~ Promise Me Forever ~

by

Kimberly Nee

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 should 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...