No Greater Pleasure

No Greater Pleasure

There is no greater pleasure than providing absolute solace.

For Handmaiden Tranquilla Caden, each new assignment brings the chance at leading one more patron into solace.

For Gabriel Delessan, the services of a Handmaiden are a luxury he can afford—but not one he truly believes he deserves.

When a sense of duty becomes something more intimate for both of them, Tranquilla must convince Gabriel to accept what she can offer him – solace, yes. But more than that…love.

No Greater Pleasure

Chapter One

Aflower is made more beautiful by its thorns.

Glad Tidings was a house with a great many thorns seeking to hide its beauty. If ever a house had been more ill-named, Tranquilla Caden had never seen it. She lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall against the door three times before stepping back to look up again at the manse.

The stone façade had weathered to gray without even ivy or moss providing a hint of green. The shutters, black. The gabled roof, black. Even the door, black, the brass knocker weather-dulled. The twin towers on each end of the house gave it an interesting roofline, but they were more buttress than fae-story spirals. It lacked not for glass windows, but even those looked purely practical and not for ornament.

Glad Tidings looked well and fashionably maintained, a grand manor house. It looked like raised eyebrows and pursed lips, like mutton for supper and a clean-your-plate demeanor. Then again, those who lived in whitewashed cottages with flower-filled gardens rarely seemed to have need for a Handmaiden.

Sure you doona want me to wait, mistress?

Quilla turned to give the coach driver a smile. No, thank you, Steven. They’re expecting me.

The man who’d been her traveling companion for the past seven days looked doubtful. Are you sure’n? For I’d not like to leave you here, alone.

Before she could reply, the door creaked open. Quilla turned to see a rolling blue eye peering at her. Hello?

You the Handmaiden?

The lack of welcome didn’t disturb Quilla, who put on her best smile. I’m Tranquilla Caden. I’m here—

I know what you’re here for.

A snort and a grumble preceded the door opening to reveal a stout, broad-faced figure in a

flour-dusty dress worn over a pair of ankle-high breeches. A head of untidy gray curls and a streak of soot on one cheek completed this unusual ensemble.

You, said the woman—but was it a woman? The mustache and manner made it difficult to be sure. They pointed at the coach driver. You’ve been paid, hent ya?

He nodded. Aye, but I’ve come to deliver—

And deliver you’ve done! Get gone!

Steven made a rude gesture, but lifted down Quilla’s sturdy case and handed it to her. Pleasure making your company, mistress. May the Invisible Mother keep you.

Today and all your others, replied Quilla. The case stayed next to her feet as she watched Steven get back in the coach and start the horses on their way again. She looked back at the person standing in the doorway with arms folded, brows beetled, and a frown so fierce it would have frightened a boogen. Quilla took in the flour and soot, and more importantly, the haughty manner. You must be the chatelaine.

I’m Florentine. I’m the cook and chatelaine and whatfor is needed here. You might as well come in.

Florentine stepped aside to let Quilla enter the grand entrance hall. The interior of Glad Tidings was no less impressive and no more joyful than the outside had been.

Quilla looked around with interest. The grand staircase curved upward to a landing above. To her left and right, arched doorways led to well-lit rooms furnished with exquisite taste. Most interesting to Quilla were the woven tapestries she glimpsed on the walls. Even from this distance it was clear they were the finest she’d seen.

If you’ve finished gawking, Florentine said over their shoulder with a sniff, might as well follow me.

Quilla hefted her case to get a better grip and followed Florentine down the hall tucked beneath the front stairs. More doors opened off this hall, but Florentine ignored them all. At last the chatelaine turned through another archway and then down a short flight of steps to the kitchen. A fire crackled in the large stone fireplace, and the smells of baking bread and roasting meat filled the air. Quilla took a deep sniff, her stomach rumbling.

Florentine quirked a bushy eyebrow at her. Dint eat afore you came?

I had a long journey. My last meal was yestereve, almost a full day past.

Florentine huffed but seemed oddly pleased. Sit down.

Quilla did with a grateful sigh. It might not be her place to complain, but the journey had exhausted her. Her nose wrinkled. She was famished and dusty and certain she smelled unpleasant, if not downright horrid.

Florentine plunked a bowl of something steaming and hot in front of her, along with a hunk of fresh brown bread and a crock of sweet butter. At the smell of it, the simple but sufficient quantity of it, Quilla’s mouth watered. Florentine set a mug of creamy milk on the table, with a pitcher full of the same, and Quilla murmured a blessing of thanksgiving and drank the cup within moments, then filled it again.

