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Authors: Kate Moore
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man of the world. Still he’d been seventeen and incautious enough to have an erection in her presence.
“Show me,” she had demanded.
He’d had no intention of showing her, but in the interest of satisfying her curiosity and ending the strange hold she seemed to have on him, he had yanked her hand and put it to his swollen shaft and told her to be boring. “Drone on with the dullest drivel you can manage, Violet, and you’ll see the swelling go away.”
Only it hadn’t happened as he’d planned. Violet’s hand on him had made him harder, and he had shifted so that aching part of his anatomy connected more fully with hers, and after that he couldn’t say what happened as his brain had ceased to function. It had involved a great disordering of their garments. Only Augusta Lowndes, Violet’s redoubtable governess, had saved them from disaster that time. She had interrupted and calmly suggested that in the future when Violet wished to know something, she choose her source of information more carefully.
Then at seventeen during the bullion crisis, Violet had wanted to know to an unholy degree how banks and stocks and money worked. As he was explaining, she had interrupted to observe that she supposed he had put his penis—she called it a penis—into any number of orifices. Female, of course, she assumed.
He had made his dry throat work to ask why she imagined such a thing. He could have asked why his particular penis had entered her thoughts at all, but of course, at the time he hadn’t been thinking clearly.
She had told him she thought he was daring.
He assured her that he was quite conventional and asked her where she had got the idea that multiple orifices might be involved.
She confessed that she’d been looking at one of her father’s books on the Greek vases and had come across a series of illustrations that suggested more possibilities than she herself had originally considered.
Blackstone reminded himself to be fair. Their youthful passion had hardly been Violet’s fault alone. He was born to be a connoisseur of erections. He knew them all, the ones like slow bread dough rising, or those like wild Congreve rockets soaring, or others like a water douser’s stick pointing straight at the source. When called upon to do his duty by a woman, he had taught himself to coax an erection out of the thinnest wisp of sexual stimulation. But that skill had come later after Violet had gone out of his life.
Still none of those was a Violet Hammersley erection. He hadn’t recognized them at first as being uniquely inspired by her. He’d just assumed they were an inconvenience a young man had to endure at an awkward time of life. It was later he recognized the connection with her.
Tonight he did not mistake Violet’s agreement to their ruse as a sign of docility or willingness to let him lead the investigation. The trouble with Violet’s need to know was that now it was likely to get them both killed.
Chapter Seven
“I am quite sorry . . . that you should be forced to have that disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it. . . . and there is no occasion for talking to him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to inconvenience.”
—Jane Austen,
Pride and Prejudice
Madame Girard’s Hat Shop occupied a fashionable corner off Leicester Square. A pair of tall double green doors with elaborate glass panels led the way through an arch into the interior. The showroom was divided between shelves that held madame’s creations, and mirrored alcoves, each with a silk-covered bench, for patrons to try the wares.
As they entered, Violet leaned close to whisper in her betrothed’s ear, “Shopping! Frank is missing, and we are shopping.”
The prince’s party had split in two with Papa taking the men off to see those great monuments of commerce and government—the Royal Exchange and Hammersley Bank, while Blackstone and Violet took the countess shopping.
Violet
“Show me,” she had demanded.
He’d had no intention of showing her, but in the interest of satisfying her curiosity and ending the strange hold she seemed to have on him, he had yanked her hand and put it to his swollen shaft and told her to be boring. “Drone on with the dullest drivel you can manage, Violet, and you’ll see the swelling go away.”
Only it hadn’t happened as he’d planned. Violet’s hand on him had made him harder, and he had shifted so that aching part of his anatomy connected more fully with hers, and after that he couldn’t say what happened as his brain had ceased to function. It had involved a great disordering of their garments. Only Augusta Lowndes, Violet’s redoubtable governess, had saved them from disaster that time. She had interrupted and calmly suggested that in the future when Violet wished to know something, she choose her source of information more carefully.
Then at seventeen during the bullion crisis, Violet had wanted to know to an unholy degree how banks and stocks and money worked. As he was explaining, she had interrupted to observe that she supposed he had put his penis—she called it a penis—into any number of orifices. Female, of course, she assumed.
He had made his dry throat work to ask why she imagined such a thing. He could have asked why his particular penis had entered her thoughts at all, but of course, at the time he hadn’t been thinking clearly.
She had told him she thought he was daring.
He assured her that he was quite conventional and asked her where she had got the idea that multiple orifices might be involved.
She confessed that she’d been looking at one of her father’s books on the Greek vases and had come across a series of illustrations that suggested more possibilities than she herself had originally considered.
Blackstone reminded himself to be fair. Their youthful passion had hardly been Violet’s fault alone. He was born to be a connoisseur of erections. He knew them all, the ones like slow bread dough rising, or those like wild Congreve rockets soaring, or others like a water douser’s stick pointing straight at the source. When called upon to do his duty by a woman, he had taught himself to coax an erection out of the thinnest wisp of sexual stimulation. But that skill had come later after Violet had gone out of his life.
Still none of those was a Violet Hammersley erection. He hadn’t recognized them at first as being uniquely inspired by her. He’d just assumed they were an inconvenience a young man had to endure at an awkward time of life. It was later he recognized the connection with her.
Tonight he did not mistake Violet’s agreement to their ruse as a sign of docility or willingness to let him lead the investigation. The trouble with Violet’s need to know was that now it was likely to get them both killed.
Chapter Seven
“I am quite sorry . . . that you should be forced to have that disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it. . . . and there is no occasion for talking to him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to inconvenience.”
—Jane Austen,
Pride and Prejudice
Madame Girard’s Hat Shop occupied a fashionable corner off Leicester Square. A pair of tall double green doors with elaborate glass panels led the way through an arch into the interior. The showroom was divided between shelves that held madame’s creations, and mirrored alcoves, each with a silk-covered bench, for patrons to try the wares.
As they entered, Violet leaned close to whisper in her betrothed’s ear, “Shopping! Frank is missing, and we are shopping.”
The prince’s party had split in two with Papa taking the men off to see those great monuments of commerce and government—the Royal Exchange and Hammersley Bank, while Blackstone and Violet took the countess shopping.
Violet
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