Raw Desire (26 page)

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Authors: Kate Pearce

BOOK: Raw Desire
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SIMPLY CARNAL,
the next installment in Kate Pearce's House of Pleasure series!
1
“M
ay I speak to you, sir?”
“Of course, Ambrose. What is it?”
Christian Delornay looked up from the accounting book he was studying and considered the worried face of his normally unshakable aide-de-camp. According to the clock on the mantelpiece it was already past midnight, but the noise from the upper floors of the pleasure house had not yet abated.
He directed a frown at Ambrose. “Why are you still here? You are supposed to be off duty.”
Ambrose shrugged. “Because there were matters that required my attention. Why are you still here?”
“Because my mother is not, and she's left me with all the monthly bills to pay.”
“You like it when she's away. You fight less.”
Christian found himself smiling reluctantly at that truth, but Ambrose didn't smile back. “What
exactly
kept you?”
“There's a woman in the kitchen.”
Ambrose's upper-class drawl held a hint of the warmer cadences of his West Indies homeland that only emerged when he was perturbed.
“There are always women in the kitchen.” Christian put down his pen. “Should she not be there?”
“She is asking to speak to Madame Helene.”
“Did you tell her my mother isn't here?”
Ambrose hesitated and came farther into the room. “I did not. I think you should see her yourself.”
“Why?”
“Because she is sorely in need.”
“Of what? A man?” Christian grimaced. “Then she scarcely needs me. There are plenty of willing guests upstairs for her to choose from, no matter what her tastes.”
Ambrose shut the door behind him with a definite
bang
and advanced on Christian's desk. “That wasn't the kind of help I had in mind.”
“Does she want money, then—or worse, a shoulder to cry on?” Christian's smile wasn't pleasant. “I'm not known for my soft heart. I leave that to my mother and sister.”
Ambrose held his gaze, his warm brown eyes steady. “I would still ask that you see her.”
Christian leaned back in his chair. “She obviously had quite an effect on you.”
“She . . .” Ambrose hesitated. “She reminds me of myself—how I was before you took me off the streets and offered me a job and a home.”
“She's a pickpocket and a thief, then?”
Ambrose's smile flashed out, his teeth white against his dark skin. “I doubt it. She seems to be a lady, but there is something in her eyes that reminds me of how it feels when you can see no future for yourself. I'm not sure if she has the will to last another night.”
Christian sighed. “A lady, you say? I can scarcely fail to help a damsel in distress. Send her in.”
Ambrose paused as he opened the door. “You will be gentle with her, sir?”
“As gentle as I was with you when I caught you picking my pocket all those years ago.”
Ambrose chuckled. “You threatened to strangle me and drown me in the Thames.”
“Ah, that's right.” Christian nodded. “I promise I will listen to what she has to say. Will that satisfy you?”
“I suppose it will have to. I'll go and fetch her from the kitchen.”
Christian returned to his accounts books half hoping that the woman had taken off, preferably without stealing anything too valuable. He was soon engrossed in the complex figures, and it was only when he heard Ambrose gently clear his throat that he remembered to look up again.
The sight that met his eyes wasn't unexpected. Working, as he did, on the less salubrious edge of society, he'd seen plenty of desperate women. But Ambrose was right: She was different, and he'd been trained to notice the smallest details. Her clothes, although soiled, were of high quality, and her skin was as pale and unlined as a lady's. She briefly met his gaze and then raised her chin as if he was beneath her notice and looked beyond him to the window.
Her profile was quite lovely and reminded him of a Titian angel. Christian yearned to stroke a finger down her jawbone and touch the shadowed hollow of her cheek. Her hair was dark and braided tightly to her head. She was far too thin, of course, and probably on the verge of starving.
“Mr. Delornay,” Ambrose said. “This is Mrs. Smith.”
Christian nodded. “Thank you, Ambrose. I'll call if I need you.”
He received another stern look from Ambrose, but refused to respond to it, his attention all on the woman in front of him.
“Mrs. Smith, it is a pleasure. How may I assist you?”
Her gaze came back to meet his, and he noticed her eyes were slate gray without a touch of blue to redeem their steel.
“I was expecting to meet Madame Helene.”
Her voice was low and cultured, with a slight accent underlining her status as a lady.
“My mother isn't here tonight. I'm Mr. Delornay. May I not help you instead?”
She swallowed and brought her hands together into a tight clasp under her breasts. She had no gloves, pelisse, or bonnet. Her only outer garments were a thick woolen shawl and muddied half boots soaked through with filth. She'd probably pawned the rest of her clothing. The question was why? What had brought her to living on the streets?
“I need employment, Mr. Delornay.”
Christian sat back and studied her. “And you thought my mother might provide it for you?”
“I was told she might, sir.”
“With all due respect, ma'am, you look a little frail to manage either a job in our kitchens or as an above-stairs maid.”
She moistened her chapped lips with the tip of her tongue. “I understood that this is a brothel.” She glared at him. “Doesn't a brothel always need new flesh?”
Christian slowly raised his eyebrows. “You are a whore?”
“I am whatever I need to be to survive, sir.”
Christian poured himself a glass of brandy. “But my mother does not run a brothel. She runs an exclusive pleasure house, which is available to the very rich for an extortionate fee and even then she personally vets every member.”
“But surely these men still need women to . . . to . . .”
“Fuck?”
She flinched at the word, and he wondered whether she might run. “If you are indeed a whore, my dear, you should hardly be shocked by my language.”
“I've heard that word before, sir. I'm no shy virgin.”
“That might be true, but you are scarcely a common trollop, either, are you? You look more like a rich man's mistress.” He waited, but she said nothing. “What happened? Did your lover abandon you?”
Her smile was small and desperate. “Alas, I almost wish that were true.”
“Then what is the truth?” She pressed her lips together and stared at his desk. “You expect me to employ you without you telling me anything?”
“I was widowed. My husband's family were unwilling to support me, so I left.”
“You left?” Christian frowned. “What an incredibly stupid thing to do.”
“I had no choice, sir.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
A small, choked laugh escaped her, and Christian tensed.
“Do you truly believe I would be standing here begging you for the opportunity to sell my body to any man who wants it if I had another choice?”
“As I have already told you, this is not a brothel. No one sells herself. In truth, they all pay a great deal for the privilege of having sex with anyone they want.”
“Why would anyone want to pay for
that?
”
Christian smiled. “Because they can.”
She shivered and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Then you have nothing to offer me?”
She was shaking now, her whole body swaying like a willow tree in a storm, and he feared she might swoon. “I can offer you a hot meal and a decent bed for the night.”
She raised her head to look at him. “Your bed?”
He considered her for a long moment, until a faint blush stained her hollowed cheeks. Then he smiled. “In your present pitiful state, I fear you wouldn't survive the night, my dear.”
“But then you know very little about me, don't you?”
She stepped forward until she was almost at his side. “I am quite happy to prove my worth to you.”
She started to descend to the floor. Christian reached forward and grasped her by the elbows, bringing her back to her feet. He kept hold of her and stared into her gray eyes. Ambrose was right: There was no hope there, only desolation and desperation.
“I'll keep your generous offer in mind. When did you last eat?”
She blinked at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I can scarcely throw you out on the street in this condition. My mother's reputation would be ruined.”
“Not yours?”
“Mine is already beyond redemption.” He patted her shoulder and moved away from her to ring the bell. “We will talk again when you are rested.”
While he waited for Ambrose to reappear, Christian retreated behind his desk and picked up his pen again. His visitor was visibly shivering now, one hand gripping the back of her chair as if she would fall without the support. He kept a wary eye on her until he heard Ambrose's welcome footsteps in the hall.
“Yes, Mr. Delornay?” Ambrose asked.
“Would you provide Mrs. Smith with a warm meal and a bed in the servants' quarters? I will see her again when she is restored to health.”
Ambrose bowed. “Of course, sir.” He smiled encouragingly at the woman. “I would be delighted to assist you.”
Mrs. Smith continued to stare at Christian. “I'm not sure why you are being so kind to me, sir.”
“I'm not being kind. As I said, you appear to be at death's door. I cannot afford to cast you out and have your lifeless corpse found anywhere near my mother's pleasure house. It would be bad for business.”
She nodded, and Ambrose took her by the elbow and led her gently out of the room. Christian sat back in his chair and contemplated the silence. Mrs. Smith—and somehow he doubted that was her real name—was a mass of contradictions. Her blunt offer to sexually service him had confounded his previous opinion that she was a well-brought-up woman down on her luck.
And he didn't like being wrong.
He found himself smiling. As Mrs. Smith said, desperation made a hard master, but he wasn't sure how he could help her. Luckily, his circle of acquaintance was extremely wide and he was certain that he would be able to find her some form of employment if he couldn't persuade her to rejoin her family.
The thought of trying to convince her of anything made him smile. Despite her bedraggled state he'd sensed a core of steel that had impressed even his cynical cold heart. For the first time in a long while he was looking forward to meeting someone again.
 
