Master of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  She blinked. Rose buds. He was offering her a position merely because she needed one. Who was this man? “Five pounds a week? For cooking, cleaning and laundry?”

  “Yes. To be paid every Saturday. By me.”

  She refused to trust it. “Might I ask why the pay is so inflated? Not even a lady’s maid in the highest of circles makes more than fifteen shillings a week.”

  “I know. There is a reason.” He swiped his gloved knuckles across his chin. “I’ve been at the house for a little over two months now, and it’s alarmingly obvious despite the servant Mr. Holbrook keeps, it’s never been cleaned. There are still chamber pots in some of the rooms that haven’t been washed out from the previous owners.”

  Ew. “I may struggle with that one. I don’t even like cleaning my own porcelain.”

  He arched a brow. “I don’t expect you to clean any of them. We’re grown men and can take care of our own, thank you. All I ask is that you tend to cooking and the cleaning of the house. If you take the position, I promise to pay five pounds a week and a bonus of twenty.”

  “Twenty?” Her pulse skittered. That was a lot of money. Enough to get her and Jacob out of London and into Shrewsbury well before summer.

  She eyed him. “When would I get the bonus?”

  “The moment you impress me.”

  She wasn’t sure she liked the suggestive tone in his voice. “We are still talking about my ability to clean chamber pots, right?” she asked, spacing her words evenly.

  His mouth tightened. “Last I knew. Why? Are you talking about something else?”

  “No. Of course not. Why would we be talking about something else?”

  “You tell me.” He stared. “Do you have any references?”

  She cringed. “No. I was terminated without any.”

  “Why? What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I was loyal and worked very hard for every person who ever hired me.”

  “So says the woman with no references.”

  She set her chin. “If you must know, sir, I was terminated from every position I’ve ever had because the moment these women discover I have a child and no husband, they panic and come to the vile conclusion that I must have no morals whatsoever. That I may very well take it into my head to steal their silver and fondle every last footman in the house. People are disgustingly judgmental. They know nothing and assume everything. Not that you would understand.”

  He paused. Something flickered in his blue eyes. Some sort of emotion that appeared and disappeared within a blink. “I understand more than you think.” He set both hands behind his back, broadening his chest to an even more intimidating size. “If your work is as sharp as your tongue, I would like to hire you. You’ll get the bonus of twenty in eight weeks, which is about when the position will most likely end.”

  Her eyes widened. “I’ll receive sixty pounds for only eight weeks of work?”

  “Yes. So whatever you do, don’t disappoint me or I’ll terminate you without pay or references. Like the rest of your employers.”

  She gave him a withered look. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “If it were, you would have laughed.” He dug into his coat pocket and withdrew a small silver case. He flipped it open and straightened the cards within the casing as if it was imperative for each ivory stock paper to be aligned. He withdrew a card. “Mr. Holbrook usually isn’t around and barely has time to sleep in his own bed. As for me? I’m only in London on business. Once that business has been resolved, I’ll be departing.” He snapped the case shut, tucking it into his pocket and presented the card between two gloved fingers. “Seeing it’s Monday, call on me this Thursday afternoon at three. I’ll be around.”

  Son of a blundering ox. No more London. And more importantly…no more Ryder. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be there at exactly three. And not a minute later. I’m very punctual. I have to be. I’m a mother.” Egad. She was rambling. “Thank you again, sir. I’m so very grateful to you. Very. This goes beyond anything anyone has ever done for me. This is…Thank you.”

  He wagged the card closer. “Cease thanking me and take it. I have to go. I have an appointment on the other side of town.”

  “Oh. Of course. How rude of me.” She took the card, her bare fingers grazing his. She paused. The leather of his gloves was provocatively smooth. “Thank you.”

  He lowered his chin. “You already thanked me. Four times. I counted.”

  She cringed. “I’ll stop thanking you.”

  “Good.” A muscle now flicked in his jaw. “Your hands ought to be covered in public. Why aren’t you wearing gloves? Do you not own any?”

