Corsets and Quartets
Mercy DeSimone
Copyright © 2020 Mercy DeSimone
Corsets & Quartets
First Publication: July 30, 2020
Cover by HQ Artwork
Formatting by Inked Imagination
Editing by Bookish Dreams Editing
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Published by Mercy DeSimone
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Never put an expiration date on your dreams.
This one's for Shannon.
No, this is not an autobiography! But I appreciate you believing I could actually be that cool.
Contents
Chapter 1
Historical and Rhetorical
Chapter 2
Cat-tastrophes
Chapter 3
Hello Pussy
Chapter 4
Did Someone Say Bacon?
Chapter 5
Let the Games Begin
Chapter 6
Who's the Vampire?
Chapter 7
Pussy Got Run Over by a Reindeer
Chapter 8
Whose Date is This Anyway?
Chapter 9
Two Truths & A Lie
Chapter 10
Well That Was Awkward
Chapter 11
Traitor, Thy Name Is Daisy
Chapter 12
Regrets and Recriminations
Chapter 13
A Knotty Situation
Chapter 14
Harems are for Harlots
Chapter 15
Can You Keep a Secret?
Chapter 16
Cook Play Lust
Chapter 17
Call Me Sexy Spice
Chapter 18
Walk of Shame
Chapter 19
Dressed to Drill
Chapter 20
Et Tu, Brutus?
Chapter 21
The Dogs of War
Chapter 22
Take Me to Your Breeder
Chapter 23
The Dog Days Aren't Over
Chapter 24
Mind Your Manners
Chapter 25
Of Dogs and Men
Chapter 26
Great Vibez
Chapter 27
A Slot to Fill
Chapter 28
The Perfect Gentleman
Chapter 29
Pizza and Priorities
Chapter 30
What's New Pussy Cat?
Chapter 31
What's Love Got to Do With Brit?
Chapter 32
Once Again With Feeling
Chapter 33
Here's Where the Story Ends
Chapter 34
Three is a Magic Number
Chapter 35
The Quill of Anticipation
Chapter 36
Don't Feed the Trolls
Chapter 37
Who's Getting Quadrilled?
Chapter 38
The Fine Print
Chapter 39
Truth and Consequences
Chapter 40
Blame and Bonfires
Chapter 41
Crisis of the Soul
Chapter 42
Helplessly Hoping
Chapter 43
The Impossible Dream
Chapter 44
What Would Jane Do?
Ready for More?
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
Historical and Rhetorical
His hand stroked the pale expanse of her breast where it trembled above the plunging neckline of her gown, her nipples barely contained by the intricate lace of her bodice. Heat suffused her face, cascading down her neck in embarrassment, the flush of color evident across her exposed chest.
She was no naïve young heiress still waiting to be presented to society—she was a widow who had known the brutality of a man's hands. But the fumbling caresses of her aged husband had created nothing but revulsion, even as she submitted to her marital duties.
This. This was something whispered behind the fans of the chaperones as they watched their charges with their sharp eyes, aware of the danger that lay in wait. Unscrupulous men hunting fortunes clothed in nubile flesh…
* * *
Watching Emma's face, I see the small flash of disappointment before her gaze shifts to mine.
"For the love of God, please tell me she's going to get some."
"What do you mean, ‘get some’?" I ask in dismay, my heart sinking, because I know where this is going. We've argued the topic enough times; I thought we were past it by now. "Honestly, Emma. Why does every story have to have raging hormones and hidden sex rooms? This is Regency England." I can't help the exasperation that colors my voice. As my best friend, she should know me better than that by now.
A sharp ding draws my attention to the front door as I leap from the couch to grab my pathetically light wallet and pay for the Chinese food. All guilt about wasting money drifts away with the smell of garlic and ginger and grease. The audible grumble of my stomach reminds me that it's been hours since I've eaten.
"Seriously, Josie? This isn't Regency England, this is Philadelphia. And by the way, hidden sex rooms are all the rage now. Have you checked what's on the realtor sites? They're in all the best homes. If you could pull your focus away from historical romance for a while, maybe you could have some fun in present day Philly."
Trailing me into the kitchen, she hops onto the counter to watch as I pull containers of Peking duck, spring rolls, hot and sour soup, and pork lo mein from the large paper bag, before trying to open the drawer now covered by her dangling legs.
"Could you either open the wine or move so I can grab some spoons?" Giving her legs a swat, I jimmy the drawer open from where she's drawn her knees to her chest, smacking her head against the upper cabinet with a thunk.
