Authors: Regina Kammer
“Some women will come to you with ailments of their own.
Some of these will be quite obvious—a disease, a boil, a cough. Again, you’ll
apply your basic knowledge or use my research library upstairs. But treatment
will be straightforward.
“Then there will be the women who come in for themselves, or
their pubescent daughter, complaining of very vague symptoms. They will use
words they’ve heard or read in magazines like ‘malaise’, ‘melancholia’, ‘ennui’,
‘nervousness’. They won’t be able to describe the problem in definite terms.”
He stopped pacing and faced his pupil. “This is the type of ailment I
specialize in.”
Nicholas was intrigued. “What do you mean? What is it, this
ailment?”
“Doctors as far back as Celsus and Galen have called this
affliction ‘womb disease’. Today we commonly use the term ‘hysteria’. The
treatment has been the same for a thousand years. We use it today, in fact.
Generally, it is manual stimulation of the genitalia until what is called ‘the
hysterical paroxysm’ is reached. It is, of course, a completely ridiculous
malady with an equally ridiculous treatment.”
Nicholas recalled his perusal of the medical journals. He
himself had thought the same thing. “I don’t understand, Dr. Christopher,” he
started tentatively. “If you offer treatment for this illness, what are you
treating? And how are you treating it?”
“Don’t worry, my boy,” the doctor consoled him with a touch
of amusement. “You have not stumbled upon a quack out to bilk Mayfair’s finest
of their jewels. The malady is not some abstruse ailment called hysteria, the
malady, as a matter of fact, is lack of sexual culmination. The treatment is
not for a strange man in an office to touch a woman in her most intimate of
places but for her own damn husband to do it.” Dr. Christopher sucked in air
purposefully, as if to calm himself. “In lieu of a husband or other intimate
partner, the treatment is for a woman to learn self-stimulation.”
Nicholas was not sure he had just heard what he thought he
had just heard.
Dr. Christopher must have read the confusion on his face. “Yes,
Ramsay, that would indeed be masturbation.”
Nicholas flushed.
“The lower classes figure it out, of course. There is no
code of morality amongst them. But no one ever teaches it to the daughters of
the wealthy or the middle classes. Of course, boys of any class don’t need to
be taught. But girls are much more mysterious.”
Nicholas was still a tad nonplussed. He cleared his throat. “Dr.
Christopher, sir, are you teaching women how to masturbate?” It was strange
being a man of science as Nicholas thought he was and not being able to speak
about medical matters without a little discomfiture.
“I would like to, I haven’t done so yet. It’s rather
complicated, really.”
Nicholas waited for further explanation but there was none. “How
so?”
“Well, the medical community is not convinced of my theory
at all. They do not see the connection between women’s sexual pleasure and
women’s complaints. Sexual pleasure, you see, can only be achieved with
penetration, so one theory goes, or semen, according to another. A woman does
not need sexual gratification, like we men do. She only experiences it as a
by-product of intimacy with a man.” Dr. Christopher looked Nicholas straight in
the eye. “Even if Lavinia has been your only lover, which I am certain is not
true, you must know that women can and do experience sexual pleasure in the
absence of men.”
Nicholas did know that, and not just from Lavinia. “Yes, of
course.” He did find it a bit odd that, until recently, he had never realized
such a topic was discussed in the medical community.
Dr. Christopher resumed his pacing. “I need to proceed with
experiments to prove my hypothesis, to bring forth data and evidence, write a
paper, that sort of thing. It is not an idea open for discussion in the Royal
scientific societies at the moment. A great many doctors make a damn good
living from what is essentially giving sexual gratification to ignorant women.
And what is worse, there are devices being invented and sold for such purposes.
Really, it is these inventors and the doctors who buy their products who are
the quacks.”
“So, what is your course of action?”
Dr. Christopher drew in a deep breath. “In order to achieve
my goals, I intend to use the very tools my colleagues use in their quackery. I
hope to answer the question whether what a woman experiences with those devices
is different from what she experiences with penetration. I have a douching
machine and a brand new electro-vibrator at my disposal. And now I have Grace.”
