ONLY A MISTRESS WILL DO
by Jenna Jaxon
Pub date: 4/4/2017
Genre: Historical Romance
The man of her dreams . . . belongs to another woman.
Destitute and without friends, Violet Carlton is forced to seek employment at the House of Pleasure in London. She steels herself for her first customer and is shocked when the man rescues her instead of ravishing her. A grateful Violet cannot help but admire the handsome Viscount Trevor. But she must curb her desire for the dashing nobleman she can never have because he is already betrothed to another...
Tristan had gone to the House of Pleasure for a last bit of fun before he became a faithful married man. But when he recognizes the woman in his bed, he becomes determined to save her instead. Now, his heart wars with his head as he falls for the vulnerable courtesan. Unable to break his betrothal without a scandal, Tris resolves to find Violet proper employment or a husband of her own. Still, his arms ache for Violet, urging him to abandon propriety and sacrifice everything to be with the woman he loves...
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Chapter 1
London,
November 1761
Shivering in the brisk wind cutting straight
through her thin gown, Violet Carlton trudged across the small dirt-packed
backyard, littered with tufts of dead grass and scattered brown and red leaves.
Teeth clenched to stop their chattering, she mounted the short three steps of
the back stoop, straightened her shoulders, and rapped three times on the dull
gray door of the silvery clapboard house. Beyond the weathered board fence
of the house next door a dog barked, but no one stirred. No
prying eyes to witness her shame.
The door opened a crack, and a lad of about
twelve stuck his head out. “What you doin’ ’ere this time o’ day?”
“I would like to speak with Madame Vestry,
please.” Perhaps she should have waited until later in the morning. Such an
establishment would obviously keep late hours. But the ache in her belly had
forced her here as soon as the sun had risen.
“She’s still sleep. Come back later today.” He
started to push the door closed but Violet rammed her boot between it and the
jamb. The boy kept shoving, squeezing her foot until she winced in pain, but
she gritted her teeth, put her shoulder to the door and pushed back. If she
didn’t do this now, she wouldn’t have the courage, or the strength, to come
back.
“I need to see her now.” She raised her voice,
and threw her weight against the rough boards. Despite her small stature, she
was stronger. He staggered back and she fell into a narrow back foyer with a
row of coat hooks and the devastating yeasty smell of baking bread. Her mouth
watered and her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten for days.
Blond hair straggling from under a mobcap, a
girl, maybe fourteen, rushed into the room. “What the hell’s going on in here
Willie?” She wiped her hands on her apron, streaked with flour and grease.
Warily, her gaze shifted from Willie to Violet. “Who are you?”
“I’ve come to see Madame Vestry.” Violet
focused on the girl’s narrowed eyes. “I need to talk to her,
please.” Her heart gave a sickening lurch.
In one practiced glance, the girl took in her
appearance, from what used to be her second-best hat to the rumpled and stained
deep-purple dress to her scuffed black boots, and sniffed. “I see you do.”
The appraisal stung, but was probably fair.
She’d come down fast in the months since her grandmother’s death. Her
possessions long gone, her wardrobe—reduced to two dresses and a well-worn
cloak—had been sold, leaving her with only the dress she stood up in. These
clothes wouldn’t fetch a shilling in a secondhand shop now.
The servant girl nodded to Willie. “Close the
door before we freeze to death, jingle-brains. Come on.” She led Violet out of
the foyer. “I’ll ask if Madame will see you. But she won’t be happy being woke
up this early, you can bet your dippers on that.”
The last thing she wanted was to antagonize
her future employer. Still, she couldn’t risk waiting until later.
Taking a firm grip on herself, she followed
the girl down a shadowy hallway until she motioned her into an equally dim
reception room. “Wait here.” The girl turned on her heel and left.
Violet let out the breath she’d been holding.
She hadn’t fainted yet, though her empty stomach had tied itself in knots. The
pain meant she was alive and by God she intended to stay that way. She strode
farther into the room and perched on the red cushioned sofa. Let the woman
arrive swiftly to get this over with.
Sitting rigidly, she stared at her hands
clenched in her lap, then shook herself. She had better be stronger than this.
Determined, she sat straighter. A classical-style painting in a large gilt
frame across from her caught her interest. A naked woman lay on a chaise, her
legs spread. Oh, good Lord. Her womanly parts were exposed and a swan lay with
its beak pressed between her thighs.
