Maybelle swallowed and closed her eyes, inwardly fighting with the reality of her situation. For although, yes, life in London was unbearable, and had been for many years because of her grandmother’s reputation, she had no desire to flee. As her father had.
At sixteen, the man had altogether left France assuming he could escape his infamous mother, and upon arriving in England, set out to marry a respectable woman. That woman being Maybelle’s own mother, who died giving birth to her.
In the end, her father’s stubborn pride kept them from changing their name, thus making it difficult to escape all the back turning that came along with being associated with a renowned courtesan. When he eventually grew ill and lay dying, he realized there was no one to hand his twelve-year-old daughter to. No one but the mother he’d been running from all his life.
Maybelle opened her eyes. Stepping forward, she took hold of her grandmother’s slim shoulders and squeezed them gently, assuredly. “I would never abandon you. Ever. Seeing the pyramids is a dream of mine. You know that. And the way that Ferlini man is going about destroying them, there may very well be nothing left for me to see. You’ve read the papers. He is damn well smashing tops off pyramids and plundering tombs wherever he goes.”
Her grandmother pinched her lips together, her blue eyes now glistening with tears. Tears Maybelle hadn’t seen since the woman had arrived from France and threw herself at Papa’s bedside while he lay dying.
Her grandmother must have realized her faux pas, for she quickly blinked back those tears, pulled away, and sniffed. Waving a hand, she muttered, “Go. Follow your heart, your love. I will pay for everything and manage the school on my own. You will see.”
Maybelle slowly exhaled, feeling guilty and exhausted. For in the end, her love, not to mention her very heart, belonged to her grandmother. Would always belong to her grandmother. And considering the outrageous endeavor the woman was about to embark upon, she needed support. For she knew there would be little of it from anyone else. “I will stay for two months,” Maybelle finally announced. “But only two months.”
Her grandmother turned back toward her, those blue eyes lit with beautiful mischief once again. She clapped, rattling her emerald bracelets. “Two months will be magnifique! You will join me at the school on opening day, oui? Aside from all the men you will meet, I have countless rooms filled with all sorts of treasures and adventures.”
Treasures? Adventures? It sounded like a pirate ship. One she wanted no part of.
Maybelle pointed at her grandmother and kept herself from altogether poking the woman in the shoulder. “Let us not get carried away. I am not interested in schoolboys learning how to please a woman. I know more than the basics thanks to you. Understand, Grand-mère, that the trouble with most men, even the experienced ones, is that they are forever seeking out attachments and are for the most part quite possessive. Albeit in different forms, but it all ends the same. If it isn’t a wife they require, it is a mistress, and if it isn’t a mistress, it is some other form of convention that they ultimately define in their own terms. Which is why I see absolutely no point in pursuing a single one of them.”
Maybelle took in a deep, calming breath and let it out. “Now. I propose that over the next two months we point all of our efforts in the direction of your school and then in the direction of my travels. Then we will both be happy. And that is what we want, yes? To be happy?”
“Ah!” Her grandmother held up a finger in the air, causing all of her bracelets to fall down the length of her wrist. “I have an idea.”
Oh, no. Not an idea. Maybelle stepped back.
“Lord Hughes owes me a favor. A considerable one, I admit.” She winked with great exaggeration. “I shall therefore see to it that he invites us to several of his soirées. He does not care what the ton thinks.” Her grandmother smiled and smugly folded her hands before her. “I promise to find you a man incapable of demanding any attachments.”
Maybelle’s eyebrows rose. Why, that sounded horrid. Not in the least bit promising.
“And when we find him,” her grandmother went on, gesturing toward her ever so graciously, “it will then be entirely up to you to make the best of it.”
Which is exactly what she was afraid of. For there was a rather big difference between knowing everything about men and actually dealing with them. Maybelle sighed ever so softly. A pile of old rocks set upon endless hot sand sounded rather perfect as of now.
If only she wasn’t so bloody softhearted.
Lesson Two
Not everyone is capable of seduction. Yet everyone is perfectly capable of being seduced.—The School of Gallantry
London, three weeks later at the house of Lord Hughes, evening
Elegantly dressed men and women whisked in and out of sight, adorned in perfectly tailored and expensive satiny hues of onyx, periwinkle, and alabaster. Beautiful is what they were. All beautiful.
On the outside, at least.
And although, yes, the orchestra played loud enough for the deaf to hear, and the candles from the crystal chandeliers had dripped more wax on her than the wood floor throughout the evening, it was still mildly entertaining. Mildly, only because she’d spent most of the night tucked between the oak-paneled wall and her grandmother.
A grandmother, who by the by, had received more amorous stares and conversations from men during the past few hours than she had in her entire life. And unlike the snobby women around them who refused to acknowledge their existence, the men were proving to be exceptionally friendly. Exceptionally.
