Promise Me Forever Read online

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  Wings ePress, Inc

  www.wings-press.com

  Copyright ©2006 by Kimberly M. Nee

  First published in 2006, 2006

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  Promise Me Forever

  Before she could stop herself, she told him the entire sordid tale. As the story came tumbling out, she felt the weight rising from her heart. Drew listened intently without interruption. As her words trailed away, he said, “How much did your father owe?"

  "Well over eight hundred pounds."

  He whistled. “Six months, eh? In six months, you'll be quite the old hand at this, won't you? But I doubt you'll fetch so high a price."

  "Thank you.” Sarcasm dripped from her dry reply.

  He shook his head. “I didn't quite mean it that way, Heather. But, let me tell you one thing—virgins fetch a high price that first time. After that, it drops. Are you certain you wish to sell your virginity? And to sell it so cheaply?"

  "I've no other choice. My father left me with nothing except my name and even that has been tarnished.” She sunk down onto the chaise lounge. “There is nothing left for me to do except this. This was the last of his debts."

  "Eight hundred pounds, you say?"

  "Yes."

  He was quiet for a moment. Then, he sighed, pulling a hand through his hair. “There is a way out of this, I suppose."

  Her heart skipped a beat. Did she dare indulge in a grandiose dream of her own? Was it possible he would help her? No, it would be insane to even consider such a thing. Why would he wish to help her when he barely knew her? He might feel sympathy for her plight, but of course, that was the extent of it. Wasn't it?

  Wings

  Promise Me Forever

  by

  Kimberly Nee

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Historical Romance Novel

  Wings ePress, Inc.

  Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

  Copy Edited by: Leslie Hodges

  Senior Editor: Leslie Hodges

  Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

  Cover Artist: Christine Poe

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books

  www.wings-press.com

  Copyright © 2006 by Kimberly M. Nee

  ISBN 1-59705-170-5

  Published In the United States Of America

  December 2006

  Wings ePress Inc.

  403 Wallace Court

  Richmond, KY 40475

  Dedication

  For Tom,

  because you inspired Drew

  One

  London, 1823

  "Oh, my...” Heather Spencer sighed, her belly in tight knots as she glanced around at the deep red silk moiré covering the walls of her small room. Madam Allison's favorite color was red and she incorporated it wherever possible throughout her house. In keeping with the current trend, the room had a distinctly Oriental feel to it—the deep red accented with gold, the red and gold Oriental carpeting beneath her feet, even the furniture bespoke of the Chinoiserie style for which Madam Allison had gone so mad.

  Heather still couldn't believe she was truly here. Until two weeks ago, she'd never even heard of Delilah's. Now, not only had she learned of London's most exclusive brothel, she was here, in one of the little rooms, where her life was about to forever change. It didn't seem possible that she should find herself in a house of ill repute. Ladies should not even know of the existence of such places, never mind actually finding employment there. Her mother was most definitely turning over in her grave that very moment. Of that Heather was certain.

  She smoothed a tiny wrinkle from the skirt of her deep claret nightgown, feeling distinctly uncomfortable in the clinging silk gown with the plunging neckline. Every time she glanced in the mirror, her fingers fairly itched to tug at the black lace edging the neckline, to pull it up and keep from showing so much décolletage. Now, she no longer had her modesty, or her dignity. Both were not so subtly being stripped away as well.

  This was not at all how her life was supposed to unfold. Her mother had died five years earlier and when her father, Matthew, died last autumn, Heather had learned the true nature of her family's circumstances. Not only had he left her penniless, but he'd died deeply in debt.

  Having sold off just about all of her family's possessions, Heather had no way to settle her father's last debt—the very large obligation he owed to Madam Allison. The woman had been relentless in her pursuit of having that obligation paid. However, one glance at Spencer's lovely daughter, and the madam knew exactly how it could be settled.

  "You'll fetch your weight in gold, missy,” Madam Allison assured her, giving her a long, appraising look as she lifted a curl away from Heather's face. “You'll have his debt paid off in six months. A year, at most."

  Six months! Heather shuddered now as she remembered the scene. At least six months of working as a strumpet for that horrid woman would seem a lifetime. Not to mention, it would most definitely leave her no options for her future.

  "This is what I have become,” she murmured, glancing at the red silk wall covering once more. “A whore. I am not a common guttersnipe, nor do I belong here, and yet this is what my life is to be?” Heat rose into her cheeks as she whispered the word whore. It stuck in her throat, emerging as a painful croak.

  She gave a start as someone knocked on her door. “Heather?"

  She breathed a sigh of relief. Her deflowering would be delayed a bit longer now. She was never so happy to hear Sally's soft, lilting voice. “Come in."

  Sally was another of Madam Allison's courtesans. She was tall and slim, with padded man-made curves, natural dark red hair, and wide hazel eyes. “Are you all right? Flora said you were looking a bit peaked."

