No Greater Pleasure Read online

  Other times he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on the back of the chair, leaving the room without giving her so much as a glance. The problem was, she could never tell which sort of day it would be, not from one to the other, and she could not seem to tie her actions to his reactions, only that the days he did not speak to her were rapidly beginning to outnumber the days he did.

  The house seemed quite empty without the bustle and chatter of guests, and though Quilla did not miss any of them, she found she missed the air of activity their presence had provided.

  Gabriel had not touched her since the day she’d thanked him for the gifts. If their hands brushed while she passed him a vial, or while she passed him tea, he made obvious care to move away from her. He did not ask for aid in buttoning his coat, nor in unbuttoning, nor in any action for which he had previously allowed her assistance.

  The dismissal stung more than it ought. He had needed solace. She had given it. It had meant no more than that. And yet . . . it had. And she could not look at him without remembering the touch of his hands upon her, or the sweetness of his breath in her face.

  It distracted her. Made her numb-fingered and clumsy, caused her to drop things.

  “Go,” he told her, frustrated, one day when she had spilled a beaker of solution for the second time in a row. “Get you gone! You are more trouble than you are worth, today!”

  And, fighting unaccustomed tears, she had gone. She avoided the kitchen, where Florentine would surely sniff out her distress with the same alacrity she discovered soured milk amongst the pitchers. Quilla was in no mood to listen to the cook’s mocking commentary. Instead, Quilla made her way to the third floor, to the long, bright gallery that stretched all the way across the top of the house.

  The windows brought in light, but also cold, for the glass was not much insulation against the winter outside. The bare wooden floors might have been well improved by carpets, but Quilla could only guess that, as the room was not often used, Gabriel had ordered them put elsewhere. The same for the furnishings, which were rather more threadbare than any in the rest of the house. Slightly mismatched as well, as though nobody expected this space to impress.

  Which was a shame, she thought, walking the length of the room. It was an impressive room. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the outside wall, while portraits of every size and artistic skill decorated the one opposite. Fireplaces trisected the space, and each of the three sections boasted its own sofa and grouping of chairs. A pianoforte at one end of the gallery would have provided music, should any care to play it, but when she touched it with one fingertip the note which sounded was discordant and sour.

  The room was, at least, clean and without dust, though the dangling pendants on the hanging lamps could have used a wash. The gallery had been meant to show off family portraits and provide a place for large gatherings, but Quilla found the long room good for something else, too. Walking.

  She walked from one end to the other, moving fast to fend off the chill hanging in the air. The activity took her mind off the melancholy. It gave her something to do so she didn’t dwell on her patron.

  She had reached the end of the gallery when the sound of shuffling reached her ears from the door set into the wall at the other end of the room. Without thinking much of it, she ducked into an alcove that had perhaps been meant to showcase a statue or potted plant. The door opened, and Dane tumbled through the doorway, giggling.

  The boy bore no sign of the incident with the eel. His plump cheeks were pink and blond hair tousled as he turned to face his companion.

  “Come, Uncle!” he cried. “I can’t wait!”

  “Patience, Nephew.” Jericho entered the room after Dane, something metal and shiny glinting in his hand.

  Dane danced, holding up his arms to grab at whatever Jericho held. “Give them to me! Give them to me!”

  “Give them to me . . .” Jericho paused, clearly expecting Dane to finish his sentence.

  “Please!”

  Jericho lowered his hand, and Quilla saw a pair of roller skates. Dane grabbed them up with a squeal of delight and sat in one of the chairs to put them on. In moments, he was up and off, sturdy legs pumping as he sped along the polished wood. Arms flailing, he swerved as he reached the end of the room and grabbed hold of a pedestal to keep from falling. The bust of a stern-looking man atop the pedestal teetered. A vision of it falling to the floor and smashing to bits made Quilla step out of her hiding place to grab it up with one hand while she hooked her fingers into the back of Dane’s jacket with the other.