And one might only imagine why. After the school’s grand opening, her grandmother had become a celebrity of sorts. For only the men, of course.
A mustached gentleman grinned and nodded his pleasantries toward her grandmother as he passed by. Her grandmother returned his nod and set her chin once again.
Whoever thought one could be so popular in society and yet so equally despised? It made no sense whatsoever. But then that was the ton for you.
Maybelle sighed and leaned back against the wall. After attending a total of seven soirées in three weeks, she had hoped her grandmother would come to terms with the fact that she had standards. Thank goodness.
Maybelle peered past the double bouffant sleeves of her grandmother’s low-cut, plum evening gown, but could barely see the dance floor. She pushed away from the wall and was about to tap her grandmother on the shoulder so that the woman might step aside and give her a better view when a tall, muscular dark-haired gentleman strode past.
Maybelle’s heart skipped as her eyes unwittingly followed him. Now there was a chariot worth riding into hell on.
The man was clad in black, thigh-hugging trousers that tapered narrowly down the length of his long, muscular legs and was finished off by a pair of black lacquered shoes. If not for the evening jacket, which brushed past his upper thighs, she had no doubt his bum would have been a heavenly sight to behold.
Of course, there was still plenty to admire. His perfectly tailored black jacket paraded the width of his chest and the muscles in his arms. A high, crisp white collar surrounded his strong jaw and neck, which was even further accentuated by a perfectly pressed pure white cravat. His thick black hair, which had been combed back with tonic, was a bit on the long side, going entirely against fashion, but the way it brushed over the back of his high collar was in and of itself fascinating.
Although he was almost out of sight, the man paused from his steady stride, and turned, as if sensing someone was watching him. His lean, shaven face; sharp nose; black eyes; and straight brows came into view.
Maybelle inhaled sharply. Oh, yes, I’ll bed that one please.
The man scanned those around him, and although she inwardly pleaded that he might meet her gaze at least once, his dark eyes swept past her.
Drat. Perhaps her grandmother was in the way. Maybelle gathered her cream satin skirts and quickly scooted out from behind her grandmother to place herself on b
etter display.
To her disappointment, the man had already turned and made his way back through the crowd. Maybelle released her satin skirts and let them drop to the floor right along with her heart. She watched as he rounded the dance floor and disappeared through the French doors leading out onto the darkened terrace.
It was for the better. A man of such appearances was most likely married. And if not married, then engaged. And if not engaged, then looking to be. And as one woman never sufficed the thirst of any man, there was no doubt a mistress involved. Several of them, if she had to guess. One for every single of his vicious, lusty whims. Yes. He certainly looked the sort.
“You have very good taste,” her grandmother drawled, still staring out onto the dance floor. “That, chère, is none other than the Duke of Rutherford. Better known to London as the man tragically ruined by his father’s lust.”
Maybelle’s eyes widened. Certainly not the sort she had imagined. She leaned toward her grandmother. “Ruined by his father’s lust? You don’t mean his father actually—”
“Och, mais non! Where is your mind tonight?” Her grandmother glanced around, snapped open her ostrich fan, and leaned toward her, gossip overtaking her blue eyes. She hid the bottom half of their faces behind the confines of her fan and lowered her voice. “You see, a little over six years ago, his father died in the arms of a courtesan. Laudanum overdose. Dreadful, dreadful scandal. But then the réel rumors commenced. That the woman was not a courtesan at all, but a lady of high, respectable society.”
Her grandmother clucked. “Well. That made it even more difficile for the ton to accept and ever since, the duke’s poor mama has desperately tried to marry him off to whoever will have him. Despite his dire circumstances, the man refuses to compromise his lineage and will not marry below him. And so there you have it. Ruined by his own father’s lust.”
How sad. And yet…how utterly perfect if she were to ever seriously consider being debauched good and well by any man. She wouldn’t have to worry about the duke wanting the daughter of a courtesan for a wife. And his father’s death certainly should have altered if not entirely affected the man’s perception of wanting a mistress. Which was rather promising. A bit too promising.
Maybelle eyed her grandmother and blurted, “What if I wanted him? For a night, that is. What would you suggest?”
Her grandmother leaned away and snapped her fan closed, letting it dangle by its velvet string attached to her gloved wrist. If the woman was in any way pleased, she hid it rather well. She shrugged. “Seeing you want only one night, I suggest you keep it simple.”
“How simple?” Maybelle prodded.
Her grandmother lifted her other hand, pulled out a small, tin box from the wrist of her glove, opened it, and held it out for her. “Here. Have a mint. I will make an introduction for you before the end of the hour.”
An introduction indeed. The man wasn’t even likely to notice her from behind her grandmother’s overpuffed sleeves and large breasts.
