by Louisa Trent
A long restful sleep, a robust hunger, an argumentative spirit—his bride was rebounding rather nicely. Soon, she would be back to her old self.
No, better. Her ordeal would have strengthened her.
He smiled. “Here on out, no hourly reports. I promise.”
“Very well. I shall take you at your word. But make sure it never happens again.”
“I would never dream of curtailing your freedom, madam. I only ask you to include me in it. Now, how are you? Any worse for wear after last night?”
“Other than a bit of soreness, which is to be expected on a honeymoon, I am fit and well.”
Beneath her justifiable pique, his wife was fair and uncomplaining—two character traits he greatly admired. Alfred had been correct in his evaluation of Talbot’s marital circumstance. Over and above her potential as a promising author, Veronica would make him an excellent wife.
While he congratulated himself, the ever-curious Mrs. Bowdoin craned her neck to the box on the bed. “What is that?”
“That, my darling, is a gift for you.”
“Will I like it?”
“Questionable.”
She crossed her arms under her full bosom. “Why gift me with something where my enjoyment is questionable?”
“Because I shall certainly enjoy it, and in matters such as these, my enjoyment trumps yours.”
Leaving her stance by the window, she flew across the footboards, flung off the box’s lid, and peered inside.
“Ugh!” She turned back to him, her face screwed up in disdain. “Male attire.”
“Wrong. Within that box lies your means to emancipation.”
“Freedom is not so simple.”
“It is for the male gender, which you will be a member of tonight when I take you out on the town to a private gentleman’s club.”
She snorted. “A brothel, more like.”
“This place caters to a more sophisticated palate and a wealthier clientele.”
“A whorehouse all the same.”
“Think of the research materiel for your next book.”
“There is no ‘next book.’ I keep telling you, I no longer write.”
He stepped toward the door, his leg stiff but the pain manageable. “Dress, then meet me downstairs at the carriage in fifteen minutes.”
“I cannot possibly be ready so quickly.”
“Quit dawdling or you will have less.”
“A woman requires time, sir.”
“Ah, but for this one evening you are a man. Best think like one.”
“Breasts.”
“More like it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Mine will shift under a man’s shirt.”
“The waistcoat will minimize them.” He sighed for the shame of that.
“What of my hair. Shall I hack it all off?”
This threat provoked ire in him. “Do so and you will receive no more fucking from me.”
“That would be altogether too, too sad. Your fucking has much to commend it. Even thinking about last night makes me wet. Would you like to see the drips, sir?” She undid her dressing gown’s ties and let the edges fall open.
The little sex fiend. She was killing him with want. But only a bastard would take a wife who had just confessed to honeymoon soreness.
As he was a bastard in truth, Talbot backed up for the door. “I am sure you will come up with a method to disguise your glorious tresses.”
Her eyes softening, she raised a hand to her loose curls. “An unruly mess most of the time, but thank you for saying otherwise. A compliment, even an untruthful one, here or there buoys the female spirit.”
He waved her remark aside. “I never lie. And I should leave.”
“I suppose I could pin it all up—my hair, that is—and then cover the topknot with one of these black silk top hats you so kindly provided in the box.”
“A much better solution.” Her gold-hooped breasts seduced; her cunt wept for something he knew he could provide.
Pain. Excruciating pain. For both of them.
Talbot grabbed the doorknob for dear life. “Pin your hair up under a hat. Do that.”
“But whatever shall I do about my lack of a male appendage?” She batted her lashes. “Though few men can compete with your make, I must have something to show.”
Her flirtatious banter sent him careening to the end of his rope, where he hung suspended, scant seconds from either throttling her or pushing his make into her.
Why not do both?
This need not be an either-or situation.
His battle with control lost, he loosened his fingers on the doorknob. One stumbling step would take him to her, where he would throttle then fuck her, perhaps simultaneously.
He let go of the knob. “Oh, stuff it—”
“By golly, I shall. Marvelous idea, that. A tightly rolled sock stuffed in my drawers will mimic a cock and mop up the wetness that besieges me whenever I find myself in your company.”
Before lust consumed him, he opened the door and threw himself bodily out into the hall, Veronica’s mocking laughter following him as he hopped on board the oak banister and slid his haunches back down the railing to the first floor.
What a child his wife was at times!
Mrs. Bowdoin knew she had gotten him all hot and bothered, a fact only a cad would act upon, yet she had the poor sportsmanship to rub his weakness in his face.
Back in his office, Talbot sulkily plopped himself in a chair behind his desk, picked up a steam-powered automaton on top, flicked the lever on its side, and leaned back in his seat to watch the toy’s antics. To the sounds of the tin soldier’s drum clanging, Talbot reconsidered his bride’s laughter.
Perhaps he was being overly sensitive. Perhaps Veronica mocked herself, not him, with her laughter. After all, her confession of “wetness” exposed her weakness, not the other way round.
Imagine that. He made his bride wet, wet like droplets of steam.
Now steam was something he understood. Steam required heat. So much heat, it could bother a person.
