The Education of Mrs. Brimley (14 page)

“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.”

“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 just 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.

He opened his mouth as if to reply, then hesitated, narrowing his eyes. “Has someone told you otherwise?”

Heat rose in her cheeks. She looked away. “Several people, in fact. I have an uncle and a female cousin who would most certainly disagree with your observation.”

He frowned. “They have done you a disservice.” He picked up his board with paper. “I propose to prove that to you, but first we must move beyond this issue of embarrassment or neither of us will progress.”

“That is easier for the one dressed than for the one not.” Her lips quirked. His admonishment of Uncle George and Penelope lifted her spirits, but her arms remained locked about her chest.

Before she could utter another word, he unfastened the remaining buttons on his shirt, letting the loose cloth hang from his broad shoulders.

“Lord Chambers!” she gasped. Proper etiquette insisted she shouldn’t stare, but no ladies’ training had prepared her for the sight of his exposed chest.

With a quick shrug, he removed the thin fabric and tossed it aside, presenting her with a wide expanse of hard muscle furred with the most intriguing mat of black curling hair that narrowed as it approached the waistband of his pants. She bit her lip; her chest tightened. She had seen the cartoons in
Punch
about men who wore corsets to narrow their waists and flatten their stomachs. Although Lord Chambers possessed those fashionable physical endearments, his manly shape was obviously natural. Firm muscles, not padding, filled out his jackets.

After her shock receded, curiosity advanced. Her fingers itched to tactically explore this forbidden region. Was a man’s chest hair coarse or silky? Dense like a terrier, or softly accommodating like a . . .

“You are staring, Mrs. Brimley. I had thought to make you feel more comfortable.” The tilt of his mustache suggested that had not been his intent at all. “Would you prefer I put the shirt back on?”

“No . . . Yes.” She shook her head as if the action would empty it of her errant observations. “I appreciate your gesture. I apologize . . . I’ve never seen a man assembled quite like you, sir.”

“I shall assume that is a compliment.”

In her shock at his gesture her arms had dropped to her side. She had forgotten that he could fully view her in her partially clad state. It would do no good to hide from him now.

“My lord—”

“Nicholas,” he corrected. “I believe we may dispatch with society’s amenities.” He stepped closer to her. Her heart raced. “I prefer that you call me Nicholas. And perhaps I may call you . . . ?”

“Mrs. Brimley,” she replied without hesitation. She needed the distance that such formalities offered, especially when confronted with such manly perfection. She needed to hear the alias as well as a reminder that he didn’t know her heritage. If he ever learned of her past, he would no doubt abandon her as unworthy of respect. The thought calmed her racing pulse. She adjusted her spectacles. “You shall catch a draft without proper covering.”

“There are other ways to stay warm,” he said, recovering his shirt from its resting place. The timbre of his voice warmed her indeed. “Perhaps in a later lesson, we can explore those options.”

She was learning, she thought, squashing the question that rose to her tongue. He would not bait her into removing yet another item by asking for an explanation.

“What do you wish me to do now?” she asked, her voice rasped from the burning in her throat.

He smiled with an expression of gentle understanding. “I’d like you to position yourself in various postures so I might work on the composition.”

“What sort of postures?”

“Are you familiar with the Greek deity, Artemis?” he asked, settling the white linen of his shirt over his shoulders.

“I am a literature teacher, sir,” she huffed, reminding herself that she should incorporate Greek mythology in her literature curriculum. “Artemis, daughter of Leto and Zeus, and twin sister to Apollo, was a goddess of hunting and archery, and she was a defender of children as well.” She smiled. “We have that last item in common.”

She knew full well that as the virgin goddess, Artemis shared another trait with her, but she saw no need to remind Chambers. Every painting of the huntress she had ever viewed displayed her in a tunic that left her legs and arms bare. A bit of hope blossomed in her chest. Perhaps Chambers would allow her to remain partially clothed after all.

“Do you have a bow and arrow?” she asked, becoming more enthusiastic. “I could pose with that.” She mimicked plucking a taut string on an invisible bow.

He chuckled. “Introducing a weapon into our sessions may not prove the most intelligent endeavor. I envisioned depicting Artemis’s Revenge.”

Her mind raced, mentally reciting the stories of Artemis. “Wasn’t Actaeon turned into an animal?”

He nodded. “Actaeon spied on Artemis and observed her bathing. Artemis turned him into a wild stag as punishment for viewing her naked body.”

“Surely, you don’t intend—” Her cheeks heated again.

“Let us stick for the moment with the poses,” Chambers said, a tight smile lifting one side of his mustache.

“You promised I could wear a thin gown.” She refused to concede the point. “I remember distinctly. You said you wanted to paint me naked, but you’d settle for a thin gown.”

“Mrs. Brimley, I remember our conversation.” His smile disappeared, replaced with something akin to frustration. “At this moment, I am only thinking about the composition of the painting. Now, may we continue with the poses?”

She sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Pretend for the moment that you are a goddess, a beautiful forest nymph preparing to bathe in a lake or a pond. How would you approach it?”

“I don’t swim,” she said sullenly.

“But you do bathe, do you not?” He, in turn, sounded exasperated.

Good. What was that line from Shakespeare’s
Romeo and Juliet
? “One fire burns out another’s burning; One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish.” Perhaps his anguish would lessen her embarrassment.

“Play the game with me, Mrs. Brimley. Pretend you are a goddess. What would you do?”

“I’m quite sure I would have a large cloth towel wrapped about my body.” Emma edged her voice with a bit of defiance, clutching one fist to her chest in mimicry. When his only response was a lowered brow, she closed her eyes and eased into the role. “Then I’d test the water with my toes to see if it was overly cold.” She lifted one stocking-clad foot in pantomime.

“Would your hair be piled high on your head? Or loose, curling softly about your pale, sun-dappled shoulders?”

Sun-dappled. She liked the sound of that. With her eyes closed, she could easily pretend she was something she was not, a beautiful goddess above reproach, welcomed by all with open arms.

“Only a child or a woman in her chambers would wear her hair down,” she said, caught up in the fantasy. “Artemis would wear her hair up but with bits of wildflowers and greenery as ornamentation.” She imagined herself in a serene woodland setting straight from one of Wordsworth’s poems.

“Yes, I can see it,” his voice encouraged. “Are you alone? Or have you attendants about you?”