Simply Carnal

by Kate Pearce

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

No passion is too decadent and no desire is too exotic at Madame Helene's Pleasure House--an exclusive brothel in Regency England that offers the ultimate in erotic delights. . . Powerful Seduction Christian Delornay has observed so many illicit liaisons at his mother's house of pleasure he regards sex as merely an enjoyable pastime, certainly not an act of love. So when a young widow arrives in search of work, Christian hires her as his assistant with the intention of instructing her in the ways of sensual seduction. . . Passionate Surrender Desperate to escape her past, Elizabeth "Smith" is happy to accept Christian's offer of work. She is prepared to serve his every need, yet she refuses to reveal her most intimate desires. But in the hands of a master it is impossible to deny her own wanton yearnings, and she soon succumbs to her secret longing for pure carnal pleasure. . . "A great historical novel, a touching romance and blistering sex--with a little kink." -- Romantic Times (Top Pick!) on Simply Forbidden "Can you say HOT? Well it doesn't get much hotter than Simply Sexual. From the first scorching page to the last. . .a wild ride of sex and suspense, keeping you guessing until the very end." -- Simply Romance Reviews

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Aphrodisia

Print pages: 321

Sample

London, England, 1826

“May 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 unshakeable aide-de-camp. According to the clock on the mantelpiece, it was already well 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 emerged only 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 hardly 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 click 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 sisters.”

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 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 account 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 French accent that only underlined 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 a job in either our kitchens or as an above-stairs maid.”

She moistened her chapped lips with the tip of her tongue. “I understood that this was 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 telling me anything?”

“I was widowed. My husband’s family was 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 themselves. 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 pale cheeks and 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 to lead 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 within the confines of the pleasure house. Luckily, his circle of acquaintance was extremely wide, and he was certain 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 again. 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 and matching his wits with theirs.

“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 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 nauseous. 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.”

Her eyes filled with tears at his unexpected kindness. “How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve been starved myself.” His smile died. “If it hadn’t been for Mr. Delornay, I would’ve died on the streets.”

Elizabeth licked the rough brown sugar from the spoon and some of the porridge and wanted to moan at the influx of rich tastes against her tongue.

“Does Mr. Delornay make a habit of rescuing waifs and strays?”

“Despite what he might claim, he follows his mother in that respect. No one is ever turned away from the pleasure house without a crust or a coin.”

“Or a bed for the night in my case.” Elizabeth ate two whole spoons of porridge, and for the first time in weeks she felt warm inside. “I am very grateful for that.” She glanced across at Ambrose. “I had no more coin to pay my rent, and my landlord took all my remaining possessions until I could come up with the money.”

“We can probably get them back for you.”

“I’m not sure how.” Elizabeth sighed and ate another spoonful of porridge. “I still have no money.”

“I’m sure Mr. Delornay will have some ideas about that, too, when you talk to him.”

Elizabeth put down her spoon as her appetite deserted her. “He said I was too weak to work here in a menial capacity and that he didn’t employ whores.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, he does have a point. You are indisputably a lady.”

“And ladies whore in different ways, don’t they?” she whispered. “They are sold into marriage and cannot deny their husbands sexual congress.” She stared at him. “I think I’d rather whore myself and at least receive some financial compensation in return for my efforts.”

Ambrose stood and came around the table to her. “I think you should go to bed, ma’am. I will escort you.”

She took his proffered hand and looked up into his face. She reckoned they were of a similar age. “If you are just Ambrose, will you call me Elizabeth?”

“If that is your wish, I would be honored.” He kissed her hand. “And now let’s get you somewhere safe and warm to sleep. If you leave your clothing outside the door, I will arrange for it to be laundered and returned to you tomorrow.”

“Safe ...” Elizabeth sighed as he walked ahead of her. Mr. Delornay was right. She’d been a fool to run away without taking the things she valued the most. Getting them back seemed impossible now—unless she could truly earn enough money to return. She swallowed down another inconvenient wave of tears. It was impossible to think in her current state, but at least she didn’t have to worry about anything until the morning.

