moment.
What she did know was that if she did not supply her husband with an heir forthwith, he would go elsewhere. Indeed, Howgrave’s own father had procured an heir through the agency of a mistress (and not a very elevated one at that). Word had it that her husband was already visiting the beds of several other women. The thought irked her. Considering her past, the position of a wronged wife was an ironic one. Had it happened to one of the women of her circle, she might have laughed. Her predicament, however, was quite without mirth. Was she not impregnated soon, she would be cast out of Howgrave’s house with no more than a fiver and fare-thee-well.
It was quite paradoxical.
She became a courtesan when was but a girl. Her very life depended upon not falling pregnant. In doing so, she had made use of pennyroyal and other ghastly substances to protect against it. Such means were not infallible. Courtesans often had children tucked away in other counties (one or two kept them in back rooms). Over the years, Juliette had managed to elude that complication. There was only one affair that tempted her to throw purgatives—and thus caution—to the side. She had dared hope that a child might come from it, but it was not to be. The gentleman came to her far too seldom. After that, she had kept to men less virile—and alluring.
Those lost years could not be retrieved and she shed no tears for them. Once again she took stock of her situation.
Although her figure was as voluptuous as ever, she knew her fertile years were in decline. Had she married more wisely, all would not be lost. Regrettably, her husband had particular sexual predilections. By virtue of this disposition, she had to resort to measures to sate him that were not conducive to conception.
It should have come to no surprise to her. Henry Howgrave was not only a bastard by birth; he was also one in practise.
Chapter 12
Fictional Freddy
Sir Henry Howgrave saw himself as ripe with promise. His ambition knew no constraints. He meant to become the Prime Minister of England and would let no distraction alter that goal. Driven by the lust for power and cowed by the fear of failure, this Hero of Waterloo pursued his place in history with an astounding sense of purpose. Each day, he met with constituents, plied the wealthy citizens of his county for support, and dictated his memoirs.
Each night, he beat his wife like a cottage rug.
———
Juliette Clisson had been a rapturous selection as his betrothed. And, as it happened, she was a damn fine political partner. He had understood the cleverness in wagging around a beautiful wife (men inherently admire a man with a handsome woman beside him). No one would have guessed such a delicate blossom would have thrust herself unto the masses as she had. The people, of course, were delighted. When she began the kissing business, the filthy rabble was near frenzied with admiration. He liked to believe that he would have won the election soundly without her. But she certainly gained him some productive attention from the mephitic press.
As for employing the whip, Howgrave was not a compleat savage. He was not one of these ham-fisted country oafs who thrashed his wife and beat his dogs. His preference had a higher purpose. He lashed his wife’s bare buttocks only as a means to satisfy his carnal urges. There was nothing wrong with the practise. It was one of kings. Why, the Prince Regent was said to be a great whip in his day.
Flagellation was hardly a method singular to him and the King. Indeed, there was an entire guild of flagellants in London. They gathered in darkened chambers and engaged in all manner of debauchery. Such voyeuristic exploits were beneath Sir Howgrave. He saw himself as a gentleman of the highest order (despite all indications to the contrary).
He had first accustomed himself to the sting of a whip between gut-hauling military engagements across the water. He had becalmed himself
What she did know was that if she did not supply her husband with an heir forthwith, he would go elsewhere. Indeed, Howgrave’s own father had procured an heir through the agency of a mistress (and not a very elevated one at that). Word had it that her husband was already visiting the beds of several other women. The thought irked her. Considering her past, the position of a wronged wife was an ironic one. Had it happened to one of the women of her circle, she might have laughed. Her predicament, however, was quite without mirth. Was she not impregnated soon, she would be cast out of Howgrave’s house with no more than a fiver and fare-thee-well.
It was quite paradoxical.
She became a courtesan when was but a girl. Her very life depended upon not falling pregnant. In doing so, she had made use of pennyroyal and other ghastly substances to protect against it. Such means were not infallible. Courtesans often had children tucked away in other counties (one or two kept them in back rooms). Over the years, Juliette had managed to elude that complication. There was only one affair that tempted her to throw purgatives—and thus caution—to the side. She had dared hope that a child might come from it, but it was not to be. The gentleman came to her far too seldom. After that, she had kept to men less virile—and alluring.
Those lost years could not be retrieved and she shed no tears for them. Once again she took stock of her situation.
Although her figure was as voluptuous as ever, she knew her fertile years were in decline. Had she married more wisely, all would not be lost. Regrettably, her husband had particular sexual predilections. By virtue of this disposition, she had to resort to measures to sate him that were not conducive to conception.
It should have come to no surprise to her. Henry Howgrave was not only a bastard by birth; he was also one in practise.
Chapter 12
Fictional Freddy
Sir Henry Howgrave saw himself as ripe with promise. His ambition knew no constraints. He meant to become the Prime Minister of England and would let no distraction alter that goal. Driven by the lust for power and cowed by the fear of failure, this Hero of Waterloo pursued his place in history with an astounding sense of purpose. Each day, he met with constituents, plied the wealthy citizens of his county for support, and dictated his memoirs.
Each night, he beat his wife like a cottage rug.
———
Juliette Clisson had been a rapturous selection as his betrothed. And, as it happened, she was a damn fine political partner. He had understood the cleverness in wagging around a beautiful wife (men inherently admire a man with a handsome woman beside him). No one would have guessed such a delicate blossom would have thrust herself unto the masses as she had. The people, of course, were delighted. When she began the kissing business, the filthy rabble was near frenzied with admiration. He liked to believe that he would have won the election soundly without her. But she certainly gained him some productive attention from the mephitic press.
As for employing the whip, Howgrave was not a compleat savage. He was not one of these ham-fisted country oafs who thrashed his wife and beat his dogs. His preference had a higher purpose. He lashed his wife’s bare buttocks only as a means to satisfy his carnal urges. There was nothing wrong with the practise. It was one of kings. Why, the Prince Regent was said to be a great whip in his day.
Flagellation was hardly a method singular to him and the King. Indeed, there was an entire guild of flagellants in London. They gathered in darkened chambers and engaged in all manner of debauchery. Such voyeuristic exploits were beneath Sir Howgrave. He saw himself as a gentleman of the highest order (despite all indications to the contrary).
He had first accustomed himself to the sting of a whip between gut-hauling military engagements across the water. He had becalmed himself
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