Like steam, his bride made him hot and bothered. Like steam, he made her the same.
An equally steamy vulnerability.
And just like steam, his sulk dissolved.
Chapter Twenty-five
At first blush, Talbot’s transparent attempts to lift her spirits by forcing her to go with him to a private gentleman’s club positively incensed her. How dare he push her to reenter life when life had so very little to offer! But that evening as she walked through the establishment’s front door alongside her husband, curiosity beat out anger.
Dressed as she was in dark trousers and a matching coat, she would be privy to a male’s point of view, a perspective that had perplexed her when she was authoring her first book. How could something so revelatory not snap her out of her doldrums?
In Diary, the hero had proven difficult to write, particularly when the plot advanced into sexual territory. The private club would provide her with the unique chance to see the world through a male’s eyes. Who could resist?
Not that she ever intended to write a second book of erotica. Still, only an idiot refuses to take advantage of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
A voyeur just like her husband for the evening, she gawked slack-jawed at everything and everyone, from the garish tasseled furnishings to a group of whores strolling about the club in loosened satin wraps.
Hmm. Apparently, dyed pubic hair was very much in vogue this season, the most popular shade being red.
No! Not red. Too blah. This scene called for an exotic description.
She bit her lip, her thoughts flying.
Vermillion. That was it! Ever so much better.
On second thought, that word choice was terrible. Simply awful. Pedestrian and juvenile. Florid prose was the mark of a rank amateur. A few weeks away from her writing desk, and already her skills had grown rusty.
Best stick with red. Red made for a dynamic visual without obscuri
ng the picture under a heap of esoteric verbiage, she decided, her gaze darting back and forth, taking in the sights as if she were on an African safari.
Some prostitutes, she noted, passively lounged on chairs to lure big game to them, while other prostitutes actively prowled the rooms to hunt. Members of both expeditions dragged their catches upstairs. In this all male jungle, the Amazons reigned.
Now, there was a visual. Of course, the idea needed polishing. African safaris took place on the plains of Africa; Amazons confined their female warrior power to…well, who really knew where. Her understanding was Libya, in Northern Africa, but she might possibly be mistaken. But how to write the kernel of an idea? On what, with what?
A sheet of brown paper and a dull pencil would do. An imprisoned Marquis de Sade had scrawled whole chapters on the walls of his cell with his own feces.
She understood his desperation. Should she ask her husband for help with hers?
No. Why embarrass herself?
Talbot Bowdoin would never understand the writing process, the fits and starts, the occasional glimmer of creativity, the frustration of not being able to have a damn pen and paper within easy reach at a moment’s notice. What did he know about books, about the insistent worm burrowing in an author’s head to get it all down lest the phrases slip away?
Some of the patrons carried walking sticks quite similar to those owned by her husband, though not nearly as fine, and everyone wore masks.
When a courtly gentleman dressed in a red velvet cape approached them, Veronica turned to her husband. “I recognize him! What in heaven’s name is he doing here?”
“Whomever do you mean?”
“Bosh! Do not toy with me, sir. You know very well whom I mean. Note his shoes. He wore those exact same ones when we visited him the other day at his shop.”
“Like all born writers, you are observant.” He smiled. “Alfred owns this club.”
“I thought him a couturier.”
“My friend is a man of many talents, designing clothing is but one of them.”
The friend of many talents came to a stop in front of them. “A charming companion for the evening you have there, sir. I applaud your excellent tastes in…” Alfred winked. “Boys. What is your preference—watching or being watched?”
“Exhibitionism sounds about right. I would enjoy showing off my darling.” Talbot regarded her, his look intent.
No discernable difference there, as his gaze was never anything less, but still, Veronica felt as though this time he peered into her very soul. In that instant, she realized she was safe with him, that he would never do anything to jeopardize her faith or trust.
And she knew exactly why she believed as she did.
In Boston, a city where reputation was everything, a floundering marriage could ruin his prospects; a successful union might possibly buoy them. For whatever the reason, he had aligned their futures. If he hurt her, he would wound himself. That mutuality formed the very foundation of the marital institution.
So sad. She had hoped marriage might be more.
“Have you some objection to my proposal?” her husband asked, still staring at her.
“Only my lack of cock. A limp sock stuffed in my drawers is hardly impressive.”
“Shh,” both men hushed her.
“Sssss,” she hissed right back at them through her teeth.
“Your darling spits like an enraged kitten,” Alfred said.
“You should hear her purr. Though you never will get the chance, you scoundrel.”
Why did Talbot’s chest puff up in pride when he made that remark? And why did her nipples tingle, then elongate under her man’s tailored shirt as a result?
“The room number if you please?” Mr. Bowdoin asked.
“Fifteen.” Alfred placed a key in her husband’s outstretched palm. “Have a lovely time, gents.”
No need to push her up the stairs. Not at all reluctant, she went with a bounce in her step, which set her breasts to jiggling.
“Enjoying yourself?” Talbot asked under his breath as he unlocked the door and they stepped into the room.
“I believe I am.”
“Shall we make ourselves comfortable?”