“Maman ...”

Christian tried to interrupt his mother again, but she was in full flow and quite unstoppable. Not that she looked old enough to be anyone’s mother as she paced the space in front of his desk, her face flushed, her hands eloquently emphasizing each point. He sat back and just admired the sight, his irritation dying.

Helene stopped and stared at him. “Why are you smiling at me? Were we not fighting?”

He shrugged. “We were, but I was struck anew by your magnificence, and I decided to hold my tongue and save my arguments for something I really care about.”

“You do not care about the future of the pleasure house?”

“Maman, we are hardly discussing its demise. You still have ten applicants for every place and our coffers are full.”

“I know that.” Helene resumed her pacing, the blue silk panels of her dress kicking out behind her as if she were a sailing ship in a gale. “But we have always prided ourselves on offering something more to our clients, and I fear we are no longer doing so.”

“Because you’ve left the general management to me?” Christian sat up, his good humor evaporating. “I am quite capable of running the business and turning a profit, ma’am.”

“I do not doubt that, but ...” She hesitated and Christian tensed. “I’m not sure if you have the soul to truly understand this place.”

“The soul?” Christian laughed. “Whatever you choose to call the pleasure house, it’s a high-class brothel, Maman, and I could run it blindfolded.”

“But it’s not just a business. There’s an art to it and a personal element, which I fear you lack.”

A flicker of heated emotion clenched in Christian’s chest and made it hard for him to breathe. There was a slight movement as the other occupant of the room, who had so far remained silent, cleared his throat.

“Helene ...” Christian stared at his father, Philip, who was watching his mother with a frown. “I hardly think that is fair. Christian has proved an exemplary manager.”

Although Christian resented his father’s quiet interjection, he managed not to show it. He’d learned to his cost that sometimes Philip was the only person Helene would listen to.

Helene sighed. “Of course you would side with him. You are a man. You do not see things the way that I do.”

Philip walked over to Helene and took her hand. “I see that you are worried about your business. I’m just not convinced Christian is the cause of your concerns. You have been closely involved in this place for many years and have only recently attracted some competition. Madame Helene’s is not the only pleasure house available to the rich and sexually adventurous anymore.”

“That is true.” Helene looked up at Philip, and he brought her hand to his lips. “You have a terribly annoying habit of being right, my dear.”

Christian cleared his throat before his parents forgot he was present. “I do agree that we need to formulate some new strategies for the pleasure house. Ambrose and I were talking about it just the other night.”

“What did you envisage?” Helene asked, her face alight with interest.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I have something more definite to share,” Christian said neutrally, and then took a deep breath. “If, however, you have lost confidence in me as your manager, I would be happy to step down.” He would be damned if he’d bow down to all his mother’s whims. He was twenty-six and had been involved in the running of the business since his nineteenth year.

“You do not mean that,” Helene said sharply, her blue eyes flashing. “You are just attempting to put me in my place and I will not have it!”

Christian stood up and rested his hands on the desk. “And weren’t you just trying to do the same to me? I’m tired of this, Maman—either let me manage the place in my own way or take it back and run it yourself.”

Helene glared at him. “Perhaps I will do just that!” She turned toward the door. “If you cannot come up with a comprehensive plan to improve our business within the next week, I will be forced to reconsider both my position and yours.”

Christian bowed. “As you wish, ma’am.”

Helene swept out and Christian stared after her. He cursed eloquently in French and sat down with a thump. Philip closed the door and turned back to him.

“That did not go well.”

Christian raised his head to look at his father, who seemed his usual pleasant self. Although Christian favored Helene in looks, he had his father’s hazel eyes and calmer temperament, for which he was secretly grateful. “As you know, my mother is rather overemotional about this place.”

“Do you think so?” Philip contemplated his boots. “She founded it from nothing and under great adversity. I suppose she is entitled to have some attachment to it.”

“I know that, but surely she must realize that she cannot control every damned thing? She questions every innovation I suggest, countermands my orders, and confuses the staff.” Christian shoved a hand through his blond hair. “You cannot wish for her to take complete control of the place again.”