Don’t make yourself sick, cautioned Florentine, watching with their arms crossed over their chest. There’s plenty more where that come from. Our master Delessan ain’t generous with much, but he don’t stinge us on the eats.

Quilla wiped her lips. Don’t worry, Florentine. I won’t make myself sick. I’m just hungry.

Florentine’s huff seemed to be a common reaction. The chatelaine moved toward the massive fireplace to poke and prod the large joint turning on the spit. Quilla dunked her bread into the stew, soaking up the rich broth, then savoring the flavors. Her last patron had been an elderly gentleman who could chew naught but the softest foods and stomach only the blandest. When her tongue detected the hints of garlic, onion, springbulb and others, Quilla moaned at the pleasure of good food.

Florentine shot her a narrow-eyed look, mustached mouth pursing. Wotcher?

Quilla swallowed the mouthful of food and drank some more milk to wash it down. It’s so delicious. I haven’t had anything like it in a long time. Thank you.

Don’t look like you’ve been missing many meals, I’ll say that.

Quilla paused in raising another bite of bread to her mouth to answer without rancor. I am as I was made. No more, no less.

He don’t like fat girls. He’s not going to be happy when he sees you. He likes ’em skinny, the master does. Starved, like.

Quilla swallowed and wiped her mouth again. The Order sent me based upon what Lord Delessan requested. If I don’t please him, he can send me away.

She looked down at the plain, deep plum-colored gown she wore for traveling. It buttoned from throat to hem, and the cut of it emphasized her ample breasts and hips, covered the soft curve of her belly, clung to her strong, rounded thighs. Woman I began and woman I shall end. I can only be what I am, Florentine. Just as you can only be what you are.

The chatelaine huffed and added a sniff, perhaps of disgust or disdain, Quilla couldn’t be sure. Spare me your philosophies, if you please.

Quilla bent back to her meal. I meant not to offend.

Florentine squatted to poke at the fire, making it blaze up to char the joint. She stood and turned, putting her hands on her wide hips. He’ll take one look at you and howl like you’d got three heads, you mark my words. ’Tis not his nature to be satisfied with anything. Or at least, not to admit he’s satisfied with it.

Quilla had long experience with those who were not easily satisfied. Has he complained about his previous Handmaidens?

Never had one, so far as I know, and I been with him since I used to be a boy. Which I don’t need to tell you was a long time ago, Florentine said. And in another place.

Quilla smiled. If he’s sent for a Handmaiden, he must feel he has need of one.

The chatelaine rolled her eyes. He’s got a wife who sufficed him for a goodly long time in that manner. Whatfor he needs a new wick to wax, I’m not privy to say.

Ah. Quilla ate a bite, chewed and swallowed, then looked back to Florentine, who was still watching. I’m not a whore, you know. None of us are.

That seemed to get a different reaction out of the chatelaine, who stared, mouth agape. They shut it with a snap and frowned, brow furrowing as they shook their finger at Quilla.

Don’t you tell me what you izzerarnt! I know what you’re here to do!

Quilla looked at Florentine for a long moment in calm silence. If there were going to be problems, best to confront them now. Saying nothing was the best response. She sipped more milk.

Florentine scowled. "’Tis not my place to say what my lord Delessan does, you understand. He deems he needs a Handmaiden, so I sends away for one. What he does with you is of no concern to me."

Exactly, said Quilla gently. I am here to serve him and no other in any way he pleases. That is my role, one I have trained to do and would miss sorely should I leave it. It does not make me a whore, who is paid to provide her body, only.

The chatelaine rolled their eyes. I don’t believe in that rot you of the Order make your faith. Filling Sinder’s Quiver. Waiting for the Holy Family. The Holy Family is long gone from this plane and won’t be back no matter how many of us you try to soothe. I don’t believe it, not a word.

Then how fortunate for you that I do. Quilla buttered another slice of bread. Defending herself and her faith had long ago ceased to make her angry. And for whatever his reasons, it would seem our mutual master does.

This made Florentine grin, exposing startlingly white teeth. We’ll see. I warrant he won’t like you at all.

I might not please him, though I’ll do my best to try. It will be his choice to send me back if I fail.