“Good God, man!” Nicholas blurted, absolutely stunned. “That
servant girl? You intend to—to experiment on her?”
“She has agreed.” It was said coolly. “She will be
compensated and will receive lodging and food for all her work here, whether as
servant or subject.”
Nicholas was aghast but still somehow fascinated. “And the
part about, uh, penetration?”
“You mean, do I intend to fornicate with her? It would be
difficult to keep a clear head during such activity, I admit, to keep a
professional scientific separation from the matter.” Dr. Christopher looked
queerly at Nicholas.
He felt a twisting in his gut. “Oh no, sir. I won’t. Don’t
ask me to do that, sir.”
Julius guffawed. “I was testing you, Ramsay. Of course I
would never allow such a thing in my office. I would be professionally
censured. As would you.”
Nicholas quietly sighed his relief. “So how do you intend to
proceed?”
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet, to be truthful. It
would be far easier if she had a young man of her own. I will have to give the
scheme some thought. However, I do have an alternative trajectory of
experimentation.”
Nicholas was utterly intrigued. The crowding in his crotch
made him realize he was unwittingly becoming aroused by the frank discussion. “Oh?”
“One way to prove that women do not need penetration for
sexual gratification is to find a woman who maintains a level of satisfaction
with mere clitoral stimulation without devolving into feelings of frustration.
Of course, my detractors would claim that somehow memories of male penetration
were surfacing, perhaps in a dream state. So really to prove this vein of my
hypothesis, I will need a virgin.”
“Oh God.” Nicholas sank in his chair. “And where do you
intend to find a virgin?” he inquired meekly.
“It is a horrible matter, really, but they can be bought at
the better brothels. Again, it would be a situation of maintaining a young
woman, having her live here with me, that sort of thing.”
The whole conversation was partly disgusting, partly
intriguing, partly arousing, partly exhilarating. But Nicholas remembered his
place. “Dr. Christopher, you would like me to come join you so I can treat the
more straightforward cases and leave the more curious for your own analysis and
cure, is that right, sir?”
“Yes, Ramsay, that is correct. I think your qualifications,
training and manner make you well-suited to take over the practical aspects of
my practice.”
“Very good, sir. I think I shall like to take a bit of time
to think this over. Not that I have any other offers, but your practice is
rather unconventional.”
“Yes,” agreed Dr. Christopher. “Take all the time you need.”
What Nicholas needed at that moment wasn’t time. It was
Lavinia.
* * * * *
It was a quiet, late afternoon staying in for Lavinia, a
rarity during the Season for one of London’s most well-known and sought-after
widows. But she needed time to rest, to relax, to catch up on the week’s
newspapers that the butler, Mr. Sims, had stacked neatly and perfectly on a low
table by the sofa in the library. No one was expected, and Sims had been
instructed to take calling cards. The lady was simply not “at home”.
For several hours she read her papers, the most recent
first, stretched lengthwise on the sofa, bolstered by wonderfully plump
pillows, shamelessly un-corseted and stocking-free, unconcerned with the drape
of her dress, probably exposing an ankle or calf. Such unladylike behavior
would surely shock most of her acquaintances, she laughed to herself as she
picked up the previous Thursday’s
Morning Post
and turned to the section
on the Imperial Parliament.
She raised her head at a commotion growing slowly beyond the
library door. Sims was talking very sternly to an unwelcome and assiduous man
on the front steps.
“Oh bother, what is it now?” she said aloud as if someone
could hear her. She sat up.
The door to the library crashed open.
Nicholas stood there, holding his hat in his hand, his dark
hair wild, his brown eyes black with desire. And when he tossed his hat on the
library table, she could see the expectant bulge in his pants.
All Lavinia could think was that she had not inserted her
Dutch cap.
“Nicky? I didn’t expect you until tonight,” she gasped. “I
thought you were with Julius this afternoon.”
He said nothing as he came toward her, tearing off his
jacket and loosening his tie.
Oh God. What debauchery did Julius introduce you to?
