Smith Lilah's Limit

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 979-8-3509-4909-4
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 210 Seiten

Reihe: Lilah's Limit

Lilah's Limit is a dark romance that takes place in New Orleans circa 1871. The story revolves around the passionate, yet strained relationship between the wealthy, scar-faced gentleman, Philippe Renault, and the mysterious prostitute, Lilah. As the story unfolds, Renault feels his lust for Lilah evolve into love. After Lilah is attacked by an unknown assailant in Madame Cheney's opulent bordello, her place of employment, Renault realizes that Lilah's life is in immediate danger. Renault has to act fast if he wants to save Lilah, but that may mean committing an act of cold-blooded murder. Will Renault risk the damnation of his eternal soul for true love?

I grew up in Bucktown, a bustling community on the northwest side of Chicago. I was attracted to the dark side of human nature from an early age, fascinated by what motivated good people to behave in bad ways. My books touch on both the grace and brutality of life.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Smith, Suzanne

Leseproben

Chapter One Renault turned the brass carriage handle sideways and stepped down the steep pedal of the silver foot brace. Once his feet were on solid ground, he unfastened his suit coat and reached his hand into his vest pocket. He drew out his diamond encrusted pocket watch, holding the glittery, round, golden shell casing close to his face as he squinted in the dark to see the position of the hands. Nine o’clock exactly. Yes, that would make sense. He’d left his manor on Lake Pontchartrain at half past seven this evening. The fifteen mile carriage trip from his home to the center of the sprawling town of New Orleans usually took a full hour and a half. He slid the watch back into his pocket, relieved that he was on time for this evening’s engagement. He could almost hear his dead father’s nagging voice in his ear, “Punctuality is a sign of good breeding. A true gentleman never disrespects his party by keeping them waiting.” He liked to think of himself as just that, a true gentleman, even if his father never did. He stepped away from his carriage and walked a short distance down narrow, dimly lit Basin street. He was thankful that he had the sidewalk all to himself. It was Saturday night and very soon, the street would be littered with men on the prowl. He’d never been fond of crowds, and the older he got, the truer that was. When he reached the spiked, bronze fence with the number 1800 imprinted in black lettering on the address plaque hanging from the fence post, he stopped. He opened the gate and slowly made his way down the center of the newly groomed courtyard, which was one of the finest he’d ever seen. The colorful field of chrysanthemums on both sides of him were arranged with conservative panache, a bonny pop of purple, orange and yellow here and there, not overly theatrical and commercialized, but just enough personality and flair to make him feel warm and welcome. Like he was visiting the home of a close friend. The lattice trellis that marked the end of the garden walkway was no less remarkable, with trim, waxy vines of deep green foliage and inserts of tiny white flowers that still bore the distinctive smell of vanilla, though summer was officially over. After he passed under the trellis and was out of the garden, he started his climb up the short flight of well traveled cobblestone stairs. It was when he stood on the top stair, next to the weathered door with the crackling red paint that marked the entrance to the quaint, two story building, that he found himself overcome by a sudden shortness of breath. He quickly inhaled as much of the stagnant night air as he could, exhaling in long, slow puffs and then inhaling once again until his lungs were fully expanded. Perhaps he’d climbed the stairs too fast. Or he’d drunk too much wine on an empty stomach. He could use either of these pitiful excuses to explain the reason for the onset of his mysterious illness, but in his heart, he knew the truth. It was the guilt of his own depravity that was suffocating him. He stood in front of the grandest, most talked about whorehouse in all New Orleans. Rumor had it that the Madame here was a matchmaker par excellence who always knew which girl to pair with which man, insuring a happy client who returned time after time. She was also said to be a bit of a visionary who was of the opinion that in the future prostitution in New Orleans wouldn’t just be tolerated and punished by a slap on the wrist for violating the Vagrancy Law as it was now, but on some level, it would be legalized and contained, controlled by city officials in order to placate a morally incensed public who wanted to see every whore in the city put in one spot instead of gallivanting up and down their pristine sidewalks. No matter how prophetic the Madame at this particular location was or what course copulating for coin took in the future, Renault knew that keeping company with these lewd women was frowned upon by every member of decent society now. No one he knew would approve of him being here, not even his