  Apparently, she had just been reprimanded for not being a lady. She fingered the card. “I do, but I only wear them on special occasions. I can’t afford to spoil them.”

  He lowered his hand, flexing the one she touched. “What is your name?”

  She felt her pulse beat in her throat, sensing the contact of her bare skin against his glove had somehow bothered him. “Miss Webster, sir.”

  “I want your full name. What is it?”

  He was such a gruff and curt soul. It was as if he didn’t care if he offended anyone by being who he was. “Miss Leona Olivia Webster, sir.”

  His countenance remained immobile. “If you have trouble finding suitable care for your son, Miss Leona Olivia Webster, he is more than welcome to remain at your side during the course of your service. Mr. Holbrook and I are hardly around the house anyway.”

  Her lips parted. “I’m allowed to bring my son to work?”

  “Yes. All I ask is that you keep him within your sight at all times. Mr. Holbrook has books and papers that cannot be damaged.”

  Holy badger. She had found the perfect position. “So I can have my son with me at all times?”

  “Yes. I do believe I just said that.”

  She eyed him in disbelief. “You, sir, have restored my belief in humanity.”

  He edged back, his features tightening. “Then you obviously know nothing of humanity.”

  She blinked. “Are you always this serious?”

  He leveled her with a stare. “Yes. Does that bother you, Miss Webster?”

  “Yes. It does.” She fingered the card he had given her. “When one is too serious about life, one misses out on it. My poor Aunt Judith is proof of that. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that woman smile. Ever. And as my father used to say, ‘Smiles are important. They let the world know you’re breathing.’”

  He weighed her for a moment. “You look incredibly young but your way of thinking contradicts what I see. How old are you?”

  She honestly didn’t know what to make of him. One moment he was trying to leave, the next he was trying to stay. “Five and twenty, sir. And you?”

  “Older. No longer in my twenties. I took a breath and here I am.”

  She lifted a brow. “You say it with such regret.”

  He averted his gaze. “Let us not get started on regret. England is the last place I want to be.” Cold dignity overtook his features. “I will see you this Thursday. Don’t be late.” He stalked away.

  His mannerisms were about as abrupt as thunder. He hadn’t even introduced himself. She glanced at the card he’d given her and paused. Odd. There was an address but no name. “Sir?” she called out.

  He swung back toward her, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “I’m trying to leave.”

  “Uh…yes, I know. And I don’t mean to pester, but—” She held up the card and wagged it. “There is no name printed here.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “I know. Mr. Holbrook and I share cards given we reside at the same address. It saves money. Now if you will excuse me…” He skimmed her appearance. “I have to go.”

  “But I don’t even know your name,” she countered in complete exasperation. “You never gave me one.”

  He paused. “I didn’t?”

  A laugh escaped her. “No. You didn’t.”

  He cleared his throat. “Oh.
I…forgive me. I’ve been at sea too long and my manners aren’t what they used to be.” He inclined his head. “The name is Malcolm Gregory Thayer, the Earl of Brayton, after my late father.” He hesitated. “If you hear rumors pertaining to my name and character, I ask that you come to your own conclusion based on what you see and not what you hear.”

  A knot rose in her throat. That sounded a bit too cryptic for her liking. Even worse, he was an aristocrat. And not just any. An earl. That was one less tier from a duke. Such elevated status in society usually created men who believed they had the right to do whatever they pleased with women. Her poor aunt had been abandoned at the altar by an unprincipled viscount who made a long list of promises he couldn’t keep. Rot it all. She knew this was too good to be true. “And what rumors would they be, my lord? Would you care to elaborate? So I may think on this?”

  “Gladly.” He widened his stance. “According to the Bishop of Salisbury and all of Wiltshire, I compromised his daughter, Miss Dorothea Elizabeth Silverthorn. She was seventeen at the time of the incident and I a mere eighteen. She was sent to Scotland, but eventually returned, lost all faith in herself, men and God and now works as birch mistress over on Charlotte Street. Any other questions?”