"Serves you right, slacker," I taunt at her yelp.
Grabbing some wine glasses and plates from another cabinet, I watch as she hops down, still rubbing the back of her head. Snatching the corkscrew from the counter and napkins from a drawer, I then tuck the wine bottle under my arm, juggling everything. I'm relieved when Emma finally pulls the wine bottle away with an offended snort.
"While I know it's not a crime to drink ten dollar wine, Jos, I think we can do better," she says with a grin, wrestling the stubborn cork from the bottle with a soft pop. "I think we need a sugar daddy—or maybe ten."
Here we go again. I can tell this will be another one of those nights where Emma extolls the virtue of sexual variety, the male anatomy, and my unwillingness to swim in cock-infested waters. Dragging everything into the living room, I sink onto the floor in front o
f the coffee table before arranging the food, glasses, and napkins so that everything is within reach. Emma hands off the wine bottle as she eases down across from me, grabbing a pack of chopsticks from the pile.
Blessed silence reigns as we rub our cheap chopsticks together to smooth the wood and pick choice bits of duck and pork from the steaming containers to add to the growing pile on our plates. I keep my head down, avoiding the speculative look that Emma continues to send my way as I dig in with abandon, hoping to avoid the conversation that I know is coming.
"So," Emma begins again, and I groan before taking a sip of my wine, trying to ease the anxiety these discussions always bring. "How are sales?"
Gesturing at the table of cheap Chinese food, I wave my chopsticks before snagging another piece of duck.
"They're not bad. They bought you dinner." Do I sound defensive? I do, damnit! "Okay, they could be better. It's difficult for new authors, you know, especially indie authors." I can't help my wistful tone as I continue, "It would be great to have a real publisher, someone who could do all the heavy lifting. The time it would save me just on marketing alone would free up so much more of my time to write."
I can already feel the headache blooming behind my eyes as I contemplate the new teasers I need to make for upcoming promotions I have scheduled. Some people make it look so easy; I don't know how they do it on indie profits. The professional graphics, the spectacular covers, the adoring readers who follow them from platform to platform. It's easy to contemplate giving up—your chosen profession should make you money, not lose money.
"Maybe I should think about hiring a PA." I wince just saying the words, knowing I can't afford a personal assistant, virtual or otherwise. That's the last resort before I pack it in, and I'm stubborn enough to believe I can make this work. But there's only so much mediocre I can take. I'm a competitive person by nature. It kills me not to do something well.
"I already told you I'll PA for you." Emma's delighted smile fills me with terror as I choke on a piece of shrimp. "If only you weren't such a control freak!"
Rolling my eyes, I reach for the stack of napkins on the table between us before acknowledging her offer.
"You know how much I appreciate that." And I do, as much as anyone could appreciate leaving a virgin in a room full of sailors on shore leave after five years at sea.
"But you need to understand the readers in this genre. They don't want all the dark sex and angst you like to read. Remember, my tagline is 'Romance Unlocked.' They want love and romance…with one man, not ten!"
Emma's snort is so forceful, bubbles fly from her wine glass as she sips. Nice.
"Really, because it seems to me that your tagline is 'Romance Uncocked'! Your characters could all use some lube and a BOB. And it's not ten men, for God's sake, more like four. Maybe six." The calculating gleam in her eyes tells me all I need to know. "The ten was meant to be split between us. Although there was this one book…"
Pushing away from the table, I let my head fall backward onto the couch cushion while massaging my temples in a small circular motion. Some days, my friend is too much to take. I tried to discourage her antics by calling her Poly-Anna for a while, then stopped when she started wearing it like a badge of honor. Obviously, she missed the point.
"I'm kidding! Stick to basics because, you know, three is a magic number." Grabbing my shoulders, she shakes me as I hide my face in the cushion. "Come on, Jos, it's not like I've never read Jane Austen, or Brontë, or Heyer—I just grew past them. They're called classics for a reason. It's a dead art—mostly because no one wants to read that anymore. Well, they do, just with more people involved. I mean, I can definitely get behind a couple yummy guys in tight pantaloons and a 'broad sword,' if you know what I mean."
Her wink says it all, and I have to smile ruefully. Maybe Emma's right, but historical romances still rank high for the big authors. I just don't know how to get there.
My throat constricts as I try to force the words out. "Maybe I should try writing some fantasy or contemporary."
Exasperated, Emma uses her teacher voice, which always makes the back of my teeth ache.