  Flora was another one of the women selling her wares at Delilah's, which operated above the Golden Goose, a most respectable gentlemen's club in London's fashionable West End. Heather didn't know Flora very well, save to bid her good morning and good evening.

  "I must admit, I am more than a little bit nervous,” Heather admitted with a shaky sigh.

  Sally perched on the edge of the high bed, smoothing her hand over the red velvet spread. “You've nothing to worry about, love. Trust me. I've been doing this for three years now. It isn't so bad."

  "Perhaps not, but it isn't how I planned things to be, either."

  "Aye, I understand. Not a one of us planned this, love. But, sometimes things just happen. And it is far better than wallowing out in the gutters, though, or begging on the streets."

  Heather gave Sally a long look. She had maybe two years on Heather's twenty-one, but several years of working in a house of ill repute had given her a much older appearance. Fine lines had etched themselves into the corners of Sally's eyes and around her mouth. Her hazel eyes were hard and tired, as if they'd seen far more than any lady shoul
d see.

  "Still, I am nervous all the same."

  Sally patted her hand. “You've nothing to worry about. They are usually quite quick, then. In—out—and they're done and you've a gold piece on your bedside table."

  Heather resisted the urge to shudder at Sally's description of procured lovemaking. It was nothing like the flowery depiction Susan had given her daughter when Heather was fourteen. Nothing at all and that did not sit especially well with her. “Is that all?"

  "For most of them, then. Of course, some take longer and some are done so quick you aren't certain they ever even came near you at all. And most are gentlemen. Highly respected gentlemen. Trust me, love, I wouldn't lie to you. You look so terrified.” Sally lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I do wish to warn you though, your first mister will hurt like the fires of hell."

  "What?"

  Sally nodded. “But only for a moment. I promise you. Only for a moment."

  "Madam Allison never mentioned pain."

  "Oh, that wrinkled old prune most likely doesn't remember any of it,” Sally scoffed, giving an airy wave of her hand. “It's most likely been ages since anyone has paid for her services."

  Heather marveled at how precisely upper-crust Sally sounded. Neither her speech, nor her appearance, lent any credence to her profession. When Heather remarked on it upon first meeting Sally, the older woman waved it away with a, ‘What is, is,’ response and that was the end of the story.

  "And how will I know when it's over?” Heather asked.

  Sally gave her a wicked smile. “Trust me, love. You'll know."

  With that, there came another knock at the door. Madam Allison's raspy voice came from the other side. “Get moving, ladies. There's gentlemen waiting, there is. Sally, come out of there and get yourself into your room. Leave that girl in peace now."

  Sally gave Heather's hand a quick squeeze. “You'll be fine, love. I promise."

  With that, Sally left and Heather was alone. She knew she was to remain in her room. Madam Allison would bring the gentleman to her. So, she had nothing to do but sit and wait, and pray that her stomach would stop roiling. The last thing she wanted to do was retch. Somehow she didn't think that would go over too well with either the gentleman or Madam Allison.

  She spied the cut-crystal decanter of amber liquid on her dressing table. Brandy. Madam Allison had sent it up earlier, proclaiming Heather should take it, should her nerves threaten to eat her alive.

  Her eyes narrowed. The same amber liquid was what had contributed to her father's downfall. Despite her mourning, she couldn't help feeling red-hot anger for her father's weaknesses. Had he been stronger, he might have coped with his wife's death better, might not have turned to drink, gambling, and women instead. Then, Heather might have married and be raising children now, instead of pacing the small room in a house of sin.

  She froze then. Footsteps sounded just beyond her closed door and they were drawing nearer. A cold sweat broke out over her body as she realized what was going to happen—what she was going to be doing with the man who walked through that door at any moment...

  Two

  Drew Kennedy had no idea what he was doing at Delilah's. Though he frequented the Golden Goose whenever in London, he'd never been on the infamous second floor, although he had heard tell of the beautiful ladies gathered up there. Courtesans were never his choice. There were plenty of available, willing ladies of a much higher class for his choosing.

  Still, Brady St. Charles painted such an intriguing picture for him that he had grown most curious. The sixth Viscount Danbury frequented Delilah's often, and had spoken of a new girl who was supposedly the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Danbury had yet to sample her himself, but was feeling generous towards his friend, so he'd urged Drew to accompany him. His interest aroused, Drew decided to take the chance and see if Danbury told the truth, or was simply pulling his leg.

  He glanced around at the small parlor. Everything was red and gilt, gaudier than anything he'd ever seen. Red velvet covered sofas and chairs, red and gold flocked wallpaper covered the walls, the sconces were gold, the carpet was red and gold. The tables were teak, with delicate Chinese vases holding huge sprays of fragrant, exotic blooms. Their perfume lay heavy in the air, combining with musk and spicy colognes to create a layer of sickly-sweet fragrance that fairly clogged his throat and threatened to make his eyes water.

  Madam Allison greeted both men warmly, fawning over the viscount as she offered them the finest cigars and headiest liquor she had available.

