Master of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  Ryder whipped the flowers down the stairwell. “You haven’t changed a bit. Hell, you might as well be wearing the same gown you wore the night we called on the Duke of Clarence.”

  Leona glared. “Go spit on someone else’s life for a change. You’re a married man. Have you no shame coming to my door? I knew you were stupid, but I didn’t realize you were that stupid.”

  Ryder glared back. “Don’t talk to me about shame. I’m a happily married man.”

  “Last I knew, a happily married man doesn’t bring another woman flowers.”

  “I was attempting to be a gentleman.”

  “You should have tried that seven years ago,” she bit out.

  These two were relentless. It reminded him of the angst between his brother and Miss Silverthorn. This was exactly why he avoided relationships. It was…messy.

  “Leona, I didn’t come here to argue.”

  “Then what did you come here for? Go on. Entertain me.”

  “I—” Ryder paused, as if realizing Malcolm was still around. He adjusted his coat. “I prefer you and I share in a conversation alone. It’s important we speak. I have a proposition and ask that you join me in my barouche. It won’t take long.”

  She squinted. “Join you in your barouche? And what? Make the world think you and I are involved? God no. I’d rather be alone with a tavern full of other men and toss whatever is left of my reputation to that. If you have something to say, I suggest you say it now. Or better yet…leave. Because I’m not interested in what your piano fingers have to say.”

  “If you want me to say it, I’ll say it.” Ryder glared. “Claudia can’t have children. She lost every babe we ever tried to have, including our most recent one. A boy. Which is why I’m here.” Pulling out a folded parchment, Ryder held it out. “I hired a lawyer to reclaim Jacob given he is my rightful son. If you sign this paper, revoking your rights, you’ll get ten thousand pounds and have the ability to see him once a month. If you don’t sign it, my lawyer will file negligence charges against you, given the way my son is living, and I’ll ensure you never see him again. Those are your choices.”

  Malcolm’s lips parted. Was he serious?

  Snatching the parchment, Leona unfolded it with frantic hands and in between visible breaths, read the words. Lifting her gaze, she stared at Ryder. “You want my child because your wife can’t give you what I have? And here I thought I couldn’t hate you anymore than I already do.” She bared her teeth and ripped the parchment in half. Mashing it into a ball, she whipped it at Ryder’s head. “Get out! Get out before I get arrested for murder!”

  Malcolm tensed, more than ready to intervene.

  Ryder’s features stilled. “Think of the boy, Leona. What sort of opportunities can you provide for him? What the hell do you plan to turn him into? A glorified farmer? Like your father was?”

  Leona jumped forward and smacked Ryder, snapping his head sideways. “Better a farmer than a worthless arse like you! My father was a good man. Nothing like you!” She smacked him again.

  Malcolm didn’t bother to stop her. The son of a tavern hag deserved it.

  Ryder grabbed Leona’s wrist and shoved her toward the edge of the stairwell, his top hat tumbling off to the side.

  And this is where it stopped.

  Malcolm grabbed the man by the coat hard, yanking him off Leona. Snapping a forearm up to that throat, he slammed Ryder against the nearest wall with the weight of his body, causing the walls around them to tremor. Digging his forearm into that linen-knotted throat, Malcolm fiercely met Ryder’s gaze. “Don’t ever touch her or go near her again. Or the hands you use to make a living, will be lying on the street where they belong. Do you hear me?”

  Ryder’s chest heaved against his own. “I’ll not have my son raised in poverty.”

  Malcolm leaned in closer. “Then give his mother all the money she rightfully earned so she can raise him and get the hell out.”

  “Fine words those are! I’ve already— She is unfit to be a mother. Unfit. Which is why I’m sending a lawyer.” Ryder shoved back at him, trying to break free.

  Digging his forearm harder against that throat to keep the man from moving, Malcolm said in a barely composed tone, “Tell your lawyer to come see me at Thirty-One Prince Street. I’ll be waiting. And given the long list of people I know, Mr. Blake, I can assure you, you aren’t going to be a father any time soon.”

  Ryder hesitated.