Her face heated and she had to look somewhere
else, anywhere else but at that painting. The fireplace on her right held two
candlesticks, shaped like naked women. Wax had dripped onto the figures, drops
hanging from the nipples. Was there nowhere in the room without a lewd image?
Violet gripped the end of the sofa. The plush red carpet seemed safe to study.
The smooth, polished wood under her fingers had been carved in an oval with
folds in the middle. She traced the pattern absently, still unable to get the
image of the painting out of her mind. The swan’s long neck lying at the apex
of the woman’s open legs. Her forefinger stroked the wooden oval, so similar to
the—
“Dear God!” She snatched her hand away and
rubbed it against her gown. “Miss Carlton?” A small, dark-haired woman in an
exotic scarlet silk robe seemed to fill the room.
Violet jumped to her feet, her heart thudding
wildly.
“My maid said you wished to see me?” Madame Vestry’s
dark eyes took in every detail of Violet’s appearance. She raised an
eyebrow.
On the tip of her tongue to retort of course,
she did not wish to see the owner of a brothel, she instead swallowed back her
anger. She could ill afford to provoke Madame Vestry. “Yes, ma’am. My brother
told me if things went very badly for me I should…” Words stuck in her throat
like a fish bone.
“Come to my establishment?”
Face flushing, Violet nodded. “Yes.”
“Who is your brother, Miss Carlton?” A
narrowing of the woman’s eyes echoed the suspicion in her voice.
“James Carlton, ma’am.”
Vestry’s head rose slightly and she relaxed.
“Ah, yes, Jamie. You are his sister? Then I am sorry for your loss, Miss
Carlton.”
“Thank you, Madame Vestry.” Thankfully, her
voice held steady, the months since her brother’s death easing the grief to the
point she did not weep instantly at the thought. Her current plight was enough
to do that.
“And you have now come to that desperate point
where you seek employment with me?” The business-like tone, neither condoning
nor condemning, stiffened Violet’s resolve.
“Yes, ma’am. As of today, I have nowhere else
to go, no one to turn to.” A sickening churn of her stomach that had nothing to
do with hunger sent tension through her. “Nothing else of value.”
Except herself.
“You are how old, Miss Carlton?” “Nineteen,
ma’am. Almost twenty.”
“Let me see you walk, please.” With a crisp
snap, Vestry pulled the curtains open and nodded to the path between the sofa
and fireplace.
Violet straightened her skirts as best she
could. Suddenly stiff and self- conscious, she concentrated on putting one foot
before the other until she came face to face with another obscene painting. She
clenched her hands and averted her eyes.
“Turn please.”
Feeling more and more like a horse or a cow at
Smithfield market, she did as she was told, hopefully with a bit more
grace.
In reward, Vestry gave her a slight nod. “You
speak and move as befit your station, Miss Carlton. With a little training, I
suspect you will be quite popular with our patrons. I should be able to command
a high price for your virginity.”
Violet’s feet tangled in the plush
carpet.
The scant approval vanished as Vestry glared
at her. “I assume you are intact?”
Oh, the shame. How could this woman suggest
she had already lain with a man? Bitterness flooded her mouth and her chest
ached with mortification. Finally, she managed a curt nod.
“Lie down on the sofa please.” “What?
Why?”
“I am not fool enough to take your word, Miss
Carlton.” Vestry smiled mirthlessly. “A brief inspection will allow me to
assure your buyer he is indeed purchasing a virgin.”
Her cheeks heated at the humiliation this
woman suggested. The cold inevitability of her situation rolled over her,
engulfing her as though she was drowning beneath a relentless sea. Madame
Vestry demanded almost nothing compared to the real horror awaiting her at the
hands of her buyer. Still, she had chosen to live. She could no longer afford
the luxury of respectability.
Vestry stood immobile, a flicker in her eyes
the only hint of interest.
Steeling herself, without word or plea, Violet
lay down on the disgusting sofa, raised her knees and turned her head toward
the garish red satin cushion. Cool air rushed past her thighs. Hot tears
slipped down her cheeks. She hadn’t wanted to cry. The time for weakness had
passed.
“You may sit up now.”