  “Keep your feet, laddie,” she said with a laugh, steadying him before settling the bust back in its place.

  “Quilla Caden!” Dane’s obvious joy at seeing her made Quilla’s throat close with emotion. The boy threw his arms around her, squeezing, before setting off on another sprint down the length of the gallery.

  “Tranquilla Caden,” greeted Jericho as he walked toward her. “You are looking well.”

  “Jericho Delessan,” Quilla replied with a small curtsy and slight incline of her head. “Good day to you.”

  “Made better by your presence.”

  She raised a brow at the flattery, but did not otherwise respond to it. Instead, she tilted her chin toward the boy, who’d reached the gallery’s far end and had turned to make his flailing, rumbling way back. “We’d best get out of the way, lest we find ourselves victim to those wheels.”

  Jericho laughed and stepped back, closer to the grouping of chairs and settee in front of the windows. He reached for her elbow as he did, to guide her, and she followed him forward. Just in time, because a moment later Dane flew past them, arms akimbo and face lit with laughter.

  The boy made a high-pitched “Wheee!” and kept going, turning at the end to do it all over again.

  “Those skates might scuff the floor.”

  “It can be waxed,” Jericho said. “And he’s making most merry.”

  “He is, indeed.” Quilla turned to watch Dane, now attempting to spin. “He’ll make himself sick if he keeps that up.”

  Jericho laughed and sat on the settee. “He’ll be fine.”

  Quilla looked down at him. “You’re very kind to him.”

  “How could I be anything less?”

  She nodded. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  Before she had even half turned, his quiet voice, much unlike his usual boasting tone, stopped her. “You needn’t. Unless he wants you.”

  She turned her head to look at him. “As a matter of fact, I don’t believe he does.”

  “My brother is an arrogant fool.”

  That prompted a thin smile from her. “And you merely arrogant?”

  Jericho shook his head, laughing. “Nay, I think I am both arrogant and a fool, as well. But at least I admit my failings, while my brother continues to believe himself perfection.”

  Dane rolled by again, this time belting out a song with somewhat racy lyrics that made her raise a brow again. “Your doing, I suppose? The song?”

  “Bertram and Billy, I believe,” replied Jericho with a hurt look upon his face. “How could you suggest I would ever teach my nephew such a tune?”

  She laughed, arms crossed. “Because I believe you’d do it, if for no other reason than to ruffle your brother’s feathers.”

  “His feathers need a good ruffling now and again. He’s entirely too complacent and smug in his perfection.”

  Quilla sat in the chair across from him, shaking the hem of her gown to allow it to puddle around her ankles. “He is not perfect. Nor do I believe he thinks himself so. In fact, I think your brother chastises himself overharshly for sins that are not his to claim.”

  Jericho’s eyes met hers. “We arrogant fools tend to do that.”

  “You and your brother are more alike than either of you will dare to admit.”

  “I’ll admit it,” Jericho said, sitting back against the settee. “Even if he won’t. My brother despises me for the circumstance of my birth. That,
and my wit and charm and good looks, which far surpass his.”

  She returned his grin. “I fear he outdoes you in modesty, however.”

  “He might,” Jericho agreed. “He might, indeed.”

  “Watch me, Uncle!”

  “Watching, Nephew.” Jericho turned to see Dane roll by on one skate, the other leg held out behind him. “Brilliant!”

  “Watch me, Quilla!”

  “Watching, Dane.”

  When she turned back, it was to see Jericho staring at her with a look so naked and honest it froze her in place.

  “He is a fool,” Jericho said. “For not seeing what you are.”

  Quilla blinked, unable at first to say anything. “He knows what I am, well enough.”

  Jericho shook his head. “No. My brother has a gift he refuses to open. He won’t ever see it.”

  “I am his Handmaiden. I can be no more than what I am.”

  Jericho sat up, moved forward, closed in on her so subtly she could not have pulled away without making it seem as though he’d frightened her. “Is he soothed, yet?”

  “I’m still here,” she replied. “The answer would seem to be no.”