Nicholas pulled her up to standing, took the
Post
still in her hand, folded it and placed it neatly on the table. One hand
cradled the back of her head while the other arm snaked around her waist. Her
insides fluttered as they always did when he took control.
She looked up beseechingly. “Nicky? Darling?”
His mouth crushed down on hers, their tongues tangling
before he plundered her depths even further. She steadied herself against him,
gripping his shoulders, her body weakening under his demanding desire.
He came up for air, panting as if exhausted. “I need you,”
he murmured. “But…but I need to pleasure you first.” He seemed
uncharacteristically abashed, perhaps even a little ashamed.
“Yes, of course.” What else was she to say to that?
He drew her to the sofa, laying her back against the
pillows, then pushed up her skirts. His hand reached inside the split in her drawers,
tickling her delicate flesh. The earnestness on his face contrasted with the
gentleness of his touch.
“You’re wet,” he said as if he hadn’t expected her to be. He
eased her legs open, licking his lips as if she were a treat before him, then
bent over and began his ravishment.
He was a man possessed.
Lavinia closed her eyes to concentrate on the momentary
well-aimed flicks of his frenzied tongue, his lack of focus confusing her
senses. She moaned her appreciation, smoothing his hair in encouragement, soothing
him until he slowed his pace. His fingers dallied deliciously in her folds to
uncover her clitoris before he sucked the pearl into his mouth, the tip of his
tongue frantically stroking the sensitive spot, his pointed attentiveness
sending her into spasms of vexatious ecstasy. As her body writhed against him,
he followed her every move, digging his nails painfully into her butt cheeks,
not wanting to let her go.
She cried out his name, grabbing handfuls of his curls as
she thrust her crotch against his mouth, his smug chuckle vibrating against her
as he feasted. He was relentless, he was determined. She felt the buildup, the
coiling of energy deep in her belly, the tingling in her toes, the anticipation
hovering in the air, waiting…
He sucked harder, his tongue tormenting and teasing until
she—
“Oh God! Nicky!”
Lavinia opened her eyes and tried to calm her shallow
breaths. She had never spent so hard. He had never pleasured her with so much
enthusiasm.
But he wasn’t finished yet.
With one hand he pulled her from the couch, urged her across
the room and thrust her against the door, all while his other hand worked his
buttons to free his cock. He was rampant, the prepuce already cowled below the
glistening purple head. He bunched up her skirts and impaled her with a satisfied
groan.
His movements were slow and even at first. Her body, sated
and weak, found new resolve with the changed erotic assault. She clenched his
shaft, sending tingling thrills through her, then released him with a tilt of
her hips demanding he repeat his invasion. His thrusts picked up with
determination until he was slamming inside her, meeting every moan with a
vigorous lunge, holding her tightly as her arms and legs limply clung to his
taut form.
His breathing grew ragged, his rhythm changing to a
syncopated beat. He was going to spend.
She wasn’t prepared.
She unwrapped her limbs and squirmed against him, her
struggles eliciting startled protests. He let her go, pulling out, dejected
annoyance clouding his face. She dropped to her knees and swallowed his wet,
engorged cock.
Nicholas let out a curse as his hands slapped against the
door for support. In mere seconds, her skillful mouth brought him to orgasm,
his warm ejaculate spurting down her throat.
The sounds of his heavy breathing filled the silence of
afterglow.
“Vinny,” he panted hoarsely. “Did I pleasure you?”
Lavinia swallowed, still slumped on the floor. “Yes.”
Why
is he asking this?
“Both times?”
“Yes.”
Something’s wrong.
“And was it…was it the same?”
She understood. “No, Nicky. It’s different. The feelings are
different. One is not better than the other. They are just different.”
“Then you still need me?”
“God, yes, Nicky.” She reached up and grabbed his hand. “I
still need you.”
Sophia had explained to Lady Banbury that she wasn’t quite
sure anything was really wrong but Lady Banbury had noticed her friend was
subdued. “In a funk,” she had said. “Nervous.” Then she had enthusiastically
recommended the services of Dr. Julius Christopher and handed her his card,
insisting she would not take no for an answer.