"It's not the framework, Jos, it's the sexy factor. Stop limiting yourself to one character. Everybody likes choices. And Jesus, would it kill you to turn up the heat a bit? Strike the match, fan the flame. Maybe if you got out and shook that bodacious booty at some guys once in a while, you'd get inspired."
"My booty gets plenty of action, thank you very much!" Okay, I'm totally lying and she knows it, her raised brow challenging me to prove it. "I bought some sexy new bras just last month. Do you know how expensive it is to get pretty bras in my size? People with bouncy breasts never understand what it takes to get sexy cleavage."
"I know men fixate on your breasts, and they don't care whether you're wearing a sexy bra. Just show them any cleavage, and they'll take it the rest of the way."
"Can we not have this discussion again, Em? I just want to get my books out there and have something to show for it. I appreciate your input, and I love that you're my greatest cheerleader, but I need to make something happen here. I'm dying a slow death."
"Fine. Go back to writing chaste kisses and secret longings, but if you ask me, you're missing a big opportunity." Gathering our plates, she drops everything on the kitchen counter before leaning against the doorway. and watching me with a concerned expression. "Don't worry, we'll think of something. You stay focused and keep writing, and I promise not to fill your beta chapters with requests for more sex. Just consider it a given."
Winking at me, she heads toward my front door before stopping for one last parting shot.
"Hey, maybe I'll find myself a harem, and I can give you a real blow by blow while you drool from the sidelines. Once you see all my sexy men, you'll change your mind and want to blow a few yourself!"
"Ha, ha. I don't know what makes you think guys like that exist. Of the men I know, most don't mind sharing, only because they think it gives them leave to play elsewhere. You're crazy if you think men can be devoted and share. It's not in their DNA."
Giving me an evil look, Emma heads out the door. "Don't forget, I was a biology major!"
Well damn, the writer in me acknowledges reluctantly, as last words go, you gotta give her props for that one.
Chapter 2
Cat-tastrophes
My lungs burn as I run.
Panic escalates, and my legs feel as rubbery as jello while a dark fog shades my vision, and I strain to see the road ahead of me. I search frantically for something that I know is integral to my existence, but I can't remember what it is.
As a flash of white lights up the night in front of me, I see it. The pages of my book fluttering in the wind. The words swirl and slide like ink blots from the parchment to pool like oil on the dark ground below. A silent scream builds in my throat as a flash from the sky sets the pages on fire and an alarm blares, echoing my pure terror…
* * *
Jerking awake, the intermittent screech of my alarm clock pulls me from my nightmare as my heart continues to pound. A heavy weight on my chest leaves me gasping for breath before I realize that Daisy is sitting on the covers, kneading her paws over my breasts as she waits for me to acknowledge her demand for treats.
My hand bats blindly on the bedside stand, trying to reach my alarm clock without unseating Daisy from her perch. If there's one rule of cat ownership, it's never disturb a cat in that state when their claws are so perilously close to your face.
Damnit! I need to get an alarm clock that allows me to wake to music. The loud beeping always wakes me from sleep too abruptly, leaving me disoriented. It's why I don't use my cell phone. I'm always afraid I'll forget to turn off the ringer, and it's just one more thing I hate—being woken by a phone ringing.
I've never been a morning person, although my internal clock instinctively knows when to wake for work. It's always been that way, even when I was in school. But just because my body knows when I'm supposed to wa
ke doesn't make me happy about being awake at that hour.
The frantic kneading pauses as a loud purr fills the air and washes over me. I know I should get up, but it always calms me to spend a bit of time each morning indulging in the soft fur and snuggles that Daisy provides. Even if it is a ploy for treats.
I think about the number of times I've met guys who seemed to have potential, only to be told that they aren't a cat person. Daisy has been with me for years and shows me unconditional love. Her place in my life is non-negotiable. Any guy that thinks I'll displace my pet because of an awesome ass in a tight pair of jeans doesn't understand loyalty. In some ways, cat ownership is the ultimate relationship litmus test. Wistfully, I realize I haven't had one pass the test yet. There have been a few that looked like they might have the EQ necessary to stick for a while, but eventually, they've all crashed and burned.
I snicker at the memory of Peter, and the sheer horror on his face the night that Daisy peed on his coat. It was as if she was personally offended by the unimpressive package I pretended to worship as he grunted and groaned above me. Yep, that was a hard pass, even without Daisy's intervention. Not just because of his size—more because what was soft never became hard enough to seal the deal. Emma still insists on referring to him as Peter Pipe Cleaner with the Flaccid Pecker.
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