  From the end of the gallery she heard the noise of Dane’s whooping and hollering, the rumble of his skates upon the bare wooden floor, the thud as he fell. She looked into Jericho’s eyes, the shape so much like Gabriel’s but the color of a sun-kissed ocean rather than the depths of an unplumbed loch.

  “If it means keeping you here longer,” Jericho told her, “then I hope you never soothe him.”

  His hand upon her cheek left a trail of warmth that made her flush. His fingers twisted along the length of her braid before falling away. His palm left an unseen trail of heat along the fabric of her sleeve, ending with her hand, around which he curled.

  “If you were mine, I would never leave you so forlorn you need seek the emptiness of a gallery to gather your thoughts.”

  Quilla pulled her hand from his grip. “But I am not yours. If you find yourself in need of a Handmaiden, my lord, might I suggest you send for one.”

  Jericho didn’t seem taken aback by the sudden coolness she’d forced into her voice. “The one I’d have already appears to be conscripted.”

  “Stop this. You have to stop this.”

  “Why?” He leaned back again, one leg crossed over the other, arm behind his head, in seemingly casual repose.

  Quilla stood. “Because it does not become you. You want all that your brother has simply for the fact he has it instead of you.” Her gazed flicked toward Dane, who’d collapsed on the floor in a fit of giggles. “And I would say you’d taken enough of what is his, already. Stop being such a greedy bastard.”

  This made him blink and sit up, and she thought she might have offended him. “You call me such?”

  “I do,” she said. “For one who claims to love him as you do, you certainly don’t prove it by your actions.”

  He frowned, beginning to speak, but she cut him off.

  “And as regarding me, my other lord Delessan, you might taunt and tease me as you wish, though ’tis an even more unbecoming behavior than greed.”

  “I’m not teasing you.” His voice had gone low and solemn. “I mean all I say.”

  “I belong to your brother,” Quilla replied.

  “You belong to yourself first.”

  “I belong to the Service of the Holy Family, to the Order, to my patron, and lastly, to myself.”

  Jericho stood, close enough to her she could smell the scent of the lemonwood in which his clothes had been stored. Their bodies aligned. He put his head next to hers.

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered in her ear, not touching her with anything other than his breath. “And you are not only a Handmaiden in my eyes, Tranquilla. You are a woman.”

  The simplicity and sincerity of those words struck her like a spear, as though they stabbed her, deep in the gut, made her gasp from the impact but not, as yet, feel the pain from the wound.

  “I would know you,” Jericho told her, still whispering. Still not touching. “I would know your dreams. Your joys and sorrows. I would know what makes you laugh and weep.”

  A shudder of longing ran through her, for all the things denied her because of her purpose and her place. All that he now offered. Her eyes closed against the sight of his chest in front of her.

  She perhaps imagined the brush of his lips upon her temple, the pressure of his hand upon her hip, drawing her infinitesimally closer. Or perhaps she did not. In the end, it didn’t matter, because the crash of the poor, belabored bust startled her and Jericho apart.

  She saw a dazed-looking Dane sprawled on the floor amongst the remains of the porcelain piece. She pushed away from Jericho and went to the boy, checking him for injuries. She saw none.

  “My father will be angry with me,” said Dane solemnly.

  Jericho shook his head. “I don’t think so, lad. It was a figure of my father. He won’t mourn the loss.”

  Dane smiled the Delessan smile shared by his father and his uncle. “I’m sorry I broke it, Uncle.”

  “Sometimes,” Jericho said, his careful refusal to look at Quilla more telling than if he’d stared into her face, “things get broken. All you can do is sweep up the pieces and start over again.”

  Quilla stood. “Your uncle is absolutely right, Dane.”

  She ruffled the boy’s hair, then turned on her heel and left the gallery without a second look back.

  Chapter 12

  Sweep up the pieces and start again. Simple advice, and words she knew he had not meant for the benefit of his brother. Nonetheless, Quilla intended to use them for such. She was Gabriel’s Handmaiden. Nothing that had passed between them, no action, no emotion, should change that.

