Mistress of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  MASTER OF PLEASURE

  “You will not walk away from me or my offer,” he called out after her.

  “Oh, but I will,” she said over her shoulder, marching her way toward the door. “Observe.”

  The duke quickly came in from behind and grabbed her arm, forcing her to not only stop but to also turn and face his dense, muscular body.

  Maybelle froze as the scent of sandalwood, one she remembered all too well, surrounded her. Every bit of her body now blazed beneath his powerful stare and for one crazed moment, she actually wondered what it would be like to be at his command again. With his hands on her body. His length deep within her, making her feel wanted, needed.

  He slowly released her but inched closer, bringing in more of that sandalwood, which was sensually tinted with the heat of his body. “Your grandmother’s school is going to complicate your life in a way you aren’t even prepared for. Admit it. My offer is a good one.”

  Finally grabbing hold of her wits, Maybelle stepped back and crossed her arms. “Oh, is it? You might say I’m a bit concerned about being deprived. On every possible level.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, his dark eyes slowly turning into a smoldering invitation. “I would never deprive my wife of anything…”

  MISTRESS of PLEASURE

  DELILAH MARVELLE

  To my amazing husband, Marc,

  who has held my hand every step of the way

  for so many years

  and has shown me time and time again

  an unwavering love

  that goes beyond any romance I could ever write.

  Thank you for all the weekends you gave up for my writing.

  Thank you for all the weekdays you gave up for my writing.

  But most of all, thank you for having always believed

  in my writing.

  I love you, baby.

  Always.

  Acknowledgments

  So many, many people go into writing a book. Perhaps not literally, but mentally and spiritually, and as such, I wish to acknowledge each and every one of them.

  Maire Creegan, my critique partner. I don’t know how fate threw us into each other’s path, but I do know that my writing would have never flourished without your watchful eye. Thank you for being an inspirational critique partner and a wonderful, wonderful friend. London, baby!

  Victoria Dahl, for putting your name on the line and getting this book into the hands of John. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  My editor, John Scognamiglio, for all the unseen hard work and countless hours you put in day in and day out. Thank you.

  My agent, Pam Hopkins, for stepping in when I needed it most.

  Nadia Cornier, for keeping me in the game and being a personal cheerleader for my writing even when I felt there was nothing to cheer about.

  Rose City Romance Writers, for all of its amazing members who have given me endless support throughout the years and friendships I will forever cherish.

  The Wild Cards, my fellow 2005 Golden Heart Finalists, for being wild at heart and sound of mind. Or at least most of the time!

  And last, but most certainly not least, RWA, for being an amazing organization that allows organized writing chaos and creativity to thrive.

  Lesson One

  What defines a woman?Why, she does, of course.—The School of Gallantry

  London, England—May 1830

  When Maybelle first discovered at the tender age of twelve that her beautiful, silver-haired grandmother was in fact a French courtesan, it had been most…awkward. Yet equally fascinating, to say the least.

  Being left in the care of such a sexually liberated woman certainly made for an unusual upbringing. For instance, French was taught, not out of cultural or educational necessity, but because her grandmother believed that the rolling off of French from one’s tongue was erotic. As such, French words always had to be sprinkled here and there like powdered sugar over the not-so-orgasmic English language. At fourteen, Maybelle refused to adhere to the woman’s ridiculous French/English rule. Mostly because she felt like a want-wit who couldn’t decide between two languages.

  At fifteen, Maybelle was further astonished to discover that naughty little books were not only permitted. They were required. So unlike other girls who took to sneaking pornographic books and keeping them under their bedroom pillows, Maybelle was forced to sneak volumes of Voltaire. For there was only so much copulation a girl could ingest day in and day out.

  Needless to say, after spending nine years under the perpetual rule of her grandmother, there really wasn’t much in this world that could actually astound her.

  Or at least that is what she’d thought.

  Maybelle eyed the full glass of cognac, which had been set onto the gleaming surface of the walnut table before her, and heaved out an exasperated sigh as she eased into one of the parlor chairs. She had expected the last morning spent with her grandmother to be difficult. But cognac? Honestly.

  She met her grandmother’s attentive gaze from across the French crimson parlor and drawled, “I take it there is no tea in the cupboards?”

  “Och. Tea. The English are overly obsessed with it.” Her grandmother rose from the settee, rustling not only her full verdant skirts but also all three sets of stringed pearls dangling over her more-than-generous bosom. “We have every right to toast to all of our upcoming adventures. After all, you will finally get to visit your beloved Egypt, while I, I will finally have my School of Gallantry.”

  Maybelle paused. Then blinked. “Your School of Gallantry?”

  “Ah.” Her grandmother bustled over toward the small writing bureau set in the corner of the parlor and snatched up a piece of parchment from atop a pile of correspondences. Turning, she bustled back again and halted before Maybelle. Smiling ever so charmingly, she held out the sizable cream-colored parchment by the tips of her manicured fingers.