She looked around the plush gold environs. From wallpaper to furnishings, the room had the Midas touch. “Will patrons be able to see us in here?”
“Note the painting of the elderly man to your right.”
She clapped her hands. “Holes are drilled in the eyes, correct?”
He chuckled. “Only in bad mystery novels. A peep is situated below the outer corner of the frame and various other places throughout, which I shan’t enumerate in fear of bringing on a bout of stage fright in you. Now remove you coat, my darling, and we shall begin.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Veronica shrugged off her outer garment, a swift obedience, but clutched at the waistcoat. I dare not remove everything, sir, she mouthed, lest I give my true gender away.
So as not to betray his thoughts, Talbot fixed his expression to reveal nothing. A quandary as Veronica tickled his funny bone no end. Honest to Christ, was she so oblivious to her own beauty that she thought she would pass for a male here or anywhere?
It would take a hell of a lot more than a sock stuffed in her drawers to accomplish that end. In countless ways, some significant, some less so, she was all woman. Her full breasts alone negated any attempt at disguise. Even now, when she stood stock still, her titties shifted with each of her breaths. As to her cashmere and wool trousers, their fit revealed a narrow waist and shapely female hips. No male would fill out pants the way his curvaceous wife did.
No cause for concern here. Anything went in this private club. Cross dressers frequented this establishment in full regalia. Men who dressed up as befrilled and beribboned women, all the while sporting facial hair, was a nightly occurrence here, over which no one looked twice.
Unless the patron was a voyeur, like Talbot himself. Then, staring at fellow members was not only allowed, but encouraged. As long as one had sufficient wealth to afford the steep annual dues, levied to keep out less deep-pocketed undesirables, live and let live was the club’s philosophy, and to each his own fetish was the motto.
No one gave a flying fuck if Veronica appeared rather too feminine to be a man. As a member in good standing, Talbot could bring anyone he damned well liked here as his guest, including a dancing bear. Or even a curious wife.
Naturally, knowing the owner helped Talbot bend the rules. With association came special privilege. With friendship came understanding.
They were friends, Alfred and he. As a personal favor, the tailor had already closed and locked the peeps so no one could see into their room, a necessary precaution to assure complete privacy.
Unlike his darling show-off wife, he was no exhibitionist. The reality was, he would never permit an uninvolved party to see his woman during an intimacy, a protective and territorial facet of his personality he would keep to himself. Why ruin her naughty fun?
She thought they were about to be observed, and the forbidden fantasy thrilled her. As he intended it should. He would provide as many titillating thrills as it took to satisfy his darling’s deviant appetites.
After neatly folding her coat and placing it on a dressing chair, she turned to face him. “Down on the floor,” she said, all pretend male bravado. “Suck me off.”
“Very amusing. But out of the question.”
Poor dejected deviant. His unwillingness to play along took the winds right out of her sails.
She pouted. “Why ever not?”
To keep up the illusion that someone might be observing them at that very moment, he lowered his voice. “Because I do not feature having a wool sock stuffed in my mouth.”
“There is that,” she grumbled. “All right. I shall be the one to knee the floor.”
“No.”
“Then what can we do?”
“Cheer up…er…lad. I have a little something to show you.”
“Oh, goody. A surprise.” She closed her eyes. “I utterly adore it when someone tries to catch me off balance. See? ” Giggling, she gave a little jump, which sent her lush tits to jiggling.
He had all to do not to squeeze those bouncing melons for ripeness.
Despite the womanly curves, his bride could be such a child at times. And that made them all that much more compatible, because when it came to certain specific areas, he could be rather childlike himself.
He rummaged around inside the leather sack he carried, found his latest invention, and pulled it out. “Feel free to look now.”
Her eyes widened to the size of buffet platters. “But you said you had ‘a little something’ to show me. That is not ‘a little something.’ That is a monstrously huge something.”
“I will have you know, I patterned the phallus after my own dimensions.”
“A remarkable match in that instance,” she said, her tone full of good cheer and impish mischief.
“For home use, I built one that is steam powered, but nothing will beat this one for sheer portability.” The pace of his words quickened as he warmed to the subject. “It can go with the owner everywhere.”
“How handy,” she offered. “One never knows when one might wish to eviscerate oneself.”
Her surly remark had no impact on his firing thoughts. He did so want to share his inventions with someone. He never had before.
“Convenience! Exactly! And see here? If I press the release on the side, weights drop into place, and the dildo vibrates.
“And on whom do you intend to use that thing?”
“Why, on you, my darling.”
This time, despite a reckless enthusiasm over his latest invention, he was cognizant of her harrumph.
His bride was not at all happy. What had he said?
In her usual straightforward manner, she disclosed his error in thinking. “Did you forget, sir? I am masquerading as a male.”
Ohhhhh…
He had forgotten. When trying out a prototype, he did tend toward absentmindedness. Wrapped up in the invention, he lost sight of the outside world. This was not a slight toward her. In fact, her welfare was uppermost in his mind. It was only the anatomical differences behind her disguise that had managed to slip past his regard.