  Determined, she let herself into his chambers to discover him seated in front of the fireplace, a glass of liquor in his hand. He looked up, startled, when she came in, but Quilla did not hesitate. She went to him and Waited.

  “I told you to go.”

  She Waited in silence.

  “Handmaiden, I told you to leave me!”

  Again, she said nothing.

  Gabriel made an angry noise. “It pleases me for you to leave me alone.”

  Then she looked up at him and met his scowl with a calm gaze of her own. “No.”

  “No?” He seemed flabbergasted. “You say no, to me?”

  “You say it pleases you to have me leave, but it does not.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Think you to know my mind better than I?”

  Quilla nodded, slowly, eyes never leaving his. “I am what you need before you know you need it.”

  He sneered, cruelty etched into his face. “And you think I need you.”

  Another slow nod. “I do.”

  “To do what?” Contempt coated his voice. “To serve me tea and simplebread? To hand me vials and take notes for me? To sing or dance or make pretty poems? In case ’tis not clear to you, I am working on nothing but intoxication.”

  “Then I will pour your drinks.”

  “I don’t need you to pour them!” His shout had, perhaps, been meant to make her flinch, but she did not. “I do not need you, Handmaiden!”

  “Then send me away.” The words were calm only because she had some small skill in controlling her voice; inside, anxiety clutched its skeletal fingers around her heart.

  “I sent you away.”

  She shook her head. “No, my lord. You told me to go away. You did not release me from your service. Should you wish to do that, you must needs say ‘I release thee,’ thrice in succession. Only then will I be gone from your service.”

  He stared at her for what felt like a very long time before answering, and when he did, it was not with words. He held out his empty glass to her. Quilla took it as she got to her feet. She filled it from the bottle of worm, wine mixed with opiate, the fumes of which were so strong they made her eyes sting. She gave him the glass, and he sipped it, all while watching her.


  Quilla sank again into Waiting. Gabriel drained another glass. Held it out. She filled and returned it. He sipped again, his eyes now a bit less focused.

  “Come here,” he said after a time, voice thick.

  She did as he’d asked. He reached out a rough hand to grab her wrist and pull her to his lap. The glass spilled, wetting her gown and sending the stinging smell of liquor all around them.

  “If I asked you to suck my cock, or to let me fuck you,” Gabriel said, “you would do it.”

  She answered him in the way she always did, voice still calm, though his words had made her stomach jump. “If it pleases you.”

  He licked his lips, eyes traveling over her face and down her body. His hand ran down her side to the curve of her hip. “And what of pleasing yourself?”

  “Do you wish me to suck your cock, my lord? Do you wish me to allow you to fuck me?” She lowered her face to his, their foreheads touching. Voice no longer so calm, but instead slightly shaking. “Would that please you?”

  “I want,” said Gabriel hoarsely, “for it to please you.”

  She put her hands to his face. “I would be so pleased, Gabriel.”

  He groaned and both hands went around her, one fisting in her braid to bring her closer for his kiss. Her mouth opened beneath his, accepting the dive and thrust of his tongue. He did not nibble or tease her lips, did not gently kiss her, did not request with his body that she respond.

  His kiss demanded she respond, that she open for him, give in. Submit. Please.

  And it did please her to do so. Desire so fierce it made her weak swept through her, making her shake. Her hands threaded through his hair. His pulled up the skirt of her gown to find without hesitation the heat of her center. He slipped inside her in a moment, his thumb finding the pulse of her pleasure, and Quilla gasped into his mouth.

  “You want me,” he said, mouth trailing along her jaw to fasten on the soft skin at the base of her throat. “Tell me you want me.”

  “I want you.” She moaned as his hand moved inside and against her.

  He bit her but the pain at her neck only made the pleasure between her legs that much sweeter. His thumb pressed, on and off, then circled her nub. Her hips moved.