  Maybelle stared at the parchment dangling before her.

  MADAME THÉRÈSE’S SCHOOL OF GALLANTRY

  ALL GENTLEMEN WELCOME.

  LEARN FROM THE MOST CELEBRATED

  DEMIMONDAINE OF FRANCE

  EVERYTHING THERE IS TO KNOW ABOUT LOVE AND SEDUCTION.

  ONLY A LIMITED AMOUNT OF

  APPLICATIONS ARE BEING ACCEPTED

  AT 11 BERWICK STREET.

  DISCRETION IS GUARANTEED AND ADVISED.

  Well. That certainly explained why her grandmother had kept to herself these past few months. She’d been busy creating a school. For men.

  Heaven help her. This was going to follow her straight to the pyramids. At least the woman had used a nom de plume. Although it was only a matter of time before the gossip papers found out who was really behind it.

  “Well?” her grandmother prodded, still holding out the advertisement. “What do you think?”

  Ever since her father’s death left her in the care of his mother, she often felt as if she were the guardian. And enough was damn well enough.

  Maybelle rose from her parlor chair and snatched hold of the parchment. “Our reputation is already limp. Why on earth do you feel the need to flog it to death? You promised Papa that you’d never return to being a demimondaine. You promised.”

  Her grandmother arched a silver brow. “This is not a return. I am merely selling techniques.”

  “Techniques?” Maybelle smacked the parchment with the back of her hand. “It’s ludicrous. What man would ever admit to needing lessons in seduction? You of all people should know that it comes natural to men.”

  “Does it? How odd. I suppose the thirty men who have already enlisted are merely looking for entertainment.” With that, her grandmother snatched the advertisement back and s
moothed the edges of it carefully between her manicured fingers.

  Maybelle’s heart jumped. Thirty men had already enlisted?! Who on earth were all these naughty blighters? And what did they think they were going to learn?

  Calm. She needed to remain calm. There had to be a perfectly good reason for all this. There were always reasons. No matter how far-fetched. “Are we having trouble with our finances?” she prodded, stepping toward her. “Is that it?”

  Her grandmother frowned. “Non. Our finances are exceptionally good. Although I did have some assistance from the lovely widow Lady Chartwell. The woman fondly shares my vision of educating men.”

  Maybelle’s eyes widened. England’s widows were actually donating to this plight? Although Maybelle wanted to outright demand why her grandmother would stoop to such a crude level of disrespect toward herself, her lips were simply too numb to form a single intelligible word.

  “You are not pleased, I see.” Her grandmother sighed heavily and wandered back toward the bureau, carefully setting the advertisement onto it. She tilted her head to one side, causing her thick, silver chignon to shift, and centered the parchment before her as if she were straightening a painting. “London has always been so boring compared to Paris. I am used to more excitement. More passion. As you know, I have long sworn off my occupation and sadly, have no great grandchildren to occupy my time. What is worse, you and I have completely different interests. A pile of old rocks set upon endless hot sand is nothing short of torture. I am too delicate for such things.”

  Oh dear God. There it was again. The pity-me routine. “No one forced you to stay in London. You chose to stay here. Furthermore, I won’t have you calling the pyramids a pile of old rocks. They are amazing historic monuments worthy of genuine fascination. I’ve already postponed my trip four times because of you and every time I was forced to pay my designated traveling companion ten pounds despite the fact that I never traveled anywhere.”

  Maybelle crossed her arms over her chest. “So what is it that you want this time? Aside from great grandchildren.”

  Her grandmother turned and feigned shock as her slender hand flew to her bosom. “Want? What would make you think that I want anything?”

  Maybelle narrowed her gaze knowing a seasoned actress had stepped onstage. “You know exactly how I feel about these things, which is why you are trying to leverage this against me. Otherwise, you would have never told me. You would have waited until I left England and then opened the school.”

  Those soft blue eyes, which were a mere shade darker than her own, remained fixed on Maybelle. “I am not trying to leverage anything. The advertisements have long been sent and the townhouse rented. It is done, chère. Classes begin next week. And in the end, I confess that the most difficult aspect was having to choose only four out of the thirty who had originally enlisted.”

  Maybelle hesitated then drawled, “You are renting out an entire townhouse to host only four men?”

  “Oui, but it is only temporary. Until I regulate the schedule and coordinate the lesson plans. As time goes on, I will add more men. Which of course will mean more work. It will require more teachers. More hosts. More toys.” Her grandmother paused and eyed her. “You would not consider staying and becoming a hostess for a few months, would you? Though we should qualify you more by dispensing of your virginity.”

  Maybelle choked on a horrified gasp, then quickly cleared her throat. Twice. “I believe you are the only grandmother in the history of England to ever say such a thing to her granddaughter. That aside, do you even realize what you’ll be promoting by opening such a school? Do you?”