  Brady winked at Drew, his dark gray eyes dancing. “My friend here is quite interested in the Spencer chit."

  "Oh, is he, now?” Madam's blue eyes narrowed cunningly, a sly smile pulling at the wrinkles around her thin lips. “She is our freshest blood, you know."

  Drew held her stare with ease. This wrinkled crone looked more like somebody's grandmother than the madam of a high-priced brothel, “Name your price."

  She quoted a sum with the self-satisfied air of one who expected to shock him. Her price was exorbitant, but money was hardly an object for him. After all, he owned half of one of London's most successful shipping companies. He gave her a wink and said, “Done."

  She looked somewhat surprised that he'd accepted the fee without the slightest haggling. “Very well. You'll not be disappointed."

  Drew gave her a rakish smile. “At that price, I damn well better not be."

  A mottled flush worked its way into Allison's pale, wrinkled cheeks as she turned to Brady. “And would you like Flora again, Viscount?"

  Brady smiled. “Yes. She was more than satisfactory the last time."

  The madam smiled at both men. “Come with me, then."

  She led them down the narrow, shadowy hallway lined with doors, away from the heavy layer of scented air. Candles flickered in the gold sconces lining both walls, casting long, dancing shadows along the deep scarlet walls. Eight women worked for the madam. Eight women waited behind eight different doors and Drew couldn't help but wonder what awaited him.

  Madam Allison stopped by a door with a gold 4 stenciled on it. “Viscount Danbury."

  Brady gave Drew another wink. “Don't wait for me."

  He shook his head at the mile-wide grin on Danbury's face. “You're incorrigible."

  "Just you wait and see, old man. Just you wait and see."

  Brady disappeared through the door, leaving Drew with the older woman. Allison slipped her arm through his. “Come along, then, Captain Kennedy."

  He glanced down at the bony, gnarled hand curling over his forearm. Madam Allison had probably been quite a beauty in her day. She carried herself perfectly erect, her hair was shimmering silver thread caught up in an elegant chignon. Her blue eyes had faded with age, but still hinted that they'd once been a deep cornflower. Now, however, she held only the slightest hint of that beauty.

  They approached a door at the very end of the hallway. Number eight. Madam Allison stopped before it and smiled up at him. “I guarantee this one, Captain Kennedy."

  He returned the smile. “I'm certain you do, Madam. And, as I said, for the highway robbery you demanded, I expect the best."

  Allison did not look the slightest bit abashed at his words. Instead, she merely bobbed her head and replied, “And you will not be disappointed."

  With that, she turned to make her way back to the foyer, leaving him alone at the door. He stared down at the glinting crystal knob for a long moment, took a deep breath, and thrust it open. The girl sitting on the bed jumped as the door swung open. Her head jerked up and he was looking into the deepest, darkest eyes he'd ever seen.

  "Oh, g-good evening,” she stammered, her face going scarlet as she got to her feet.

  He closed the door and leaned back against it. “Good evening, yourself. I apologize for startling you, miss."

  "No. No, please. I ought to apologize. I ought to have expected you, then.” Heather spoke slowly, as if carefully selecting each word. She held his ga
ze for a moment, even as a soft flush swept through her fair cheeks. “You sound American."

  He smiled at the puzzlement in her voice. “That would be because I am an American."

  "I see."

  Tension tightened her body as his eyes moved slowly over her from head to toe. She was even lovelier than Brady had described. She was tiny, only a few inches over five feet, but most definitely striking. Her hair was dark chestnut, pulled up into an elegant fall of glossy curls. Her chestnut brows arched delicately against her fair skin, a shade lighter than the deep chocolate eyes that widened as they met his. Those dark eyes were glassy, her blush deepening, making its way into her hairline as he shrugged out of his frock coat and then pulled his shirt free from his trousers.

  "Is something troubling you?” he asked mildly. Surely, this girl wasn't horrified by the thought of him removing his clothes. She was a courtesan. She must have seen dozens of men undressed.

  His conscience twinged. She seemed too nervous, too innocent, to be here in a brothel. Then it troubled him that he should be troubled at all. This girl was nothing to him. She thought nothing of selling her body, so why should he be troubled by purchasing it for a few hours?

  But troubled he was and it didn't sit well with him. His fingers paused at the throat of his shirt as he repeated, “Is something wrong?"

  She seemed to come out of her reverie then. Shaking her head, she said, “No. No—not at all."

  "Well, then. Come here."

  She reluctantly circled the bed to stand before him. “Yes, sir."

  Drew couldn't help but smile at her, wanting to ease her obvious discomfort. “Relax. I won't bite. I promise. I just want to get a better look at you. Perhaps even learn your name?"

  She averted her eyes, glancing down at the floor as she mumbled her reply.

  He frowned, catching her under the chin with a forefinger and lifting her head to meet his eyes. “I'm afraid I did not hear you, love."

  "Heather, sir. My name is Heather Spencer.” She winced as her words emerged more than a mite squeaky.