  The thudding of small boots came at them. “Let him go!” Little hands shoved Malcolm from behind, hitting the back of his knees. “Let him go or I’ll call on all the angels to smite you!”

  Realizing he had an audience, Malcolm instantly released Ryder. He edged back onto the landing, away from Leona and almost stumbled over the boy who continued to shove him.

  “Jacob!” Leona tugged him back. “Enough. Now go to your room.”

  “I’ll go to my room when I’m done. And I’m not done!” Jacob tore away from his mother’s hold, darting forward again and kept hitting Malcolm, those swinging hands pounding his legs harder. “I don’t care how big you are! I’m bigger!”

  It was like seeing a miniature version of himself. It was…charming.

  Ryder rigidly waved a hand toward Jacob. “Leona, rein him in. The boy is acting like a savage. Is this how you bloody raised him?!”

  Glaring, Leona tried grabbing Jacob by the shoulders. “I raised him to know the difference between right and wrong. He simply doesn’t know he came to the defense of the wrong man.” She leaned down, trying to grab her son’s arms and still them. “Jacob, I’m asking you to stop. You’ve made your point.”

  “But he was hurting Papa!” Jacob shoved her away and frantically continued hitting Malcolm, his breaths barely keeping up with his swings.

  It was obvious the boy needed male guidance. Malcolm knelt and grabbed those fast moving hands. Hard. “Your mother said enough.” He lowered his voice to lethal and met Jacob’s gaze. “When I was your age, I always faced the wall when my mother asked me to. Whether I had earned it or not. Now no more of this, Mister Jacob. Do you understand?”

  Jacob’s hands stilled. His smooth cheeks remained flushed and his ragged breaths remained uneven as his narrow chest pumped beneath his silk-embroidered waistcoat. That furrowed brow remained tight and determined to annihilate him. “You were trying to hurt Papa. I saw it.”

  Malcolm knew nothing about children. But he did remember being one. It was a delicate time when every breath and every word mattered. When one could either be something or nothing. “Allow me to explain what you saw.” Malcolm released those tiny hands. “Your father here came to the door, delivered very bad news, which rightfully upset your mother, and then he had the audacity to get aggressive with your mother by trying to shove her down the stairs. That was when I took your father to the wall to put an end to it.”

  Jacob’s furrowed brow softened. He glanced at his father, his lips parting. “You tried to hurt Mama?”

  Ryder threw his head back and after a long moment, leveled it and offered, “No. I’m sorry. I was upset. This entire situation is—” He glanced at Leona and offered in a strained tone, “I’m not doing this to hurt you. He simply shouldn’t be living like this. I can give him a better life.”

  Leona coolly stared him down. “Like the one you gave me?”

  Although her tone nobly attempted to conceal all emotion, Malcolm could still feel her pain. And it pierced more than his heart. It pierced his soul. Because he knew all too well what it was like to pour one’s trust into someone only to find they were unworthy of it. “I think it time you leave, Mr. Blake,” Malcolm said in an effort to remain calm. “The child has seen more than enough.”

  Ryder sighed and half-nodded. “Yes. I’ll leave in a moment. After I speak to my son.” Veering past in the narrow stairwell, he hesitated and hoisted Jacob up into his arms. He adjusted him onto his right hip, sweeping back Jacob’s dark hair from his eyes. “I’m sorry we couldn’t have met on better
terms, Jacob. It isn’t like I haven’t tried.” He angled his way into the tenement where Mrs. Henderson was lingering by the open door. “Can I bring him inside? I won’t stay long. I have a concert to practice for.” He disappeared into the flat.

  Mrs. Henderson hurried after him. “Two minutes, Mr. Blake! Two. Anything longer and I’ll take one of Leona’s scones to your head. Don’t think I won’t!”

  Hell and corruption. And he thought his brother’s life was a mess. Malcolm fisted his hands and eyed Leona. “What do you want me to do? I’ll do it.”

  She fell back against the wall of the corridor, just outside the open door. Her frayed chignon flopped to one side, threatening to come undone. A breath escaped her full lips as she stared out at nothing in particular. “I don’t want Jacob seeing anymore than he already has.”

