Elizabeth reluctantly followed Mr. Delornay’s broad, black-coated back out of the kitchen and along the many hallways to his office. He held the door open for her and waited until she took the chair in front of his desk before going to sit himself.
“Mr. Delornay, despite how it might appear, I did not ask your mother for a position here.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why not? I believe that was your original intention.”
She stiffened. “You’d already told me there was nothing I was sufficiently qualified to do here.”
“Does that still rankle?”
She took a deep breath. “Are you angry?”
“Do I look angry?”
She studied him carefully. He was dressed immaculately in shades of black and white; his cravat was modest and held in place with an unobtrusive jet pin. His guinea-gold hair was cut close to his head but still displayed a tendency to curl up at the ends. He looked like any other young man of fashion, apart from his hazel eyes, which were still radiating with cold fury.
“You do look rather displeased, and I can understand why. No grown man wishes to be told what to do by his mother.”
“How very astute of you.” He leaned back in his chair, one arm angled along the gilded top, but his relaxed posture didn’t reassure Elizabeth at all. “I am glad to see you have recovered both your appetite and your mettle.”
“And I am very grateful to you for offering me that opportunity, sir.” A week’s worth of good food, warmth, and safety had taken the edge off her desperation and given her hope again.
“Grateful enough to take the job?”
She met his gaze. “Are you offering it to me?”
He shrugged, the elegant motion utterly French. “I am my mother’s son. She still owns the pleasure house. I just work here.”
There was a hint of bitterness beneath his airy words that made Elizabeth wary, but she had no choice. She needed to find employment too badly to complain about how the offer was delivered.
“What exactly do you wish me to do?”
Mr. Delornay’s hazel eyes met hers. “I’m not quite sure yet. I doubt my mother’s vision of your usefulness is quite the same as mine.”
“I am willing to do whatever you require, sir.”
He continued to study her. “So you said.”
“That includes use of my ... of my person, sir.”
“You seem remarkably eager to get into my bed, Mrs. Smith. Do you think to influence me more easily between the sheets? I can assure you that will not happen.” He leaned forward, his hands clasped together on the desk. “I’ve had every kind of sexual encounter imaginable. Nothing excites or entraps me any-more.”
“Then we might suit very well, sir.”
His smile was charming and made her set her teeth. “You are a woman of experience, then, Mrs. Smith?”
“More than you might imagine, sir.”
“Yet you look quite untouched.”
“Which I understand is an asset.” She had to look away from him. “Apparently, my husband married me for that very reason.”
He didn’t answer her immediately. She stared down at the floorboards, aware that he had the ability to unnerve her, something she’d sworn she would never allow to happen again.
“May I ask you something, Mrs. Smith?”
She gathered her resolve. “Of course you may. And as you are to be my employer, I will endeavor to be as honest as possible.”
“As possible.” He considered her again. “You have lived abroad?”
“For most of my life, sir. My father liked to gamble and I believe my mother was Italian, so they spent many years on the Continent.”
“Was your husband English?”
Tension coiled in her gut. “I would rather not answer that. I can tell you that he lived in France and considered that country his home.”
“Do you consider France home?”
“I’ve never had a home, sir, but I consider myself English.”
His smile was slight. “And I consider myself French, but I was born here.” He glanced down at his pen and picked it up. “Are you certain there is no one in England I can contact for you?”
“There is no one, sir. My father was disowned by his family. I have never met any of my English relatives, and I doubt they would want to meet me either.”
“Are you so certain of that? They do say blood is thicker than water.”
“I am quite certain. I would rather stay here and earn my own keep.”
“In whatever manner I suggest to you?”
“Yes, Mr. Delornay. I am willing to agree to anything.”
A smile flicked up the corner of his mouth. “You should be careful what you promise, Mrs. Smith. You are in the most licentious pleasure house in London, where any sexual fantasy can become a reality.”
“And I am more than willing to embrace every single one of them.” She smiled into his skeptical face.
He rose to his feet and looked down at her. “Then perhaps you might enjoy a tour of the establishment. If you manage to survive that, we’ll discuss the terms of your employment.”
3
“T
his is the main salon where the guests tend to congregate when they first arrive.”
Christian flung his arm wide to indicate the two large interconnecting gold and crimson decorated rooms that took up most of the first floor of the pleasure house.
“Is the house open all day?”
He glanced down at his companion, who seemed remarkably unperturbed by the display of naked flesh on view and the pile of heaving bodies on the velvet cushions in the center of the room.
“From around two in the afternoon and for most of the night.” He glanced down at a well-endowed countess who was slowly sucking one of the footmen’s cocks. “As you can see, it isn’t very busy yet. Most of our guests arrive late at night after they have exhausted all the other avenues of pleasure available to them.”
