The dapper tailor raced his fingers through his wavy thick blond hair and then placed his scissors aside. “I did and I was, Mr. Bowdoin.”