Mistress of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  The duchess smacked his shoulder with her fan. “You will see to the girl, Edmund, or I will have your head.” She peered down the corridor, pointed her fan at him one last time in warning, and then disappeared into the music that played in the crowded ballroom.

  Edmund blew out a breath, rubbing at his jaw, and slowly moved down the corridor. He had to find a way of bringing this business to an end. For both his sanity and his mother’s. And marriage was not it.

  Stepping through the now-open doors of the drawing room he paused. Madame de Maitenon lay draped across the sofa, her low-cut gown still showing off quite the cleavage, but unlike before, she was conscious. One of the two gentlemen leaned over her, checking her pulse.

  Thank God. The woman was alive.

  A rustle of quick-moving skirts caught his attention. “Your Grace,” Maybelle’s soft voice pleaded. “I appreciate all that you have done, but you really should not be here.”

  Edmund tried not to stare as she steadily approached. But how could he not stare at the delectable mess before him? A mess he himself had helped create. Long curling strands of blond hair, which had fallen from her chignon, decorated her bare shoulders, and the short satin sleeves of her satin cream gown were charmingly crooked. And dirty.

  He cleared his throat. “I am pleased to see your grandmother is doing well.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “I do not know if she is at all well.”

  He solemnly nodded. “Allow me to call on you at a more appropriate time.”

  She blinked. “Call on me? What for?”

  He withheld a smile, amused by her straightforward nature. “I believe you and I have a rather complicated matter on our hands. One that needs to be addressed.”

  She stared, apparently too abashed to respond.

  “Do notify me as to the progress of your grandmother’s condition. I bid you a good evening.” He bowed and met her soft, blue eyes one last time.

  She returned his gaze with the same intensity she had when they had first seen each other out in the lightest part of the garden. As heated as her gaze was, he was surprised at how strikingly pure it seemed, with nothing hidden or lurking beneath. And in that moment, he knew that this woman was worthy of far more than the lot life had handed her. But then, life hadn’t necessarily handed him a dandy lot either.

  He turned abruptly and strode out of the room. All he could look to do was set things right to the best of his ability, tell his mother who the girl really was and then walk away.

  No.

  Not walk.

  Run.

  Lesson Four

  There is no such thing as an inexperienced woman. Unless of course she cannot think, see, smell, or hear.—The School of Gallantry

  Two weeks later

  For the first time in her life, Maybelle realized that the life of a demimondaine was worthy of fascination. For it didn’t merely consist of spreading one’s thighs apart. No. A demimondaine actually had to be very intelligent to make her way through the dangerous trappings of society. And required a gut of steel.

  “There is a gentleman to see you, Miss,” the butler announced from the open doorway of the parlor.

  Maybelle’s heart jumped. She shoved aside the memoir she’d been reading on Sally Salisbury, the courtesan, and rose. In her haste, she nearly knocked over several vases filled with roses, which had been set at her feet.

  Damn things.

  Since her grandmother’s stroke, the students from the School of Gallantry had overrun the entire house with flowers. So many, in fact, that there was no other flat surface in the parlor save the floor. And that didn’t include all the other flowers she’d outright tossed. Flowers which had been delivered to Maybelle by various titled men who thought that she was now on the market for hire. Market for hire, indeed. She should have foreseen all of this.

  Stepping around a huge basket of orchids, Maybelle turned toward the doorway where the balding butler continued to patiently wait. “Who is it now, Clive?”

  She only hoped it wasn’t more flowers, or worse, another despicable offer from yet another aristocrat who happened to be at Lord Hughes’s soirée; or by God, she was going to buy a dog. A very, very large dog she could set loose on every man who came to the door. Her grandmother needed rest. As did she.

  Clive cleared his throat. “The gentleman refused to give his name, but claims to know you. Says there is a rather important matter to settle regarding a particular night.”

  Maybelle caught her breath. No. It couldn’t be.

  “He visited on two other occasions, Miss, while you were at Madame’s bedside, but refused to leave a card each time. Do you remember?”

  Oh dear God. That had been the Duke of Rutherford each time? Maybelle glanced down at her gray lace morning gown and cringed, realizing what it was she was wearing. “I am not properly dressed to be receiving, Clive. Insist that he leave a card.”

  “Yes, Miss.” The butler departed.

  Maybelle bit her lip, wondering if perhaps she shouldn’t have turned the duke away. She turned, hop-footing around all the flowers, and hurried over to the parlor window. She peered past the brocaded, green silk curtain doing her best not to be seen.

  A tall man, clad in well-fitted morning attire and a top hat, came to the end of the front steps and paused. He stared somewhere out before him, then turned and slammed the black iron railing of the gate with a gray-gloved fist.

  Maybelle jumped away from the window. Good heavens, it was him. And he seemed to be out of temper. She placed a hand to her chest and took in a shaky, deep breath, trying to ease not only the fluttering of her heart but the warmth that was spreading over her body and between her thighs. How did he find her? More importantly, what did he want? More?