lascivious friend Hubert Raggart. His head began to ache as he debated whether he should stay here and feed his lust or go home and save his good name, and his soul. He was still weighing the pros and cons of which course of action to take when the door fully opened. “Monsieur Renault?” asked the craggy voiced, silver-haired woman with the hanging jowls as she greeted him. His decision was made for him. There wasn’t any point in leaving now that his presence no longer remained a secret. He shook his head. “I’m Madame Cheney,” she said, with a puckered smile on her face. Her black eyeliner was thick and clumpy, caked in the corners of her sunken, gray eyes. The bright pink blush on her cheeks was layered on so heavily, it looked like a bored child had applied it, and kept reapplying it until the rouge pot was empty. The face powder she wore was too dark for her sallow complexion and clung to every dry wrinkle on her forehead. Though the ivory colored cameo brooch nestled in the cleavage of her ample bosom added a slight bit of class to her ensemble, overall, her frilly scarlet dress was too small for her frame. She reminded Renault of the stuffed sausage he’d eaten for dinner last night. “Please come in. We’ve been expecting you.” He knew by the taut, displeased look on her face when her gaze landed on his cheek, that he was about as far away from what she was expecting as a man could get, at least in terms of his physical appearance. Perhaps she was hoping to see a more attractive man, a man who wouldn’t present such a challenge to her celebrated reputation as a matchmaker. He should’ve mentioned the peculiarity of his appearance in his introductory letter. But it wasn’t a subject he liked to dwell on. “May I get you something to drink?” “That won’t be necessary Madame Cheney. As I explained in my letter, I will not be staying long,” he replied, in a tense tone. “Yes, of course. You will take the…” she paused, as if she was trying to find the best descriptive word for what she was offering, “merchandise to your beautiful home near the lake. Let me just say that you won’t be disappointed. Our girls are not only the finest looking in town, but also the cleanest and most accommodating. That’s something you shall see for yourself.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her thin red lips, her chubby little hand now stuck squarely in front of him. “Payment is due in advance sir.” Renault slid his hand under his open suit coat, this time drawing a bulbous, coin filled, leather drawstring pouch out of his front pants pocket. Madame Cheney might not have been impressed with his looks, but he could tell by the way that her sharp, beady eyes remained focused on his pouch that she was impressed with his wealth. He dropped the pouch into her palm. “Thank you.” She tucked the coin in her dress pocket. “Now that we have that out of the way, tell me what it is that you like. Do you prefer dark skinned girls? Pale? Tall? Petite?” He took a step deeper inside the room. His eyes transfixed on the double wide staircase that led up to the second floor. Like the garden outside, the staircase inside was an exemplary work of art. The flat, golden handrails that encased the shellacked oak pole shaped balusters on both sides of the staircase were simple, yet sleek and eye catching. But what really deserved an extra round of applause was the white carpeting that extended from the bottom of the staircase to the top. The fluffy, white fibers on each stair were so tall and loose that Renault felt as if he were looking at a big, beautiful cloud that had fallen from the sky to the earth. He could imagine how soft and giving it would be under his bare feet. “It’s Greek,” Madame said out of the blue. “Pardon me?” “The carpeting on the staircase. It’s imported from Greece. I saw you staring at it. It’s a favorite with many of our gentlemen. It’s made from hand cut sheep’s wool. The wool is carried up to a mountain waterfall, then washed for hours in a deep vat. It’s the friction of the stream of water against the wool fibers that give the carpet it’s soft touch and shaggy look.” “It’s exceptional.” “Yes. You will find that everything we offer here is exceptional.” Renault watched in silent fascination as a plump, baby faced boy made his way up the staircase, followed behind by a skeletal, bowlegged, grey haired man who was so old and rickety that it seemed like he needed to lean on the arm of his determined young female escort to stay upright. He liked to think that he had something in common with both the adolescent and the old man. The youngster was looking for his first love, the old man his last love, and Renault his only love. He recoiled slightly as the pushy Madame Cheney slid her arm through his. “Please sir. Let me help you choose. Tell me what you like and I shall see that you are made happy. Our girls are extremely well versed in the art of, um, lovemaking.” She placed soft emphasis on the last word. It seemed as if she knew he might be more at ease hearing a sweet, tender word to describe his salacious fornication rather than a harsh vulgar one. The fact that Madame Cheney might have guessed that he preferred to distort the truth, to make something ugly...