“Madame Olenska is a great favourite with the gentlemen,” said Miss Sophy, with her air of wishing to put forth something conciliatory when she knew that she was planting a dart.

“Ah, that’s the danger that a young woman like Madame Olenska is always exposed to,” Mrs. Archer mournfully agreed; and the ladies, on this conclusion, gathered up their trains to seek the carcel globes of the drawing-room, while Archer and Mr. Sillerton Jackson withdrew to the Gothic library.

May reached the drawing room and stopped Newland before he joined Mr. Jackson in the library. “A word with you dear?” she said.

Newland departed the company of Sillerton, promising a quick return, and followed his wife down the hall and into a private room. She circled behind him and latched the door to keep out anyone who might think to venture their way.

“Newland, it’s time to show you that your wife, a woman of your stature, can satisfy your every desire.”

“Dear?” he said, bemused. “We mustn’t keep our guests waiting.

“You disappoint me, Newland.”

“Pardon me?”

For the sake of preserving subtlety, May did not explain the obvious. “For that reason alone, I fear that you deserve my attention.” She lowered her eyelids and smiled wickedly at him.

“Now? I’m afraid your timing is rather—”

“Take off your trousers, Newland.”

“Dear, I really must protest.”

“Don’t disappoint me any further dear. I will be right with you.” She walked behind a screen. Newland stood waiting without his pants to oblige his wife’s whims. His supposition was that she needed only a quick dash down the road of indulgence. But what she wore attached to a belt spoke an entirely different language.

“Oh, no,” he said, backing up a step or two.

“You know how much pleasure I derive from doing . . . well, doing things to you, Newland. And I have just found this lovely contraption at the pharmacy only today. It’s French.”

“I must say I am intrigued by your desires my dear, but I hardly think this is the appropriate time or place.”

Like a man in heat, May used her hand to stroke the strap-on faux member attached to the belt she wore around her abdomen. Then she held up the feather attached to a crop and flicked it as though tapping the rear of a pony. “I will make haste. We shan’t be long.”

“Perhaps later this evening we could—”

“No! You need to know that I can satisfy your every desire.” She was careful not to make reference to the Countess, although the absence of speaking her name was louder than if she had shouted it.

Newland studied his wife, dressed in her dark violet French brassiere with the tips of her breasts exposed, taunting him, and the garter belts with the dangling faux member hanging from the strap. The lace garment she wore to cover her feminine curls was little more than a wisp of cloth that left little to the imagination.