“Mrs. Smith? Are you well?”
Elizabeth struggled to focus on the anxious face hovering over her. The struggle not to swoon in front of the obnoxiously handsome and silver-tongued Mr. Delornay had used up the last of her meager resources. He'd seemed far too golden and perfect to be real—until he'd revealed a dark sense of humor that she'd been unable to deflect in her present state. Now all she wanted to do was lie down in the nearest gutter and give up.
“I am quite well, Mr. Ambrose.”
He guided her down onto a bench in the warm kitchen, where she'd accosted him earlier. The smell of baking bread and pastries curled around her, and she was suddenly nauseated. There was no sign of any of the staff she'd seen before, and she was glad not to be observed.
“Call me Ambrose. I don't have another name. Now bide here while I fetch you something to eat.”
That stirred her interest, but she didn't have the resources or the energy to question him now. She folded her hands on the solid pine table and stared down at them. Her nails were ragged, and despite her best efforts, her skin was never quite clean. She'd never considered water a luxury until she'd been forced to do without it.
“Here you are, ma'am.”
Ambrose slid a bowl of porridge topped with brown sugar and milk in front of her. Elizabeth swallowed convulsively as he handed her a spoon.
“Take it slow, ma'am, and you'll be fine.”
“I'm not sure if I can eat anything anymore.”
Ambrose took the seat opposite her and smiled. “Yes, you can. Your stomach is probably the size of a walnut, but you can at least manage a few spoonfuls.”

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