  A mischievous smile appeared on those full pink lips. “I will proudly be promoting the pleasure of all my fellow women who are fortunate enough to come across my étudiants.”

  Maybelle lowered her chin slightly but did not break their gaze. “No. You will proudly be promoting the idea that women are poodles and should be petted at will.”

  Her grandmother tsked, puckering her lips. “Chère. If a man knows nothing about seduction, the courtship becomes merely poom-poom. Animal copulation. And it is the woman who suffers, for a man can always find pleasure. But a woman? Not so. We cannot keep men from the conquests they seek, but we can educate the lust-ridden fools and in turn benefit, oui?”

  So. It had come to this. Cheap bargaining. “All right. Name your price.”

  “Price?” Her grandmother blinked. “You mean for the school? I agreed on one hundred pounds per week.”

  A gasp escaped Maybelle, despite the fact that her grandmother had completely misunderstood. “One hundred pounds per week?” she squeaked. “For mere advice? Are they mad?”

  “It is a very respectable price. Understand that an experienced demimondaine such as myself could actually demand much more.”

  “Grand-mère, please. I will gladly bargain with you, if need be, but for heaven’s sake, you must close the school before you become an even bigger celebrity of the wrong sort.”

  “I will not bargain for the school but—” Her grandmother paused, then turned abruptly toward her. “I will bargain for the money you wish to travel with. Since I still hold all the purse strings.”

  Maybelle blew out an exhausted breath. She knew that trying to leave London was going to be an adventure in and of itself.

  Her grandmother’s sharp features softened and her blue eyes took on a form of pleading. “Once, chère. It is all I ask.”

  Maybelle lifted both brows. “Once what?”

  Her grandmother slowly made her way toward her, her eyes never leaving hers. “I have taught you everything I know, and yet here you are at one and twenty, and have only kissed one man. Why?”

  “I did not kiss that man,” Maybelle sternly corrected, holding up a rigid finger and shaking it. “He kissed me.” And the mere thought of that pock-ridden bastard stating his never-ending noble intentions, only to then grab her and shove his sour tongue down her throat made her queasy. Sadly, it summed up her relationship with every man thus far. For they all seemed to think that just because she was the granddaughter of a courtesan, any approach would do.

  Her grandmother sighed. “I do not understand. You have no intentions on ever marrying, and yet you hold onto your virginity as if it were worth a dowry. A woman’s innocence is only valued by men. The moment you dispense of it, you take your first step toward freedom. Your first step toward ensuring you do not belong to anyone but yourself.”

  “Yes. I am well aware of that.”

  “Then what is the problem?” A concerned look crossed her face. “Do you prefer women? Hm?”

  Maybelle could actually feel her cheeks growing hot. Unbearably hot. “I want it to be memorable, is all. I want to look upon a man and say to myself, oh, yes, I’ll bed that one please. Besides. You know the ton. They keep all the titled, good-looking men to themselves and give us their horrid remnants no one else wants.”

  Her grandmother paused before her and shook her head. Almost pitifully. “You think the ton is keeping the good men away? Pffff. The ton has no power over us. We are our own government which no man rules. We define ourselves. And that is why I am asking you to define yourself. Without the ton’s ridiculous restrictions. I say, storm the Season. Claim the man of your choosing and enjoy life. Perhaps then you would not be so horribly tense.”

  Maybelle glared at her grandmother. “Horribly tense? Need I remind you, we cannot even attend social gatherings unless they’re being hosted at a brothel.”

  “You, Maybelle, are my granddaughter.” Her grandmother smiled and swept on open hand toward their surroundings. “As such, you have the ability to place every man at your feet. Make a name for yourself and the sort of men you want will come by the dozen.”

  “Grand-mère, I am not interested in becoming a demimondaine. Life is difficult enough with you being one.”

  “But you have the makings of greatness.”

  “Greatness indeed. I learned from Pap
a long ago never to overextend myself to anyone as it leads to very bad things. Surely, you remember how obsessed he was with Mama. And she’d been dead for twelve years.”

  “Henri was born a romantic. What can I say.” Her grandmother sighed, reached out, and took hold of Maybelle’s hands, squeezing them tightly. “Have I returned to being a demimondaine after becoming your gardienne? Non. Yet why is it men continue to roll at my feet, begging to be patted at any cost? Because I cannot escape the name I have created. Nor do I want to. I enjoy sex.”

  Sex, sex, sex. It was all the woman ever talked about. Maybelle released her grandmother’s hands, shook her head, and stepped back. “I will not watch you destroy whatever integrity London has left by teaching all the men how to take advantage of women. It is not right.”

  Her grandmother grew unusually serious, the laugh lines around her eyes clearly fading. She lowered her voice. “I will tell you what is not right, Maybelle. Because of who I wish to be, because of who I have always been, I have not only sent my son to an early grave, but am now forcing his child to flee from me in the same manner he did. I know what will happen once you leave today. You will not return. You will disappear from my life. As Henri had.”