I don’t see as how you can’t, replied Florentine. He’s hard as stone, Gabriel Delessan. No pleasing him. Believe me, I’ve tried. There’s not a meal what comes out of this kitchen he don’t complain about, not a mote of dust he don’t notice. He can’t keep house staff long enough to keep up with the cleaning. We’re down to just three maids and two houseboys, which has made my life and Vernon the butler’s quite a pain in the arse, don’t you know it. He can’t keep assistants, as he tends to scream them into apoplexy. Our lord Delessan is a cantankerous, discontented, disillusioned, and aggravating son of a bastard.

Not a flattering portrayal. Why do you stay, then?

Florentine looked at Quilla as though she were stupid. He took me in when I had no place to go. He didn’t care about where I came from, what I’d done or what I’d been. He gave me a place in his house when I’d probably have starved otherwise.

You make him sound like a hero, when just moments ago you were denouncing him as a curmudgeon.

Florentine rolled her eyes. Sinder’s Arrow, girl. Are you daft? Don’t you know he can be both?

I do know that. Quilla smiled. And as I said, if I fail to please him, he can return me to the Order.

Florentine regarded Quilla with a squinted glance. I wouldn’t bother unpacking much, then, if I were you.

Fortunately I haven’t much to unpack.

Does naught disturb you? Florentine threw up their hands.

Quilla shrugged. Why are you so determined to frighten me away? Are you so afraid I’ll what . . . replace you? Or does your innate tenderness cause you to worry his rejection is going to hurt me? Because I can assure you, Florentine, that won’t be the case.

I’m not worried he’s going to hurt you. Florentine glowered. But the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you’d hurt him.

Chapter Two

Quilla had been unable to convince Florentine to expound upon their surprising statement. As if realizing she’d revealed too much, the plump chatelaine had clamped their lips together and refused to say anything more. They’d rung for one of the house lads, Bertram, to take Quilla to her quarters.

Florentine wasn’t kidding when she said he wasn’t overgenerous.

Quilla looked round the small, sparsely furnished room. A narrow bed, covered with an unadorned comforter and a single flat pillow. A fireplace. A small settee with a sprung seat and a tear in one arm through which a tuft of stuffing peeked. A wardrobe that did, at least, have a mirror on the door. A window with no curtain but a cushioned window seat. A small washroom with a basin on a stand, a wastechair, and a plain but sufficient tub for bathing, heated by a small brazier beneath.

Far from the finest quarters she’d ever been granted, but clean and sufficient. No evidence of rats or spiders, two creatures she abhorred.

You’ve got a grand view from up here. Better than mine. Bertram peeked out the window. He turned with a grin, a fine-looking lad with a shock of red hair and dusty freckles sprinkled across his nose.

Quilla returned the grin. This will be lovely, I’m sure.

Bertram nodded. If you need anything, let me know. You can find me belowstairs, most days, though I’m to run errands and do handy chores if needed, too.

Thank you, Bertram. I’ll remember that.

He hesitated, as though wanting to ask her something but afraid to. She’d also encountered this before. Quilla smiled warmly at the lad, who was probably a good eight years younger than she.

Bertram’s cheeks flushed the color of brick while the tips of his ears went more crimson. Florentine says you’re going to be sent away right off.

I might be. Do you think I will?

I don’t see how anyone could want to send you away.

Quilla smiled. Thank you.

Well, if you need anything . . .

I know where to find you.

He nodded, still blushing, and beat a hasty exit. Quilla watched him go, amused. She often elicited the same reactions in new acquaintances. Fumbling embarrassment or veiled disdain. Shaking her head, weary from the journey and the effort of arriving in a new household, she sank onto her knees, hands folded in her lap, the back of her right hand inside the palm of the left.

The uncarpeted floor was cold and hard, but she didn’t notice. Quilla was Waiting. Waiting was a clearing of the mind, of thought, of the physical. Waiting was the first practice any servant of the Order of Solace learned. Waiting created calm. Serenity. It allowed a Handmaiden to focus her attentions fully on her patron.

Invisible Mother, grant me serenity enough to share, for there is no greater pleasure than providing absolute solace.

In the absence of her patron, Quilla Waited for herself. Every new assignment was difficult at first, no matter how well her training allowed her to hide it. Smiling when she wanted to weep, murmuring when she wanted to scream, saying yes when she wished to say no. It always passed once she settled in.

Invisible Mother, grant me patience enough to share, for true patience is its own reward.

