Though not just any newcomer. It was the Duke of Rutherford himself, the man who had smashed a solid fist into his own guest at the ball just a few days earlier.
Alexander grinned and approached the man, extending his free hand. “Your Grace. You honor us with that wicked right hook. How is the lady I swooped in on? Good, I hope?”
The duke grasped his hand firmly and inclined his dark head toward him. “Maybelle is doing quite well, thank you. Many thanks. I would have never forgiven myself if any harm had come to her.”
Alexander slowly pulled his hand away from the duke’s and gawked at him. “Wait. Maybelle? As in Maybelle de Maitenon? Madame de Maitenon’s granddaughter?”
The duke’s sharp, dark eyes met his. “Is there a problem, Hawksford?”
Obviously, they were already on friendly terms. In a manner of speaking. Alexander laughed and put up both hands. “No, no. Not at all, Rutherford. Not at all.”
“Good. Because I hate complications.”
“Yes. So do I, Rutherford. So do I.” Alexander let out a laugh, seated himself in a chair, and shook his head. Now he understood why Madame had opted to call London quaint and small. Because it was.
Caldwell leaned far forward in his seat and glanced at Alexander. “You’re not planning to propose at my house tonight, are you? You know how wild those gatherings can get. It’ll hardly be romantic. Hell, half the time even I don’t know who’s coming.”
“There’s no need to worry. The whole point of this party is to show Charlotte the sort of life I am permanently leaving behind. I’m trying to be metaphorical. Women love that sort of thing. Afterward, I intend on whisking her away to my country estate and proposing beneath the night sky. It’ll all be perfect. I’ve planned it all right down to the minute. Now, you’re certain she’s coming?”
Caldwell gestured cockily toward himself. “If I were any more certain, I’d be God.”
Now there was a scary notion. “And what about you, Almighty One? How are your wedding plans coming along?”
Caldwell gruffly laughed, dropping his hand back to his knee. “Caroline still hates me.”
Alexander grinned. “Glad to hear it.”
“You would be.”
A petite blonde stepped into the classroom, wearing a simple, light blue muslin gown. The very same blonde he had rescued from kissing the floor. Her firm stance as she stood in the doorway called attention to the fact that she was anything but petite in nature. Her sharp blue eyes, very similar to those of Madame de Maitenon, scanned them all in silence.
Alexander rose to acknowledge her.
The other men followed suit.
She smiled with overconfidence, and Alexander sensed she was anything but.
Which would indeed prove to be fun.
The duke stepped forward and bowed. “Madame.”
She inclined her blond head toward him. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
Caldwell bowed sweepingly, causing his wavy blond hair to fall across his forehead. “I am Lord Caldwell, at your service.”
“Good morning, Lord Caldwell,” she offered. “I have heard so much about you.”
Alexander inwardly cringed at the thought. God only knew the sort of things Madame had told her granddaughter about each and every single one of them.
Caldwell’s half smile broadened. “I am quite certain you have.”
The bastard. He sounded rather proud of himself.
Brayton stepped forward next and bowed curtly. Serious as ever. “Lord Brayton.”
“A pleasure, My Lord,” she intoned. “Are you always this cheerful? Or is it the early hour?”
Caldwell grinned and smacked Brayton on the back. “From what we have gathered, this is as cheerful as he will ever be.”
Alexander coughed into his hand, trying to disguise a laugh. Yes, leave it to Caldwell to make a man feel his best.
Brayton shifted his scarred jaw, placed his hands behind his back, but otherwise remained quiet and detached despite the stab at his honor.
“Any other man would have been quick to draw blood on less,” Miss Maitenon delicately offered. “It seems you have a talent for self-control, Lord Brayton. I have no doubt it serves you and your lady well.”
She shifted her gaze to Alexander. “And you are?”
This was the moment he’d been waiting for. Sweet, succulent revenge in the name of Charlotte. He instantly caught Maybelle de Maitenon’s gaze, knowing full well that the staunch types, like herself, were always easily ruffled when it came to overt male attention. Which is exactly what he planned on giving her.
She froze. As if suddenly remembering him from the ball.
He strode toward her, slowly, moving with a suave, steady intent well deserving of the situation. He stopped before her, took hold of her gloved hand, and brought it up to his lips, his eyes never once leaving hers.
Hovering over her glove, he answered indulgently, “I am Lord Hawksford.” He traced his thumb over her knuckles, hoping he was making her squirm. “You shall have my undivided attention. At all times.”
She quickly drew her hand away. “Try not to overdo the kissing of a lady’s hand, My Lord. It leads a woman to think that you are desperate, and we all know a man should be anything but.”
The men behind him refrained from laughing, several of them opting to clear their throats instead.
If Alexander had had any doubts, any doubts whatsoever, there wasn’t a single one left. For not only was this woman indeed Madame de Maitenon’s granddaughter, but it appeared every single one of them were about to get spanked. But he’d be damned if he’d bend over for anyone else but Charlotte from here on out.
Lesson Twenty-Six
What happens next in this little game called love? My goodness. Don’t you already know? You suffer a bit more. But of course!
