of many, many books ranked in floor-to-ceiling shelves. A cheerful fire burns in the hearth, and to one side of the room stands an imposing leather-topped desk, to the other a very inviting chaise longue. Underfoot, the Persian carpet is dense and soft.
A hugely tall and very strapping gentleman comes out from behind the desk to greet me, a warm smile on his lavishly whiskered face. His eyes are bright and brown, his thick dark hair is a little silvered but most attractive, and his teeth look very white between full, almost sultry pink lips. He’s beautifully dressed in an elegant morning coat, narrow trousers and immaculate linen.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Harewood,” he says in a deep, ever so slightly accented voice, his eyes twinkling. “What an enormous pleasure it is to meet you.” He catches my hand in both his colossal ones and gives it an enthusiastic squeeze.
I’m befuddled.
Another extraordinarily good-looking man. Another lewd flutter down below that exceeds even my response to Clarence and Yuri. For a moment, outrageous ideas prance fully formed through my mind, all featuring this mighty, well-set-up gentleman with his virile mutton-chop whiskers, his merry smile and his exceptionally strong-looking body.
But where is Madame Chamfleur? There’s no sign of her. And what I have to confess here can only be told to a woman.
I open my mouth to speak, but once again, I’m struck dumb.
“Come, my dear lady, let’s sit down.” Still holding my hands, my host leads me to the chaise longue and settles me upon it, most courteously. “Clarence, kindly bring some spiced Madeira for Mrs. Harewood. I’m sure a taste of it will calm and relax her.”
“Right ho, Mr. C.!”
As Clarence speeds away, my new companion focuses all his considerable attention upon me.
Up close, he seems even bigger than I first thought. His hands are massive, as is everything about him. Deep chest, huge thighs…and, oh, dear, I can’t prevent myself from glancing at his masculine endowments.
And in that department, he’s even more blessed than young Clarence and Yuri!
Blood rushes into my face, especially as he seems to notice me noticing him. A delightful knowing smile creases his broad face as he sinks onto the chaise beside me.
All of a flutter, I blurt out, “Sir, thank you for your kindness, but could you tell me when we can expect Madame Chamfleur? I’m anxious to meet her.”
His laugh is like deep, sonorous music.
“I’m afraid there is no Madame Chamfleur. Except my late mother. I’m sorry you’ve been deceived.”
“But…er…why would you do that, Mr.…er…Monsieur Chamfleur? Why would you advertise the services of a woman when you are in fact a man?”
Very much a man, my wayward eyes confirm again. Why can’t I keep control of where I’m looking? I can’t seem to stop staring at his groin.
Still smiling, he chafes my bare hands, his fingers warm and clever and soothing. “My name is Ambrose. Please call me that.” I find myself calming, and settling, while paradoxically the tension in my nether regions increases. “I use my mother’s name out of expediency, really. It’s more convenient. Most ladies wouldn’t dream of discussing their intimate problems with a gentleman, but when the name of ‘Madame’ is presented, they eagerly come along.”
“But…”
Still his fingers move over mine, gently, rhythmically. “Believe me, Mrs. Harewood, I can help you. Choose whatever problem concerning intimate human relations you have, I can advise you in the most perfect discretion. You can trust me completely, and also those who serve on my staff.”
It seems preposterous. Indeed, it is preposterous. But still his steady brown eyes, and his softly moving fingers, continue to lull me. Maybe he can help, this huge man, with his twinkling smile, his ever-so-slight French accent and his perfect self-possession?
Clarence arrives with the Madeira. He pours it from a jug into a Russian tea glass with a silver-plated holder. It’s warm when he puts it into my hands.
“Try it. It’s my own special infusion of spices. I think you find it both soothing and invigorating,” says Monsieur Chamfleur. Or Ambrose, as I suppose I must think of him. I feel like telling him that I find him both soothing and invigorating, too.
The spiced Madeira is delicious, and all the more potent for my nearly empty stomach. I was too nervous to eat before I came out.
I drink deeply and find that I’ve all but emptied the glass. Clarence takes it from me, and seems about to refill it when I wave him away. He puts it aside, retires to the far end of the room and sits down on a hardwood chair.
“Please, Mrs. Harewood, won’t you tell me what’s been troubling you?”
Ambrose reaches for my hands again and folds them into his.
The room is warm, and I feel so comfortable now that I open my mouth…. Then I remember that Clarence is still with us.
“Don’t worry. No secrets from Clarence. He’s my most trusted associate and he assists with the therapies.”
“Therapies?”
“Yes, of course, my dear lady, there are therapies. How else could we help resolve intimate problems?”
Indeed. I glance at Clarence, and he gives me a small nod, his merry face serious for once.
I return my attention to Ambrose. His expression is composed, serious and professional. And yet, somehow, far back in his eyes, a demon twinkles.
What is this place? What new predicament have I got myself into?
Still his fingers gently stroke mine, slowly and soothingly. I imagine them touching me elsewhere, just as slowly, just as soothingly.
Ambrose doesn’t prompt me, but suddenly I find myself pouring out my story. The words are halting at first, then rapidly grow more fluent. I blush like the very devil, but still I can’t stop myself, and I describe the deficiencies of my marriage bed, my confused feelings, my sense that there should be more, so much more.
And my dogged determination to ensure things are better, the next time round.
“I want to be sure that I know in advance how to please my husband…and…um…that he knows how to please me in return. Mr. Harewood was not at all diligent in that quarter.”
“And did you receive no pleasure at all from him?”
Ambrose’s face is still calm, his demeanor attentive. Did I imagine that naughty gleam in his eye, I wonder? He seems all sober and thoughtful now, and to my shock, I feel bitterly disappointed. I suddenly want wickedness, and daring, and seduction, and something that I don’t yet quite understand.
“None. Just discomfort…and certain female friends hinted that there would be rapture, transports of bliss, helpless passion.”
“Quite so. Indeed there should be.” Ambrose makes a gesture, and Clarence efficiently provides me with more Madeira. Just a few sips, but I’m grateful for the richness