  The agony in her tone was like a blade twisting itself into his gut. He knew all too well what it was like to feel powerless and trapped. Malcolm set himself against the wall beside her, ensuring he kept some distance between them. She was so much smaller than him, he felt like an elbow in the wrong direction would break her tiny frame into twenty pieces.

  Realizing his hands were bare, he dug out his gloves from his coat pocket and yanked them on, covering the roughness of each scarred hand in smooth leather. He didn’t want her looking at the damage to his hands that whispered of days that went back well before the monastery. It wasn’t something a woman needed to see.

  He sighed, knowing he had to do something about this damn Ryder. Keeping her in London would only exacerbate this situation. “How much money do you need to get back to your aunt?”

  She snapped her gaze up to his. “None of that.” She untied her apron and bundled it beneath her arm. “I’m not going into hiding like some criminal. I’m his mother, and I’ve been a damn good one at that. No court can prove otherwise. I’m staying in London until this is resolved.”

  “Given how intent he is, staying in London is not a good idea.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Given how intent he is, going anywhere is not a good idea. At least with you around, he’ll be mindful of what he can and can’t do.”

  The woman did have a point. “I leave in eight weeks.”

  “By then, I’ll no longer be your responsibility.”

  He didn’t need this. Because he already felt responsible. Not to mention overly drawn to her. He hadn’t really been passing through. Paternoster Row was an excuse. He simply found himself unable to wait until Thursday to see her.

  She hesitated, searching his face.

  Why was she looking at him? “What?”

  “Can I genuinely trust you?”

  His throat tightened. The last time a female had asked him that, he ended up in the monastery for a sin he didn’t commit. “The real question, Miss Webster, is whether I can trust you.”

  She gave him an exasperated look. “You speak as if I were some rake.”

  “Some women can be. They make a man promises they don’t intend to keep.”

  She lowered her chin. “I swear I won’t molest you.”

  “That really wasn’t my concern.” He eased out a breath. “I suggest you and Jacob take the rooms I earlier spoke of. You’ll be safer there. It will be no cost to you.”

  Her features flickered and then softened. “You are becoming the hero every woman dreams of meeting.”

  Oh, hell and whale bile. Trying to be a hero to an attractive woman was like stabbing himself in the neck. He knew full well having her around his house was going to cause problems. Holbrook loved women, be they married or not, and Malcolm himself wasn’t always the saint he wanted to be.

  He got lonely sometimes. Over the years, whenever his feet touched land, he’d been guilty of paying attractive women to run errands for him just so he could talk to them and…look at them. It was pathetic. “Be aware that I’m going back out to sea and I’m not coming back. So whatever you do, don’t get attached.”

  Her mouth quirked. “I’ll desperately try not to.” She squeezed his arm. Hard.

  His skin pinched beneath his coat, sparking the darkness of a desire he’d buried since he was eighteen. Her fingers dug into his coat as if she planned to initiate the sort of pain he wanted.

  He swallowed and tapped at her hand. “Can you not do that?”

  She instantly released him. “I’m sorry. I was only—”

  “Touching me,” he pointed out. “We’re not married, Miss Webster. And even if we were, I would hope you would ask for permission. Which I didn’t give you.”

  She blinked rapidly, her cheeks notably flushing. “It would seem you’re more of a gentleman than I am.”

  Why did he want to kiss and bite her? Why did he want to go against everything he had learned to be merely because she showed up? He hissed out a breath and eyed her. “I’ll talk to a few people regarding your situation.” It would be easy. Nasser’s grandfather would flatten this out of court with the snap of those revolutionary fingers. “No one is going to take your son. That I vow.”

  She smiled brokenly. “Thank you, Lord Brayton, I…” Her features twisted, a tear sliding down her face.

  He edged closer, his throat tightening. “Don’t cry.”

  She turned away, waving a hand at him, and sniffed. “I’m not crying.”

  “Really? Because we’re inside and it’s not raining.”

  She sniffed again. “All right, I’m crying. How can I not? Jacob is the only reason I survived what Ryder did to me.”