Maybelle lowered her voice a touch more. “Why an introduction? Is it because of his rank?”
Her grandmother laughed. “Of course not. It is because of my rank. You want him, oui?” She shook the box at her, rattling the candies within. “Do take one, chère. Men adore the smell of mint. It seduces their senses.”
Maybelle wrinkled her nose at the thought. But if there was anyone who would know what men adored, it most certainly was her grandmother. Maybelle plucked up the mint and tucked it into her glove. For later use.
Maybelle impatiently watched the doors leading to the balcony, hoping that the duke would return soon. “So how does one even go about seducing a man of such status? Surely it complicates matters.”
“A title is but a barrier, not a complication.” Her grandmother plucked up a mint, placed it onto the tip of her pink tongue, and slid the tin back into the unbuttoned space at the wrist of her glove. “Perhaps you should consider visiting the school and sitting in on a few lessons. We discuss social barriers all the time.”
Maybelle refrained from snorting. “No. No, thank you. I shall manage. Without stepping onto your pirate ship.”
Maybelle eyed the balcony once again. Though a part of her contemplated seducing the duke to keep her grandmother from ever nagging her again, a much larger part wanted to finally discover the truth behind all of the excitement. And who better than with a man who sent her pulse thundering with but a glance that had not even been directed at her?
Etiquette and delicacy be damned. She was wasting time. “I wish to approach him out in the garden. Might I?”
Her grandmother sighed dramatically as if she were dealing with a petulant child. “I will not argue.” She paused. “But. Before you go. Be certain that I do not notice you are abandoning me or I shall come across as a very bad chaperone.”
Ha. A demimondaine shouldn’t even be a chaperone. But yes, yes. She understood. Discreet. She could do that. Maybelle paused for a moment, then took to busily arranging her skirts. As she did so, she snuck one dainty step to the left. Toward the direction of the balcony. Then another. And another.
Her grandmother lifted her chin and continued to stare out before her, appearing genuinely occupied with listening to the orchestra and watching all of the couples whirl and dance.
Ever the brilliant actress.
Edging farther and farther away, one step at a time, Maybelle scanned the festivities around her. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice her change in direction. All of the earlier female gossips who might have actually noted what she was up to had long taken leave for supper. A blessing indeed.
When she eventually retreated far enough from her grandmother to warrant a complete escape, she turned and sashayed toward the French doors leading outside.
Exude confidence. Yes. Confidence.
The cool, night air made her pause on the large, round stone terrace. She took in a deep, satisfying breath and let it out. Free. Free to finally step outside the endless, stifling rules of the ton.
Eyeing her dim surroundings, Maybelle stepped farther out. Quiet couples leaned against the limestone banister. A banister that wrapped around the entire terrace, and only allowed for an opening on the left, which led out into the darkness of the garden.
He must have gone out into the garden. She slowly ventured down the wide terrace stairs, her gown rustling in the silence as it dragged behind her. As she wandered farther and farther down the garden path, outlined with neatly trimmed tall hedges, it grew very quiet, save for her own movements. And dark. Without a single bit of moonlight to guide her.
Her pulse quickened as she swallowed against the dryness in her throat. This is idiotic. Even if you do find him, what do you intend on doing with the man? Regardless of his reputation, he is still a duke.
Maybelle paused and bit her lip. Hard. She should return. Immediately. Before she made a want-wit of herself.
She turned and hurried down the darkened path, toward the lights of the ballroom that glowed in the far-off distance. Between her unsettled nerves and the pasty dryness in her mouth, it was almost difficult to swallow. Let alone breathe.
Still keeping a steady pace, she glanced down toward her hands and blindly searched in the darkness for the mint tucked inside her left glove. Just as she placed the candy onto the tip of her tongue, she collided straight into what could have only been a stone pillar.
The mint popped out of her lips like a lead ball from a cannon and she snatched at whatever was before her to keep from falling back. To her surprise, the pillar had a waistcoat.
A male voice exclaimed, “What in—”
The waistcoat she clung to ripped, and they both tumbled to the ground, landing between the hedges beside the garden path.
The man’s hard body held her pinned to the ground, knocking the breath out of her. The night sky whitened as pain seared through her. She gasped, unable to breathe or move.
The man immediately pushed himself up
, removing his entire weight off to the side. His broad, muscled body, however, continued to linger above her in the shadows. “Are you all right?”
His deep voice, sensual and low, sent a ripple of awareness through her. The sky above darkened and returned to normal. The ache in her body dissipated as her chest finally expanded. She gulped in a much-needed, almost pleasurable breath. Rich, spicy sandalwood tinged with the sweet fragrance of a cigar unexpectedly filled her nostrils.
It was him.
Her head pounded and the blood in her veins heated. “My corset is still in one piece,” she managed.
Mistress of Pleasure Page 2