So now Sophia sat in Dr. Christopher’s cozy waiting room,
and if she hadn’t been exactly nervous before, her hands were trembling—with
anxiety or anticipation, she wasn’t quite sure—now. She did not like going to
the doctor’s much, even when Helena was ill as a child, and she especially
hated waiting. At least there was a selection of women’s magazines and a sliver
of sun shining through the window.
Her stomach tightened. It wasn’t being at the doctor’s
office that was inciting her nerves, it was being at
this
doctor’s
office. After her brief conversation with Dr. Julius Christopher at the Wrexham
ball, she had imagined him doing things to her only one’s husband should be
allowed to do. At first, she had felt alarm, but once realizing no one would
ever know, she calmed.
Or would no one ever know? The thought made her a bit
lightheaded. The man was a doctor, a man of scientific knowledge and
perspicacity, a man whose job it was to uncover a patient’s problems with a
brief examination, perhaps a test, and in Dr. Christopher’s case apparently,
with simple conversation.
A cold sweat broke upon her brow and Sophia fished her
handkerchief out of her handbag. He would know, right? He would have to know.
He’d be able to see her thoughts, sense her needs, then elicit essential
information with pointed questions. Of course he’d know.
Sophia drew in a long breath, then exhaled her worries. That
Julius Christopher would know why she was there was a comfort indeed.
* * * * *
“Really, my dear, it is nothing,” Lady Banbury said to
Helena. “I just felt a sudden need for air.”
They exited through the French doors to the side terrace of
Viscount Roxton’s home, the setting for the day’s entertainment, a musicale of
voice and piano given by the just-presented twin daughters of Lord and Lady
Roxton. Lady Banbury had patiently waited for a break in the performance to
request Helena escort her outside. Helena was just glad to be out of earshot of
the wretched noise. It appeared several of the guests had the same idea.
“I can call for your carriage to take us home, Lady Banbury.”
“No, no, dear. I just need to spend some time in the
out-of-doors. I need a little rejuvenation from the sun and breeze. We can go
inside again once the refreshments are served.”
Helena breathed in the fresh scents of spring, closing her
eyes briefly to listen to the late-afternoon twitters of dulcet birds,
desperate to erase the memory of the past hour. She would have been mortified
had it been her talents up for assessment in such a bald manner.
“Perhaps if I had a chair whilst I took in the soothing air,
my dear.”
Helena looked around and spied an unoccupied ornate iron
chair not far away in the shade. She went to retrieve it and found it much heavier
than its filigree would suggest.
“Might I be of assistance?”
She looked up to find herself face-to-face with the
handsomest man in the world.
Him
. The man from the Wrexham ball, the man
Lady Banbury had said was not of high enough rank for her, the man who had
unknowingly already broken her heart. Sun glinted off the waves of his thick
mahogany-brown hair—unfashionable in its natural state and slightly tousled
from the gentle breeze—and filled his brown eyes with golden glittery specs.
Brown. They
were
brown. Rich brown. Like hot chocolate on a winter’s
morning, soothing, comforting, warming her very insides, the deliciousness
spreading all over, rousing the tender flesh bound tightly under her stiff
corset, settling and coiling voluptuously below her belly—
She had to stop looking at him.
“Yes, please.” Her breath hitched in her lungs, but found
relief when she turned her attention to the chair. “It’s for Lady Banbury, sir,”
she managed to say.
“Lady Banbury?” He looked over at the older woman, shook his
head with a wry smirk, settled his hat atop his glorious hair and handily
picked up the wrought-iron chair.
“My lady,” he said as he placed the requested seat before
the countess.
“Oh! Thank you ever so much, Doctor…Doctor…”
Doctor?
“Ramsay.” He lifted his hat and bowed.
“Yes, yes. Pardon me, please. I am feeling a bit overcome by
the closeness of the music room.” She sat down with a wheezing puff.
“Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, Lady
Banbury?”
Oh! How very gracious and kind!
Helena’s heart
skipped a beat.
Lady Banbury waved her hand and shook her head with just a
touch of dramatic flair. “Thank you, Doctor, no. I’ll be fine presently.”