“You are right about that.” Philip smiled. “In truth, I would prefer her to hand over control of the house to you entirely.”

Christian went still. It was the first time Philip had been quite so open with him about the matter. “You would?”

“I’ve waited a long time for your mother, and as you’ve taken more on your shoulders, I’ve enjoyed the last few years immensely.” His smile this time was rueful. “So it seems that for once we are on the same side, Christian.”

“I would be more than willing to work with you, sir, to achieve our aims.”

“I’m sure you would. You’ve always shown remarkably good sense when needed.” Philip checked his pocket watch. “I will find your mother. We are supposed to go and see Lisette and Gabriel this afternoon.”

Christian stood, too, and came around the desk to shake his father’s hand. “Give them my best, won’t you?”

“You don’t wish to accompany us?”

“With my mother in this mood? I think not.”

Philip’s answering smile died. “Families can be very complicated sometimes, can’t they?”

“Well ours is certainly unconventional.” Christian studied Philip’s face. “Is there something else I should know about?” He thought of his younger half sister. “Emily’s well, isn’t she?”

“Emily is very well, although she spends far too much of her time in the kitchens here for a young unmarried lady.” Philip hesitated. “I had a letter from Richard. He’s decided to come to London.”

Christian’s eyebrows rose. Philip’s legitimate son had previously scorned to know his father or his half siblings, preferring to roam Europe and live as a permanent houseguest with his friends rather than deal with his father’s scandalous second marriage.

“Aren’t you pleased?”

“I’m terrified. He’s never hidden his distrust of me, or his displeasure at my marriage. He idolized his mother.”

“Perhaps he’s realized the error of his ways and wishes to make amends.” Christian couldn’t quite believe he was the one trying to reassure his father. Their relationship had scarcely been less complicated than Philip and Richard’s. “By the way, I’m quite willing to meet with him if he wishes to do so.”

Philip clapped him on the shoulder. “I appreciate the offer. It can’t be easy for you either.”

“Do you think Richard fears I’ll kill him in a rage over my illegitimate birth?” Christian shrugged. “He’s more than welcome to your titles.” He walked away from Philip and opened the door. “Now go and find my mother and use your exceptional talent for soothing her ruffled feathers.”

“I’ll do my best, but I suggest you come up with a plan to transform the pleasure house as well.”

“Agreed.”

Christian went back to his desk and sat down. With a groan he put his hands in his hair and stared at his blotter.

“Am I interrupting something?”

He slowly raised his head to find his eyes level with Lieutenant Paul St. Clare’s amused brown gaze.

“What do you want?”

He’d inherited Paul from his brother-in-law, Gabriel Swanfield, when Gabriel had transferred his club membership into Paul’s name. It had been Gabriel’s suggestion that Paul should explore his sexuality at the club. Paul had embraced the opportunity with great gusto and seemed to be always under Christian’s feet.

“Marie-Claude said I should check with you that I am allowed to play the part of a Roman centurion in the orgy room this week.”

“Why does she need my agreement?” Christian asked irritably.

“Because I believe it is to be an all-male affair.”

“I don’t care who or what you fuck, Paul.”

“Well that’s good to know.” Paul crossed one booted foot over the other. “Your brother-in-law still keeps urging me to try new things.”

“Gabriel feels responsible for you.”

“And I keep telling him that is nonsense. My sexual choices are my own.”

Christian held Paul’s heated gaze. “And I agree with you. Do whatever you want.”

“Thank you, Christian.” Paul rose to his feet. “Did you know there is a woman in your kitchen?”

“God, not you as well,” Christian groused. “Another one?”

“I’m not sure what you are talking about, but there is a woman picking very daintily at a croissant in your kitchen. In truth, she reminded me of one of the wax dolls my cousin used to play with—all glossy perfection and tumbling ringlets, but fragile as hell if you dropped them.”

“Ah, that woman.”

“You know of her?”

“I know about everything that goes on here,” Christian snapped at Paul, who loo. . .