—The School of Gallantry
Lord Caldwell’s
Evening
“Hawksford!” someone yelled out from across the overcrowded parlor. “Are you really getting married? Or is that just piss flying about the room?”
Alexander swiveled toward the dark-mustached man who held up a glass of gin in one hand while nestling a very large-breasted brunette closer to himself with the other.
Despite the fact that he didn’t know either the man or the brunette, Alexander pointed at the two and grinned. “It’s not piss! I am getting married.”
“Then may you and your future wife fuck to a hundred!” The man tossed back his drink, threw the glass aside, shattering it against the wood floor, then turned and kissed the woman beside him.
“Uh…thank you!” Alexander called out to the man, despite the fact that he was no longer the center of attention. “Thank you very much. I appreciate your kind and warm thoughts.”
That was the eighth person tonight who had congratulated him in their own bizarre manner. And all of them were people he didn’t even know. Caldwell’s doing, he was sure.
Alexander finished his port, gave his glass to a passing servant, and strode back toward the entryway, knowing Charlotte would be arriving at any moment. He couldn’t wait to pull her into his arms and make her feel loved and wanted the moment she walked in through that door. He only hoped that she was prepared for the chaos around them. Not that they’d be staying.
Seeing Caldwell was occupied with greeting all the incoming guests by the main entrance, Alexander strode farther back into the foyer’s corridor and out of the way. He settled against one of the walls that had a clear view of the main entrance and waited. And waited.
He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, but he assumed it was at least fifteen minutes. He shifted against the wall and looked over toward the entryway again.
He paused at seeing Madame de Maitenon’s granddaughter. He’d almost forgotten that Caldwell had invited her. And though everyone in the classroom seemed to have taken to her firm, blunt ways, he still didn’t know what to make of her. Especially after that whole lecture on dildos. Complete w
ith demonstrations.
Maybelle de Maitenon continued to stand in the foyer just outside one of the large receiving rooms as if uncertain as to whether she should stay or go. She then glanced down at the modest lilac lace neckline of her gown and quickly looked up again, looking rather concerned.
He bit back a smile. For here she was, the granddaughter of a great French courtesan, teacher of sex to men, with the nerve to demonstrate the placement of a dildo in her mouth before the entire class, and yet she appeared to feel out of place amongst all the risqué women around her.
It was downright curious.
A chestnut-haired woman dressed in a black velvet gown that provocatively clung to her sizable breasts and corseted waist paused before Maybelle. A cigar was tucked between her raised bare fingers.
Cleopatra, as Caldwell liked to call her. The queen of all things erotic, whose sole pleasure was licking the cunt off every woman who’d let her. And occasionally even those poor women who would normally never let her unless a bit of music and wine was involved.
Cleopatra seductively drew in a long puff from her cigar, cocked her head, and blew out a tuft of smoke in Maybelle’s direction. She pointed her half-smoked cigar toward Maybelle’s neckline and said something.
Alexander’s brows rose at the interaction.
To his astonishment, Maybelle quickly turned away and adjusted the front of her bodice, trying to maneuver her corset in a way so as to shove her breasts farther up and out into the open. She hesitated, peering down at what she’d done, then turned back to Cleopatra.
Alexander shook his head and pushed himself away from the wall. The woman was likely to get raped doing things like that with Cleopatra. Fortunately for his new teacher, he was around to assist. And, of course, being the noble gentleman that he was, he was going to do it without her even knowing.
He strode toward them just as Cleopatra wrapped a slender arm around Maybelle’s waist and yanked her against herself, draping their front sides seductively close.
This would certainly prove to be yet another amusing little rescue. He paused behind them, then wrapped his arms around both their shoulders and gathered both women to his wide chest. “Is there adequate space for one more?” he drawled down at each of them, grinning. “I brought my dildo.”
Maybelle scrambled out of both his embrace and that of Cleopatra. She smacked his arm hard, then pointed rigidly at him in warning. Yet couldn’t utter a single word in her defense.
All that mattered, despite her obviously being miffed, was that she was no longer in Cleopatra’s grasp.
He laughed at his own brilliance, smacked his hands together, then turned and swaggered down the corridor back toward where he’d originally been waiting for Charlotte.
Indeed, the way he felt right now was downright dangerous. For he was in such cocky high spirits, he almost felt like going around and helping whoever else needed assistance.
But then again, he had to first see to his own success. Which should be arriving at any single moment.
Late evening and still waiting around at
Lord Caldwell’s
Despite the fact that rat bastard had assured him Charlotte would come, and he had ardently and patiently waited, going around and talking to complete strangers and making an idiot of himself throughout the evening by announcing his upcoming marriage, she never came.
He’d long given up on the port and had since moved on to the gin. Though he was beginning to realize that even all the gin in the world could never possibly take away the feeling that his time for miracles had finally run out.
Through a haze that he prayed would never lift, Alexander staggered among the blurring faces around him, toward the mahogany table that was cluttered with decanters of brandy, wine, port, and gin. The empty glass he held out before him seemed to be the only thing balancing him. The only thing keeping him sane.
Didn’t the woman realize she was killing him? Ever. So. Slowly? He slammed his glass down onto the table, causing all of the crystal decanters on it to chime against one another.