In a way, Quilla preferred the homes in which she never settled, never became a part of the family. It was hard to love a place and its people, only to be sent away, in the end. Yes, that was her life, her role, what she did, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept when it came time to pack her bags and leave a place she’d come to consider home.

Invisible Mother, grant me beauty enough to share, for a flower is made more beautiful by its thorns, and I have many.

Glad Tidings did not seem to be destined for that sort of ending. Quilla rubbed her temples. Would her new patron be as awful as Florentine had said? And what had the chatelaine meant with their cryptic statement that Quilla might hurt him?

Invisible Mother, grant me generosity enough to share, for selfish is the heart that thinks first of itself.

How can I possibly hurt him? she murmured aloud. ’Tis my place to serve him.

Woman I began and woman I shall end.

She could do no more nor less than that. She sighed and got to her feet, wanting only to wash away the grime of her travel and prepare herself for her new patron. She opened the wardrobe to see what sort of uniform she’d be wearing. She’d been dressed in everything from tight-corseted formal gowns to loose shifts more appropriate for sleeping, but what she found hung inside and folded in the drawers made her smile.

She touched the fabrics, none of them expensive but all of them fine enough quality. No harsh or scratchy wools. Soft linen and flaxene gowns in muted shades of green and blue hung from the hangers, while plain but clearly new undergarments took a place in the drawers. Warm stockings, for winter was creeping close. A soft, black woolen cloak with a hood, a bow of red startling against the throat of it. Slippers and one pair of plain black lace-up shoes.

Quilla took out a deep blue gown and held it up to herself in front of the mirror. Long sleeves would come to a point over the back of her hand. Plain satin ribbon banded the high neckline. Buttons ran from throat to hem as on the gown she wore, but of higher quality. More plain ribbon adorned the hem, which reached to her toes and looked to be full enough to swirl when she turned.

In short, he expected her to dress the part of the traditional Handmaiden. Dark colors and demure style. An insight into what he desired, or merely laziness on the part of whomever had ordered the clothes?

It didn’t matter what she wore, if anything. She would be what he needed, no matter what that was. In dark blue or flaming red, covered from throat to toes or naked, Quilla’s place was to serve.

A bath and good teeth brushing. Wash her hair. Perhaps a chance to sleep in the narrow bed. Those were her plans until the knock on her door made her turn. She opened it, though of course there was no lock and the person on the other side could simply have walked in. It said a lot about this household, though, that privacy was respected.

Come in.

Florentine stuck their head around the half-open door. He wants you.

Quilla looked at the gown in her hands and her own dusty dress. I haven’t even had a chance to bathe—

Now.

All right.

Quilla hung the gown back in the wardrobe and brushed her skirt clean as best she could. The bath would wait, but she did take a gulp of water to rinse her mouth before following Florentine out of the room.

Quilla fixed her hair with swift fingers as she walked, tucking her curls into a tight braid that hung to the middle of her back. It was the best she could do on short notice, though she was certain she still looked journey-worn. She followed the chatelaine down the narrow garret stairs and a short, wide hallway to the carved wooden door at the end. When Florentine pushed it open, it revealed another set of narrow, steep steps. Quilla counted twelve. Not too many. Just enough to trip her up as she followed Florentine.

He’s in here?

Without waiting for an answer, Quilla pushed past Florentine and opened the door. It swung open on creaking hinges that sounded like an old man’s joints complaining, and she made a note to take care of that. It couldn’t be pleasant, always hearing the door scream when it opened.

The room inside wasn’t much more agreeable. The fragrance in the air was acrid and slightly burnt, though the fireplace looked to be in good enough repair. The floor of bare, unwaxed wood had made the acquaintance of a broom and mop some time ago, for small stains and speckles of grime played hush-and-find amongst the tattered woven rugs. The tapestries on the wall were nondescript and out of fashion, though of fine workmanship and probably quite expensive.

Four tall windows provided ample light, but the numerous lamps upon the walls would provide illumination when the sun did not. A massive table dominated the room’s far corner. On it, glass beakers and simmering cauldrons crouched over tiny gas-powered flames. The scorch marks on the wood and the wall behind it showed her the source of the burnt smell.

An untidy but well-made desk squatted along the other wall, its surface heaped high with books, papers, pots of ink, and all manner of detritus that looked as though it might simply tumble over at any moment. More interesting were the rows of small cages in which mice squeaked and fat rabbits squatted, complacently chewing.