  Her lips parted. She knew people well enough to say he wouldn’t have admitted to all of that or given names and locations if he were guilty of it. Or…would he? “So did you actually compromise this Miss Silverthorn?”

  He glared. “No. I was saving her from my own brother.” He buttoned his great coat, patting it into place against his chest. “What little good that did.”

  He was quiet for a moment, clearly distracted by whatever he was thinking. He swiped his face. “If what I admitted is a concern, Miss Webster, and I imagine it would be, I can give you whatever money you need right now so we don’t have to complicate this.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a few loose coins, counting out everything he had. He paused. “Unfortunately, I only have a few crowns left. Here. Take it. I’ll find someone else to fill the position.” He held it out.

  It was obvious by his missing hat, the well worn leather of his gloves and the simple stitching of his clothing that he was being very generous with what he could afford. Bless him and his beating heart. She hesitated, then reached out and clasped his hand, which held the money, gently forcing his large gloved fingers around the coins.

  He stilled, holding her gaze.

  She smiled, sensing he needed it. “I’m not taking money I haven’t earned, my lord. Just as you are giving me an opportunity to prove my worth despite my lack of references, I wish to offer you the same without judgment.” She pulled back her hand. “I would very much like to take the position you’re offering, Lord Brayton. Might I?”

  A tremor touched his lips. “Of course.” Lowering his gaze to the coins in his hand, he shoved them into his pocket. His brows flickered but he didn’t meet her gaze. “I appreciate your level of trust given what I admitted.”

  She half-nodded. “And I appreciate your level of trust given I have no references. I consider us even.”

  They lingered, letting people on the street weave around them.

  He lifted his gaze to hers and cracked his knuckles, the tension in his jaw hinting that he was debating something with himself. He inclined his head. “Good day, Miss Webster.”

  She also inclined her head. “Good day, my lord.”

  He veered around her, still heatedly holding her gaze and started walking backward to keep holding her gaze.

  The tingling in the pit of her stomach turned to fire. She tucked his card into her apron pocket and held up a hand, trying not to let on that she was in any way affected by that stare.

  He swung away, adjusting his great coat and disappeared into the crowd.

  A shaky breath escaped her. The tingling in her stomach stayed. It. Stayed. She rolled her eyes, knowing she shouldn’t permit tingles and marched herself back up into the tenement to clean up the mess the creditors left behind.

  Two days later, late morning

  Waiting for Thursday to come, which wouldn’t be for another day, was like waiting for Christmas to come when it was only late April. She had become obsessed with thoughts of Lord Brayton. Those eyes. That scar. That massive frame. The way he had looked at her. No man had ever looked at her like that. No man had ever—

  Leona puffed out an exasperated breath, adjusted her hands on the well-worn wooden handle of the broom and returned to sweeping the tenement stairs leading into the building. No one else in the building bothered to maintain the stairs that faced the street. So she always did it. And they let her.

  Stepping down each stone step, she swept away debris the vendors always tossed when passing through. If only they would toss coins. Finishing up the last step and forcing the debris past the pavement and into the cobbled street, she sighed and swiveled to go back into the tenement when her gaze landed on the massive frame of the same man she’d been thinking about since Monday afternoon.

  Her heart popped as their gazes met.

  He veered in closer, his great coat billowing around him, displaying simple wool trousers, scuffed boots and a tweed waistcoat. Pausing before her, he inclined his head as if to announce he was not only present but expected full attention. “Good afternoon, Miss Webster.”

  She tightened her hold on the broom, wondering if her fingers would snap the wood in half. The pinch of the wood against her palm was beautifully grounding and calmed her. “Good-afternoon, Lord Brayton. I wasn’t expecting to see you until tomorrow. Is everything all right?”

  He adjusted his gloves and rumbled, “I was merely passing through. Mr. Holbrook had a book printed over on Paternoster Row a few streets down. I was checking in on it.”