Indignant, Violet sat up and raised her chin.
“Are you satisfied as to my honesty now?”
“I always was, Miss Carlton.” Madame Vestry
stared into Violet’s eyes, her gaze seeming to penetrate to her soul.
“Then why—”
“I needed to test your mettle.”
Rising, Violet scowled. Simply coming to this
place should have shown her determination.
“Respectable women often believe they can
eschew respectability to save their lives, only to find, in the end, starvation
far pleasanter than immorality,” Vestry continued matter-of-factly. “You,
however, I believe will do, Cassandra. Come with me.” Motioning her to follow,
she headed out of the room.
“Cassandra?” Violet hurried to keep up.
“All of my girls have false names, false
identities.” At the end of the hallway, they headed up a flight of
stairs.
“The life they lead in the House of Pleasure
is just as fraudulent. Cassandra is the mask you will wear to protect a vestige
of your self-respect.” When they reached the landing, Madame twitched her silky
robe out of the way and turned to her. “Think of it as a role, very like one an
actress might take upon the stage. It is not who you are, unless you allow it
be.” The vehemence of the last sentence rang in the cramped stairwell.
Violet stumbled back a step. “Why Cassandra?”
It was a classical reference she couldn’t quite place.
A peculiar smile curled Madame Vestry’s red
lips. “She was a prophet and a spoil of war. A woman men used but dismissed
because they could not understand her prophecies, although they came true with
a vengeance.” A fire glowed in her cunning eyes as she scrutinized Violet’s
body.
More than her earlier examination, Vestry’s
calculating perusal made Violet uncomfortable.
“What prophecy will you reveal to your
customers, I wonder, Miss Carlton? A promise of pleasure or one of pain?” The
light extinguished as quickly as it had come. “This way.” She started down a
corridor to the right. “You will have a room of your own on the second floor.
Depending on circumstances, you will entertain your clients either there or in
one of the ground-floor rooms.”
Violet followed, each step hardening her
heart.
“I will see to your training during the next
week.” Passion drained from her voice. The businesswoman had returned.
A shiver shot down Violet’s spine.
“I will also inform certain special clients I
have an item of interest for them.”
No going back now. She had become a whore.
Tears threatened, but she beat them back.
“You can only sell your virtue once and I will
make sure you receive the highest price, my dear. Half of those proceeds are
yours.”
Violet wavered between fainting and nausea,
then steadied. Perhaps thinking of the encounter as a business deal might make
the situation tolerable. Madame Vestry showed her into a small, clean room
boasting no lewd artwork, only a wide oak bed, a chest on chest, an armchair and
table.
“This room is yours as long as you work for
me, though should you receive a better offer, I’d advise you take it.”
“A better offer?” Who on earth would want her
after this?
“Many of my girls have gone on to become
exclusive mistresses to the noblemen who take a fancy to them. Such
arrangements are often quite lucrative. With judicious saving one might have
enough to start their life over after four or five years.” A mischievous smile
flitted across Madame Vestry’s face. “One of the girls who passed through here
briefly—very briefly, mind you—ended up marrying a marquess. That smacks more
of fairytale than reality. Still the tale is true.”
The animation drained from her face as the
brusque woman of business returned. “I will leave you to settle in, although
I’ll expect you ready for your first lesson this afternoon. We serve late
luncheon at four and supper after midnight. The house opens for clients at
dusk.” She looked Violet up and down once more, lingering on her face. “You
might want to stay in your room tonight. Just ignore anything you may hear.
You’ll get used to the noise rather quickly.” Abruptly, she shut the
door.
Violet dropped into the chair as her legs finally gave out, praying to
God she could get through this nightmare, if only one moment at a time.
Jenna Jaxon is a multi-published author of historical and contemporary romance. She has been reading and writing historical romance since she was a teenager. A romantic herself, she has always loved a dark side to the genre, a twist, suspense, a surprise—so expect her to incorporate these elements into her work! She lives in Virginia with her family and a small menagerie of pets where she is currently working on the next House of Pleasure book, Only A Mistress Will Do, as well as a Regency series. When not reading or writing, she indulges her passion for the theatre, working with local theatres as a director. She often feels she is directing her characters on their own private stage when she writes. Jenna equates her writing to an addiction to chocolate—once she starts she just can’t stop!
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