She nodded as if that made perfect sense and walked farther into the room, stepping neatly over an outstretched leg and avoiding a groping hand. She wore a plain blue, obviously borrowed, dress that was a little too large for her slender frame and had a tendency to slip from her shoulders. To Christian’s critical eyes, she looked as out of place as a nun in a brothel.
“We also provide a buffet and beverages that are constantly refreshed night and day.”
“That is very thoughtful. Who is in charge of the food?”
He came up alongside her as she studied the large tables crammed with every dish imaginable. “Madame Durand cooks, and Ambrose and I deal with the process of serving and ordering the food.”
She picked up a trailing bunch of grapes and rearranged them carefully on a gold plate. “I should imagine there is a lot of waste.”
“Not that I know of. The staff are permitted to take anything home that is returned to the kitchen, and the rest goes to a pig farm.”
For the first time, she looked impressed and Christian fought another smile. “My mother is French, Mrs. Smith. She is not about to let good victuals go to waste when others are in need—particularly the pigs.”
She glanced up at him, and he thought she almost smiled back. Her expression quickly returned to one of neutral mild interest, and Christian began to wonder what it would take to fluster her. There were plenty of places within the pleasure house that would shock the most experienced of upper-class matrons, and Mrs. Smith was hardly that.
“Despite your mother’s benevolence, I still think you should have less food out at once.”
Christian’s smile disappeared. “I beg your pardon?”
“There is too much.”
“The pigs certainly don’t think so.”
She didn’t back down but continued to stare at him. “Have you not been paying attention to current dining fashions?”
Christian leaned back against the silk-covered wall and studied her. “I can’t say that I have.”
“Recently, in France, there has been a yearning for simplicity in all things rather than the ostentation of the aristocracy or the failings of an emperor.”
“Ah, and you believe that fashion will soon be followed here in England?”
“I believe so.”
He nodded. “Then I will gladly remove myself from dealing with the buffet and leave it in your capable hands. Talk to Ambrose.”
He turned away from the table and walked swiftly back toward the entrance hall that separated the two main areas of the first floor. She hurried to catch up, her slippers making no sound on the soft carpet.
“Are you sure you wish to entrust me with this?”
She sounded a little out of breath. Belatedly, Christian remembered that she was still far from well and felt an unaccustomed and disquieting twinge of guilt.
“Indeed, it is not a task I relish and you seem quite capable of taking it over.”
She stared at him, her head angled to one side. In the sunlight streaming through the hall window, he noticed her tightly braided hair was black rather than dark brown.
“I have never met a man who makes decisions so quickly.”
“Your husband was a ditherer?”
“My husband was a dictator. He never asked for my opinion about anything. He just expected to be obeyed.”
“And how did he enforce your obedience?”
She bit her lip. “How do you think?”
“He beat you?”
She shrugged. “Usually his valet beat me. My husband was several years older than I was when we married.”
“How much older?”
She raised her eyebrows at his abrupt tone and probably at his curiosity. “About forty years.”
“Christ.” Christian almost forgot to breathe as he stared into her calm gray eyes. “And exactly how old were you when you married?”
She lowered her eyes and he found himself staring at her long eyelashes. In her perfection, she really was ridiculously like a doll. “Sixteen.”
He touched her shoulder, and she went still under his hands. “Who permitted that to happen?”
“I believe my father was in his debt. I was his last remaining asset.”
There was no emotion in her words, only a lightness of tone that failed to deceive Christian. He of all people knew how to lie about his past, how to present it as an amusing farce rather than as a painful, sordid reality. She moved away and turned to look back at him over her shoulder.
“Are we going to visit these more private rooms?”
“Indeed we are.” He shook off his disconcerting thoughts, caught her up, and pointed to the small, framed card on the first door. “Each room has a sexual theme. The themes change on a regular basis depending on the popularity of the room. There are several scenarios that rarely change, but we do try to revisit those and make sure they are fresh and original.”
“Such as?”
“The Roman era.” He tapped the handwritten card on the second door. “Tonight, for example, there will be an all-male Roman banquet with an all-female serving staff and entertainment.”
“If you insist that you do not employ whores, who plays the female slaves?”
He smiled at her pointed question. “Female guests directed by our staff, who assign the roles and make sure that everything is moving along smoothly.”
“And is that a role you would wish me to play?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
He opened the door and ushered her inside. There was no banquet progressing at this point in the day, but there were some couples lying around and idly making love. Christian halted behind two men, one of whom was naked and on his knees pleasuring the other. A slender gold chain encircled his neck, the end held by the other man who pulled gently on it in time to the man’s sucking.
In front of him, Mrs. Smith had gone still. He leaned down to whisper in her ear and inhaled the lavender-scented soap his mother bought for the whole household.
“Have you ever seen two men fornicate, Mrs. Smith?”
She turned her head until her lips brushed his cheek, and he found himself suddenly erect and aching. “Yes.”
He directed her attention to the other side of the room. “How about two women?”
“Yes,” she whispered again.
“And which scenario do you prefer?”