  How he genuinely admired this woman. She was strong, determined without being haughty, and more importantly, genuine. He could tell everything she said was exactly what she was thinking. And as if that wasn’t impressive enough, she was...adorable. Almost doll-like. Her bundled brunette hair had strands that were sunlit, whispering of hours spent in the sun without a bonnet. Her small nose had freckles and her green eyes were so brilliant in color, they look painted.

  He softened his voice. “I’ll ensure he leaves quietly and doesn’t startle your son.” Malcolm gestured toward the doorway. “After you.”

  She nodded, swiping at her face several times, then breezed past into the flat, clearly determined to prove she was not intimidated.

  With an exasperated breath, Malcolm lifted his gaze to the ceiling to get in a quick conversation. Lord, I realize You have a tendency to do whatever You want, and that is Your right, but I need to know what is going on. I tried walking away from her twice when I first helped her on the street, but she wouldn’t let me, and now I’ve stupidly agreed to move her into the house and my life. What are You doing? You can’t trust me to this. You can’t. Even I don’t trust me with this.

  Leona reappeared and peered out at him from the doorway. “Are you not coming?”

  Malcolm snapped his gaze to hers. “I am.” Seeing Ryder’s top hat, he puffed out a breath and snatched it up as a courteous Christian would. He followed her inside and closed the door, pausing in the narrow space leading into the small flat.

  Mrs. Henderson grudgingly adjusted her lace cap against her white hair and plopped herself into a straight back chair at a linen-covered table across from where Ryder and Jacob were sitting. A large plate of scones were piled onto a chipped porcelain plate beside a jam bowl. Plates had been set before each chair.

  Leona set her apron onto a sideboard and glanced at him, mouthing, “He won’t leave.”

  Malcolm inclined his head in silent acknowledgement. Knowing Jacob was watching, he casually walked up to Ryder and snapped out the top hat. “Yours, I believe.”

  Ryder hesitated and slowly took his hat, setting it onto his lap. “Thank you, my lord.” He cleared his throat. “Did you want my seat?”

  Now the man was overdoing it. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Blake. You and I won’t be staying that long anyway.” He gave the man a pointed hard stare. “Will we?”

  Ryder glanced at Jacob and eventually murmured, “No. We won’t.”

  “Good. Set an example by enjoying a sc
one in silence. Then you and I will leave.” Malcolm set his shoulders and removed his gloves, shoving them into his pocket. He strode over to the table and chose a scone from the plate. He decided not to bother with any jam.

  He closed his eyes and eventually said aloud in an effort to lead prayer, “Thank you Lord for this blessing. Without you, I would not be here to eat it. And without Miss Webster, it would not have been brought to this table. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Mrs. Henderson regally chimed in from beside him at the table. “My. ’Tis good to see a man giving a prayer without being asked to do it.”

  He’d learned from the best. His father. Opening his eyes, Malcolm held up the scone in everyone’s direction in appreciation and bit into it. The overly hard, brittle and chalky dough made him pause. It was like biting into dirt and cardstock.

  Knowing everyone was watching him, he slowly pushed the rest of the scone into his mouth in an attempt to be polite and tried to chew his way through it without breaking any of his teeth.

  In between several well-labored chews, he eyed Leona. “You made these?”

  She nodded, her green eyes brightening despite their earlier sorrow. “Yes. They’re supposed to be made in an oven but we only have a hearth to work with. What do you think?”

  He didn’t have it in him to tell her. He swallowed what remained in his mouth, thankful he didn’t have to eat anymore. “Not bad.”

  Her brows flickered. “Is it really that bad? Here. They’re much better if you dip it in tea.” She scrambled over to the table, as if to offer him the tea pot, but tripped on the uneven wood floor, sending a slipper off her left foot flying.

  It skidded toward Malcolm and landed with a thud before him. He quickly lowered himself to pick up the worn leather shoe and paused in astonishment, realizing how small it was. Barely the size of his hand. It was also heavily scuffed and patched with various uneven strips of leather as if she’d been wearing the same shoes for years. He’d actually noticed that her son’s appearance was rather lavish, with expensive new clothing and new leather boots. She was clearly a woman who put her son first. It was…endearing.