Quilla took in all of this, including the high-backed chair in front of the fire, with such swift unobtrusiveness that none but another Handmaiden would have noticed her scrutiny. There were innumerable ways to make this room more enjoyable, and the first would be a thorough cleaning. Quilla noted the battered kettle hung over the fire, the tea chest with the splintered lid, the chipped cups with missing saucers. Her patron liked tea, and yet did not seem to take much comfort from it.

I was expecting someone older. The flat comment turned Quilla’s head toward the man who’d stepped out of the doorway at the back of the room.

Without a word, Quilla sank gracefully onto her knees, folding them beneath her so she could rise in the same smooth motion as she’d dropped. She folded her hands in her lap, the back of the right tucked into the palm of the left. She Waited.

My lord Delessan, this is—

I know who she is, Florentine. Gabriel Delessan stomped toward Quilla on great black boots in need of a polishing. Didn’t you hear what I said, Handmaiden?

Quilla looked up at him. This was to be her new patron. A challenge.

I am who the Order assigned, yes. If I do not please you, all you must do is send me back. My age is one of the few things I am unable to change for your pleasure.

That seemed to mollify him a bit, because he said, Really? What are the others?

The color of my eyes, the size of my feet and hands, my height, the roundness of my breasts, Quilla told him matter-of-factly.

Most times, the answer stumped them, but not this man. He scowled, deep blue gray eyes made dark with the expression. I didn’t call for you because of the size of your breasts.

Quilla nodded again. But if my age—

’Tis not. Delessan’s scowl further creased his face. Florentine, you can go.

The chatelaine nodded and glared at Quilla, then bustled out of the room. Quilla remained where she was. This man was going to be more than a challenge. He was going to be downright difficult.

Quilla had never left an assignment. It had been a point of pride for her that no matter how difficult or demanding a patron, she stayed until she provided them absolute solace, or they sent her away. In the Order of Solace, no shame came from failure to ultimately please. It was understood that some people refuse to be pleased no matter what they are offered. Shame came from giving up.

How old are you?

Eight and twenty, my lord.

He snorted and put his hands behind his back. Gabriel Delessan was a tall man and

broad-shouldered. He had the body of a laborer dressed in a gentleman’s clothes, rather formal for the time of day and the work he did, she thought. Her eyes assessed him as she had the room. He could have been any age from thirty to forty, his skin a tawny umber and his dark hair without any hint of silver. Black trousers. White shirt buttoned up high at the throat. Gray vest, four-buttoned, none undone. His black coat had been tailored to fit him exquisitely, the sleeves hitting him at the wrist instead of midhand, as was the current fashion, and in a flash Quilla understood that was not because his clothes were out of fashion, but that he’d had them made that way apurpose. He worked with his hands. Shorter sleeves were more practical. The jacket, on the other hand, came to midthigh instead of the currently popular waist length. The clothes made him look severe, forbidding, not a man who could be bothered wasting time with trivialities.

Is it always the policy of your Order to teach its servants to stare?

Quilla blinked, startled at being caught. She lowered her eyes. No, my lord. I plead your mercy.

For Sinder’s sake, her patron said. Get off your knees.

Quilla did as he’d asked, standing in one fluid motion gained from years of practice. She waited a moment, watching him. His gaze traveled over her with the same apparent attention to detail she’d given him. Quilla was used to being scrutinized. It wasn’t unheard of for new patrons to ask her to strip down to skin the first time she met them. Particularly the mistresses, who often seemed to want to reassure themselves her body was no more seductive or luxurious than theirs; even if it was, they always managed to find some flaw to point out and feel better about.

But this man looked her over, fully clothed, and made her feel more naked than if he’d ordered her to strip. When at last his eyes settled on her face, she knew he could see the heatroses blooming on her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes. What else, Quilla wondered, did Gabriel Delessan see in her?

If I wanted a whore I could get one from the market for a tenth of the cost of having you, he said, his indifferent tone worse than if he’d sounded condescending.

She’d been well-trained in keeping her emotions in check, but this bald, bored statement slapped her harder than if he’d sneered the words. She blinked, her mouth dropping open enough to allow a small hiss to escape her lips before she gathered her presence of mind and pressed her mouth closed.

I am not a whore.

Delessan’s face proved perfectly suited to amused sarcasm as one brow lifted and his mouth quirked into some sad semblance of a smile that had no humor behind it. "Then what makes you think I want