“I have no preference.”
He wanted to bury his face in the hollow between her shoulder and her throat but only allowed himself the luxury of tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb before straightening up. “Your husband must have been an interesting man.” She didn’t reply, but he felt her instant withdrawal. “Perhaps not. Shall we move on?”
He walked along the whole corridor, showing her the different scenarios, watching her reaction to each sexual situation, but nothing seemed to shock or embarrass her. She nodded at his comments and seemed to be absorbing the information. There was no doubt that she was intelligent. For Christian, the interesting part was that he couldn’t avoid reacting to her physical presence. The more he showed her, the more remote her expression became and the more he wanted to shock her.
Eventually they were back in the center of the house at the foot of the staircase. Christian pointed up the stairs.
“On the second level, things become a little more risqué. The rooms are smaller and the groups involved are more intimate too. Part of my job is to help guests find others who have the same, more select sexual tastes. Sometimes they find each other, but sometimes an introduction is necessary.”
“I should imagine that some guests do not even know what they desire.”
“That is true and that is where my mother excels. She has an uncanny ability to discover a person’s true sexual nature.”
She paused at the top of the stairs and looked down at him. “Madame Helene told me that you were even better than she was.”
“She did?” Christian smiled. “I wonder why she said that when she patently doesn’t believe it to be true?”
Mrs. Smith didn’t say anything and he wasn’t surprised. Despite her calm exterior, he’d deduced she was as watchful as a cat and just as careful. He wondered what it would take to dislodge that calm, to make her show any emotion other than dutiful smiling politeness. Poverty and near starvation had put a hard edge on her composure but obviously hadn’t broken it.
He walked her through the almost empty salons, explaining how things worked and nodding to the staff who were dealing with the few guests who lingered. In the farthest salon he came across Marie-Claude, who greeted him with a smile.
“Good afternoon, Monsieur Delornay. Were you looking for me?”
Marie-Claude had been at the pleasure house for many years and had risen to her current position through a combination of extreme common sense and the ability to make the wildest of sexual scenarios a man or woman could imagine come true.
“Marie-Claude, this is Mrs. Smith.”
Marie-Claude smiled. “Welcome to the house of pleasure, Mrs. Smith. I understand that you will be working here.”
Christian groaned. “I suppose everyone knows that by now.”
Marie-Claude switched to French. “News does travel fast, sir, and Mrs. Smith sounds like an excellent addition to our staff.”
“You think my mother is right and that we need a more feminine point of view?”
As he had expected, Marie-Claude didn’t avoid his direct question. “I think she has a point, don’t you?”
Christian wasn’t going to start an argument in front of Mrs. Smith. “Be careful what you say, Marie-Claude. Mrs. Smith has lived the majority of her life in France. I expect she can understand you perfectly.”
Marie-Claude’s smile grew even wider and she winked at Mrs. Smith. “I’m delighted to hear that. Perhaps you might come back another day and spend some time with me, and I’ll explain the way this floor works?”
“I would be glad to do so,” Mrs. Smith answered in French, and curtsied to Marie-Claude. “I fear I am already taking up too much of Mr. Delornay’s time.”
“Oh, no, ma’am.” Christian bowed. “I am enjoying myself immensely.” And the surprising thing was that despite his sarcastic tone, he was telling the truth. He hardly knew anything about her, but she already intrigued him. Something about her lack of emotional involvement with the excesses around her reminded him of himself and made him understand for the first time why his lovers found him so exasperating.
And they would be lovers. He’d already decided that would be one element of her duties he would be happy to involve himself in. He nodded a good-bye to Marie-Claude, took Mrs. Smith by the elbow, and walked toward the next set of stairs. She stopped and leaned against the wall, fanning herself with her hand.
“Are you tired, Mrs. Smith?”
“I am a little fatigued, sir.” She used the tip of her tongue to moisten her lips, and he stared at it, transfixed.
“Do you wish to retire?”
She straightened her spine. “Not at all, Mr. Delornay. I am eager to see more.”
“The top floor is not to everyone’s tastes. Very few of our members venture up there.”
“I doubt I will be shocked, Mr. Delornay.”
“I doubt you will.” He paused. “You are quite extraordinary, Mrs. Smith.”
She smiled at him properly for the first time, and he bent his head and licked a slow path along the seam of her lips. She went still but she didn’t pull away, and Christian tugged on her lower lip until she opened her mouth to him. The kiss was short but surprisingly erotic as she met the thrust of his tongue with the languid curl of her own.
Christian drew back and stared down at her composed face. “I look forward to your mouth on other parts of my anatomy.”
“You have decided that bedding you is part of my job?”
“Consider it a perk.” He cupped her jaw in his hand and stared down into her eyes, which betrayed nothing except polite interest. “I dislike sharing my bed with women who want me to make promises to them and expect my emotions to be involved.”
“I will expect nothing from you, sir. I can assure you of that.”