Lucy and the Doctors by Ava Sinclair Page A

day. It had been Nathan Stiles, his secretary, who’d arranged the liaison with beautiful flame-haired courtesan. Bonham’s heart had raced when he saw her coming through the door. He could still remember what she wore—a green dress with a bodice that compressed her waist and uplifted half-bared tits to his hungry gaze. He was seized by the desire to pull them from their confines so he could see the nipples. Would they be long nipples surrounded by a large, ruddy circle? He’d hoped so; his wife’s breasts had been small with tiny pale nipples. She’d always been of modest dress, as a wife should be. But this woman was made for man’s pleasure. She was made for him.
    She’d not asked him his name; she’d been told not to. He knew her name, though. It was Rose, and as she’d undressed for him he’d tried not to show his excitement or agitation as he silently thanked God for sending this exquisite woman to ease his pain.
    But when the time came to indulge his lust, the judge’s excitement came to naught. He could not perform. He could feel the desire, but it did not reach his cock, which could do no more than stand at half-mast and bob sadly from its nest of graying hair.
    He’d not been angry—not then. He had been ashamed, humiliated, and had gotten Stiles to pay the woman twice her rate with the condition that should she tell anyone what happened, she may find herself in trouble.
    Judge Bonham had blamed himself, then. Rose had not been a gift, but a whore, and his inability to perform was a sign of divine judgment. Archibald Bonham told himself that God had punished his pride by robbing him of his ability to function.
    He believed in order to be forgiven he would have to make amends, so Judge Bonham threw himself into his piety then with fervor, his righteous anger making him one of the most severe and pitiless judges in the region. He would atone by carrying out God’s holy will, by acting as his agent and punishing the unjust, the unfit, the unholy.
    As personal penance, he denied himself any fleshly pleasures as he carried out the work as God’s righteous hand on the bench. But during that time—as the judge became more powerful and feared—his personal narrative began to change. He told himself now that God had not punished him for being with a whore, but had saved him from one. In a dream he saw God rewarding him with a pure, perfect young wife. It was a sign, he thought. He had only but to pray.
    Those prayers were answered in the form of an epiphany when he received the most current framed small picture of Lucy, the child he’d promised to raise for a friend. He’d sent her away to live with the Privens, a godly couple. And then one day, sitting in the palm of his hand, was the answer to his prayers. She was of age, and had written a sweet note outlining all she’d done that year, her lessons, her work with the poor under Mrs. Priven’s supervision.
    “Pastor Priven and his wife tell me often that I will make a good wife,” she said. “I only pray that is so.”
    That last line was it—his message from God, Judge Bonham decided. He’d kept the girl pure for him, and him for her. It was meant that they be joined together. His hands nearly shook when he handed Stiles the letter to send the Privens informing the couple that he would be marrying his ward. In it, he asked for her measurements so he could have a wardrobe made. He imagined her dressed like Rose, but with innocence—a woman fashioned for his delight, but a virgin purity that would be his alone. He could feel a stirring in his loins at the very notion, and he took this as a sign that God was lifting the heaviness he had placed there. It would be lifted completely on his wedding night when he took Lucy’s virginity.
    How long it had seemed that he waited until the day? He’d sent Stiles to collect her, although it had been with some reluctance, for he did worry that Lucy may be disappointed in him after seeing Stiles. His