He frantically rubbed the top of his head, trying to clear his muddled thoughts, and then stripped off his cravat and tossed it aside. Still feeling bloody hot, he unclasped his starched collar and stripped it away from his neck and drew in a deep breath.
Gripping the edges of the table, he leaned heavily against it. Now what? What was he supposed to do? Wait a bit more?
“Thirty pounds says Hawksford won’t survive a single one past twenty!” a man called out across the room.
He knew he should have never made that boast about being able to stand upright after twenty drinks.
“Oh, come!” another man countered, sounding rather annoyed. “He’s already lasted past eighteen. And look! The son of a bitch is still standing! Like he said he would. I say he’s got another good ten in him. That’s where I’m placing my thirty pounds! Another ten!”
Alexander gurgled out a laugh as more male voices floated around him, placing more bets. He once used to be Alexander the Great. Capable of saying and doing the right thing at the right time with any woman. But now? He was Alexander the Not So Great. And he was completely foxed. What was worse, the men around him were eagerly placing bets on the last of his crumbling kingdom.
Alexander released his hold on the table and pushed himself away. Blowing out an exhausted breath, he reached out a heavy arm and grabbed another crystal decanter filled with brandy. He poured another glass of the amber liquid. Splashing it everywhere.
He tossed it back, then slammed it down on the table and turned for the doorway. He’d had enough of this waiting. This abuse. He was going straight to her house, and, Harold or no Harold, was going to demand that she give him an audience.
A familiar blond-haired woman in a lilac lace and silk gown marched past the doorway and toward the foyer. His brows rose. Ah, now there was a person who could help him. His teacher! The one who had all the answers about dildos and bedside manners and nightshirts and God knew what else. Perhaps she had a solution. Someone had to have a solution. For he certainly didn’t.
“Madame de Maitenon!” he called out. It was only fitting he call her that after that brilliant lecture she gave on dildos.
She paused, then slowly turned to him.
He staggered for a moment in the middle of the crowded parlor and grinned.
She hurried over to him and set her hands on her hips. “Do not make life difficult for me.”
“This’ll only take a moment. I assure you.” He grabbed her waist and yanked her toward him. Needing something to balance him. “I am in need of advice,” he drawled down at her. “Female advice.”
Taking hold of his arms, Miss Maitenon tried to ease out of them. “I do not think my advice will do you any good, as clearly, you won’t be able to remember a thing come morning.”
Ignoring her protest, he wrapped his arm heavily around her shoulder and swayed as he looked down at her. “Does love truly exist? Or is it something we…want to exist?”
She froze against him. “Really, My Lord, this is far beyond my level of…”
Her face and words blurred, the room grew dark, and his arms and his body suddenly ceased to exist.
So much for female advice.
Lesson Twenty-Seven
At last.
—The School of Gallantry
11 Berwick Street
Seven o’clock in the morning, next day
Charlotte was downright curious as to what sort of female could have possibly won over Mr. Hudson. The man never accepted visitors at unconventional hours. Nor would he ever dare to summon her from her sleep.
She paused outside the parlor and blinked in astonishment at seeing the oldest of Alexander’s sisters, Caroline.
Caroline was openly admiring all of the nude male statues, tilting her head slightly to one side, as if a different view would somehow change them.
Charlotte bit back a laugh and entered the room. “I have found that the middle one is the most
endowed,” she chanced, guessing that they were both naughty at heart.
Caroline jerked toward her, placing a gloved hand to her chest, and let out a laugh. “So I noticed.”
Caroline grinned, a small dimple appearing on her left cheek, and moved closer to her. Her simple royal blue morning gown brightened not only her entire face but her very eyes. “I’m so pleased Mr. Hudson obliged me. Forgive me for calling upon you at such an early hour.”
“You are always welcome here, no matter the hour.” Charlotte gestured at the lone chair. “I hope this will do. I only recently acquired funds from my husband’s estate and have yet to properly furnish the house.”
Caroline glanced toward the gilded chair, then turned back to her. “No worries. This shouldn’t take long. I am merely here on behalf of my brother.”
Charlotte blinked, and though she tried to keep a blush from creeping into her cheeks, it was no use. “Yes?” was all she could manage.
Caroline sighed heavily and shifted from one slippered foot to the other. “As I am certain you know, Alex has been relentlessly trying to win your hand in marriage. And I’m afraid it has finally taken its toll. I usually don’t worry about him, but I must say I genuinely fear for him. From what I understand, he waited for you all of last night at Lord Caldwell’s home. He had plans to ride off with you into the country and propose. But when you didn’t make an appearance, he drank himself into a state of obliteration and is still lying unresponsive on the sofa where he was deposited by God knows who last night.”
Oh, poor Alexander. She’d ruined him. Completely ruined him. And here she was worried about what he’d done to her.
Caroline eyed her. “I am here not to preach, but rather to inform you of his current state. I pray that if you do not love my brother that you inform him of it. For he most certainly loves you. And though he may not have been able to verbalize it properly, surely his behavior should count for something.”
Lord of Pleasure Page 23