  “Oh.” And here she thought he couldn’t stay away. “Mr. Holbrook is a novelist?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She smirked. “Are you saying his book is that bad?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  A laugh escaped her. A real laugh. It was so nice to share in a laugh with someone other than her son. She nervously tapped her hand against the broom and eyed him. Maybe she could invite him up. He was her employer. And it wasn’t as if they would be alone. Mrs. Henderson and Jacob were upstairs having whatever was left of the scones.

  “Do you have a bit more time today than you did on Monday?” she ventured.

  His blue eyes pierced what little distance was between them. “Maybe. Why?”

  It wasn’t a no. But it wasn’t a yes, either. Perhaps a small nudge would make it happen. “I just finished sweeping, so I’m done here. There are still a few scones left from Monday. You’re more than welcome to come upstairs.”

  He swiped his face, then shifted from boot to boot and gave her a pointed, agitated look.

  She lowered her chin. “You don’t have to come up.”

  The line of his mouth tightened a fraction. He looked around. “I have ten minutes. But nothing beyond that. So don’t insist.”

  She bit back a smile. It was as if he didn’t want the world to know he was interested. “Don’t you worry. I’ll ensure you’re out the door in less than ten minutes.”

  A window swung open on its creaking hinges from high above, making them both look up.

  Mrs. Henderson, who clutched her prayer book against her shawl-covered bosom, peered down at them with a perusing squint. Her eyes widened. “Leona.” Her white ruffled cap fluttered with the movement of her gray head. “You know full well you aren’t allowed to associate with any men. Are you wanting me to put this in a letter to your aunt? Are you?”

  Leona sometimes felt she was being held hostage by a seventy-two-year-old canoness. Trying to be polite, she set the broom against the railing of the tenement and called back, “This here is the gentlemen who is hiring me!”

  Mrs. Henderson paused and squinted again. “He doesn’t look an earl. He doesn’t look respectable.”

  Leona sighed. “I assure you, he is both.”

 
“Prove it,” Mrs. Henderson prodded. “Have the man prove it.”

  Oy. This had to stop. “The poor man is already proving it. Do you see him trying to touch or kiss me right here on the street?”

  Mrs. Henderson gasped. “The Virgin Mary wasn’t touched or kissed, and look how she ended up! Do you want another child out of this? Hell awaits you if you keep at it!”

  Leona winced. Eyeing Lord Brayton, she let out an awkward laugh and thumbed toward the direction of the entrance. “Don’t mind all the barking. Much like my aunt, she thinks men are a menace. She may ask you more questions than a jury at trial, but she nobly held my hand through the worst of it. And when I mean the worst, I mean…childbirth. For that alone, I forgive that woman anything. Shall we go in? Do you mind her?”

  Lord Brayton held her gaze. “Why would I mind? I’m going in for your company, not hers.”

  Those husky words warmed the pit of her stomach. What was it about this man that made her very breath jangle? He wasn’t dashing or beautiful. Not at all. He was overly large, rugged and his features were unpolished, especially with that scar fingering its way from his ear to his jaw. But his presence and those ice blue eyes dominated the space between them as if he were demanding she and every breath she dragged in be his and only his.

  It was a bit overwhelming.

  Frantically brushing off her apron from clinging flour in an effort to distract herself, Leona gathered her skirts. “It’s been a while since Mrs. Henderson and I have had any guests. Please. Follow me. And mind each step. Some of the boards are warped.”

  She turned and hurried up the outside stairs of the three-level tenement through the open door propped open by a brick. Everything grew quiet. Trailing a hand against the uneven yellow wallpaper, she paused halfway up the narrow stairwell, turned and waited. As she stood waiting, it occurred to her that he was the first male she had willingly invited into her home since giving birth to her son.

  She bit her lip knowing it.

  Lord Brayton hulked his way up, using massive strides to take three stairs at a time. Coming upon her, he came to a quick halt, his large hand grabbing the wooden railing beside them. His firm hold on the banister was enough to make the black leather of his glove creak. He eyed the stairwell. “What? Are we eating the scones right here?”