The breathtakingly handsome Dr. Ramsay nodded and forced a
smile with his lusciously full mouth, then stood beside Helena.
Despite the warmth of his closeness, Helena froze. They hadn’t
been properly introduced. Should she say something? But he should be the first
to speak, right? She shifted on her feet, struggling to quell the turmoil
within, and even with a refreshing breeze, forgot to breathe. She swallowed the
dryness in her mouth, a sound that apparently was loud enough for Lady Banbury
to hear.
“Oh my dear, I am much remiss in my duties as chaperon.” The
countess had whipped out her fan and was using it with vigor. “Dr. Ramsay, may
I introduce you to Miss Helena Phillips?” She waggled her fan in their
direction. “And likewise. Oh this heat.”
Helena curtsied to the handsomest man in the world.
“Dr. Nicholas Ramsay, at your service.” His baritone voice
was enchanting, melodic. She could listen to it all day as she drank in his
eyes and thought of those lips—
“Dr. Ramsay,” began Lady Banbury, “whatever are you doing
here? I didn’t know men of science appreciated music.”
“Oh but we do, Lady Banbury. So to be truthful, I hardly
know what I am doing here.”
Helena let out a sharp laugh, then stifled herself
immediately. Dr. Ramsay flashed her a grin.
Lady Banbury seemed unaware of any merriment around her. “Are
you here alone, Doctor?”
“I arrived with Lady Foxley-Graham.”
“Of course, of course. Lavinia is a great lover of music, is
she not?”
“She is. So much so, she left not too long after the event
began.”
The audacity of the man was unbelievable. And most appealing.
It was simply unreasonable that Helena should be denied a lifetime of melodious,
witty intelligence with enchanting chocolate eyes.
But Lady Banbury seemed immune to his clever ripostes. And
his charm. “Helena, dear, sit out of the sun over there while I rest my bones.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dr. Ramsay politely offered his arm for the short walk to
the shade. Helena’s pulse raced at the mere idea of touching him and when she
slipped her arm through his, the rush of excitement stirred up such a dizzying
frenzy, she feared she would faint right onto the flagstones suddenly rippling
dangerously beneath her. She wobbled and clutched his arm, then, utterly
embarrassed, released and went limp. Gentleman that he clearly was, he made no
comment but held himself perfectly steady as they strolled to the edge of the
raised terrace. Inwardly, she sighed. Really all she wanted to do was lean her
head against his shoulder and feel the rhythm of his gait.
“Lady Banbury appears to be resting her eyes as well as her
bones,” he said quietly. “Would you like a spot of sun instead of the shade,
Miss Phillips?”
How very wicked! “Yes, that would be lovely, Dr. Ramsay.”
Her heart fluttered as she took the opportunity to study him, the simple act of
moving two chairs into the dappled sunlight becoming a display of strength and
sensuality. He motioned gallantly for her to take a seat, then sat at her side
and looked out at the view of the garden.
It was a beautiful day. Pink and white blossoms rustled on
the Roxtons’ apple and pear trees shading a sea of bluebells and bugles dotted
with yellow cowslip. A bucolic scene utterly at odds with the event just
witnessed. “Those poor Roxton girls,” Helena sighed aloud.
“Yes, well, I suppose that is what a young woman has to do
these days to secure an advantageous marriage.”
His candid apprehension of the situation was disarming. “I
suppose so. I should count myself lucky.”
“That you don’t have to grotesquely flaunt your talents to
an audience of fashionable, unattached men?” His tone was teasing, but his
estimation of her predicament astute.
“Well, not so obviously, at least,” she sighed. She glanced
around furtively, finding the other guests scattered far beyond earshot. “Really,
the singing and playing were quite dreadful,” she confided. “And no one will
admit to that! All the men I’ve met today are far too polite. It makes them
seem insincere. I could not marry a man who is not honest, a man who pretends
to be impressed by such things.”
“And what sort of man could you marry?” he asked, raising a
brow in anticipation.
Her cheeks turned hot. “Someone who is intelligent and kind.”
