No Greater Pleasure

Table of Contents

 

Praise for Megan Hart and her novels

 

“Ms. Hart is a master . . . I am absolutely in love with [her] writing and she remains on my auto-buy list. Take my advice and add her to yours!”

—
Ecataromance

 

“Megan Hart is one of my favorite authors . . . The sex is hot and steamy, the emotions are real, and the characters easy to identify with. I highly recommend all of Megan Hart’s books!”

—
The Best Reviews

 

“Terrific erotic romance.”

—
Midwest Book Review

 

“Unique . . . Fantastic.”

—
Sensual Romance

 

“Megan Hart is easily one of the more mature, talented voices I’ve encountered in the recent erotica boom. Deep, thought provoking, and heart wrenching.”

—
The Romance Reader

 

“Probably the most realistic erotic romance I’ve ever read . . . I wasn’t ready for the story to end.”

—
A Romance Review

 

“Sexy, romantic.”

—
Road to Romance

 

“Megan Hart completely wowed me! I never read an erotic book that, aside from the explicit sex, is [also] an emotionally powerful story.”

—
Romance Reader at Heart

Berkley Sensation Titles by Megan Hart

PLEASURE AND PURPOSE

NO GREATER PLEASURE

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

South Africa

 

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2009 by Megan Hart.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

BERKLEY
^®
SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / October 2009

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Hart, Megan.

No greater pleasure / Megan Hart.—Berkley Sensation trade paperback ed. p. cm.

eISBN: 9781101349380

PS3608.A7865N’.6—dc22

2009025920

 

 

Five Principles of the Order of Solace

1.
There is no greater pleasure than providing absolute solace.

2.
True patience is its own reward.

3.
A flower is made more beautiful by its thorns.

4.
Selfish is the heart that thinks first of itself.

5.
Women we begin and women we shall end.

Chapter 1

A flower is made more beautiful by its thorns.

 

 

 

 

 

G
lad 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. She 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. You might as well come in.”

The name gave no more clue to the person’s gender, but the acceptance of the title did. A man would never have been named
chatelaine
. 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 her 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 she 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. “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 her arms crossed over her 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. She 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.”

The cook 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.”