You
. She bit her lower lip to hide a smile. “And thoughtful. Someone who
likes to read. And to travel. And pleasant to look at, I should think.” A nervous
giggle escaped unwittingly.
“Yes, that would be nice.”
“What would?”
“A wife who likes to travel.”
“Oh! Have you traveled much?” she blurted.
He chuckled as he casually crossed his legs. “I’ve recently
returned from a journey to the Near East.”
“Oh! How romantic!”
His smile was devastating. “I traveled around Persia and
Egypt.”
This is too perfect.
“And I spent quite a bit of time in Turkey, Syria and
Palestine.”
“Turkey!” she exclaimed. She leaned in a little. “Is it true
the sultan wants young English girls for his harem?” she asked in a hushed
tone.
Dr. Ramsay’s forehead crinkled in surprise. “Where on earth
did you hear that?” he asked, a twinkle in his chocolate eyes.
“A book—” Helena broke off, mortified. Heat rushed to her
face as she sucked in her lower lip.
“What book?” he goaded, pursing his mouth in a vain attempt
to restrain his amusement.
It had been a rather salacious tome in her parents’ private
library. She could never divulge such a thing.
He leaned toward her, so close she could feel his breath. “Be
assured it is not true, Miss Phillips,” he murmured, finally breaking forth
with a knowing grin. “And I think you better not admit to your future husband
that you’ve read such stories.”
The glimmer in his eyes made plain he was teasing her again.
Helena bit her lower lip and looked away, quashing her giddiness at knowing he
too had indulged in such a story.
“And have you done much traveling yourself?” He changed the
subject like a gentleman should, despite still being clearly diverted by the
previous exchange.
“I’ve been to France and Switzerland. And America.”
“America!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “I’ve always
wanted to go to America. What’s it like?” He regarded her with a mixture of awe
and reverence.
“My father is American, from New York state, so I’ve only
really been there. The countryside is quite lovely. We’ve a home in New York
City too. The city is big and busy and full of foreigners. Everyone is, well,
familiar. Like they’ve known you all your life. So very friendly.” She cringed
inside. It was unlike her to ramble so.
“The Turks are like that too.” He grinned again. “Friendly,
I mean.”
A rush of heat told her she flushed crimson. Still, she
couldn’t help smiling. His mirth, even at her expense, was infectious.
He politely turned his attention to the view of the garden
and she took the opportunity to study his profile. Lady Banbury had deemed him
unsuitable but he was by far the most interesting, personable man she had met
all Season. And oh so very handsome. He had to be something other than a
doctor.
She surreptitiously looked at his hands, slender and
masculine, one set on top of the other resting on his knee. Devoid of rings,
meaning he was unattached, but also meaning he was lacking in a family
heritage.
So he
was
just a doctor.
She mollified her disappointment by peering at his very
handsome face once again. His nose was sharp, pointed but balanced by a
somewhat angular jaw and chin, so it did not appear to be a big nose. And
besides, it was in proper proportion to his luscious mouth, twisted, as it
seemed to be more often than not, in a smirk that revealed an active,
interesting brain at odds with the frivolity of the afternoon’s events.
He turned his chocolate eyes to her, catching her in the act
of gazing at him. “So, Miss Phillips,” he began softly, “what would you rather
be doing than listening to the plaintive warbling of unmarried young women?”
Talking to you, looking at you, being at your side
. “Reading.”
“Something more edifying than
The Lustful Turk
, I
hope?”
Helena giggled. And then she laughed aloud. Which appeared
to wake up Lady Banbury.
“Helena, my dear,” she called. “I see the party breaking up
inside. Perhaps it is time for us to join them for refreshments.”
“Yes, Lady Banbury.” Helena stood to go help her chaperon
out of her chair.
Dr. Ramsay stood too. For a brief moment they were posed
face-to-face, his comforting eyes and luscious lips mere inches away. Her heart
thumped, pulsing heat to flush her cheeks.
Helena bit her lip and curtsied to Dr. Ramsay. He grinned
wonderfully and bowed back.
* * * * *