  Clive came into the parlor and looked over at her. “He refused to leave his card, Miss. Again.”

  Maybelle dropped her hands back to her sides. Most likely the man didn’t want to add his calling card to her collection. A collection which in his mind would then be set upon a silver tray and displayed for all who visited to see. Of course, what he didn’t know was that she didn’t have a collection of cards, save for the few that had arrived with all the flowers. Which she’d tossed. Now as for her grandmother…her cards had to be kept in a basket. Several of them.

  “Thank you,” she finally murmured. “It is best this way.” Her focus needed to be on her grandmother and only her grandmother. She quickly moved away from the window and wove through all the flowers again, still trying to control the beating of her heart.

  The butler went on. “I placed today’s correspondence on the desk, Miss. They are all for Madame.”

  “Thank you, Clive.” She approached the small writing desk cluttered with roses and picked up the stack of envelopes, thankful that she had something to occupy her thoughts. “I will address these immediately.”

  “I’ll be down in the kitchen, Miss, should you have a need for me.”

  Maybelle nodded and sat in her grandmother’s favorite red velvet chair, busily arranging the envelopes according to importance.

  Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill.

  And…

  The bold handwritten letter on one of the envelopes made her pause. It read: Madame Thérèse’s School of Gallantry and bore the address of 11 Berwick Street. Another forwarded correspondence.

  She only hoped it wasn’t another letter threatening to set fire to the school. So that they all may properly burn in hell, where they belonged.

  Maybelle sighed. Her grandmother was so fond of her odd creation and despite the stroke continued to correspond feverishly with all her students, promising her return. Oddly, Maybelle wanted her to. It gave her grandmother something to live for. To strive and get better for.

  Maybelle took up the envelope, broke the seal, which bore the letter R, and carefully unfolded the correspondence. Sliding out the calling card, which had been enclosed with the letter, to the edge of the stationery, she read:r />
  Madame de Maitenon,I am a man in desperate need of your advice. Please meet me at the privacy of my home when it is most convenient. Enclosed is my card. I beg for your discretion and thank you in advance.And nothing more. It hadn’t even been signed. Maybelle pinched the card against the letter with her fingers to keep it from falling. The calling card itself was plain, with gold letters and bore an address of a very respectable residence at Park Place. Yet had no name. Who had a calling card with an address yet no name? Highly irregular and not to be trusted. At all. Nonetheless, it was addressed to her grandmother, and not her, and should be delivered as such.

  Maybelle opened the door to her grandmother’s bedroom and peered in. “Grand-mère?”

  Her grandmother looked up from the book she was reading and smiled, the edges of her eyes crinkling. “Ah. My beautiful nurse. Where have you been all morning?”

  “Reading. I wanted you to rest.” Maybelle closed the door and hurried toward her grandmother. Sitting on the edge of the large mahogany bed, Maybelle set the letter and calling card onto the side table and smiled as cheerfully as she could despite her grandmother’s appearance.

  Those bright blue eyes looked as if they would disappear beneath their eyelids. Her sagging, sickly features asked for pity and her long silver hair lay wildly around her, in unkempt waves.

  “Grand-mère, why did you undo Sarah’s braids?” she gently scolded. “She spent a whole hour on your hair.”

  Her grandmother rolled her eyes. “Braids are only fit for horses.”

  Maybelle smiled and shook her head. “Allow me.” She stood and hurried toward the dresser. Grabbing up one of the two brushes set beside her grandmother’s bottles of French lavender oils, Maybelle made her way back to the bed, leaned in, and gently gathered a long soft handful of the silver hair closest to her.

  Her grandmother frowned and swatted her hand away. “Non, non. I will do it.”

  Maybelle sighed and released the hair she had gathered. Even after a stroke, the woman hated being tended by anyone and took extreme pride in doing tasks herself.

  Maybelle held out the brush. Her grandmother shakily reached out and took it. Tilting her head slightly, she brushed through her long silver strands, pausing occasionally only because of how horridly her hand shook.

  Maybelle blinked back tears and looked away. It broke her heart to see her grandmother in such a frail state. Yet the doctors claimed it could have been worse. She could have lost her ability to move. Or speak.

  “Grand-mère,” she finally whispered, glancing toward the side table. She picked up the letter and calling card and turned back to her grandmother hoping she wasn’t going to be difficult about the matter. “A letter arrived. With regards to the school. You should respond to it and explain that you aren’t in any condition to be making visits.”

  Her grandmother paused and set aside the brush. “Who is it from?”

  “It did not say.”

  Her grandmother’s face colored for the first time since her stroke. She pushed away the book that was still on her lap and sat up straighter against the pillows.

  With unexpected strength, her grandmother grabbed the letter from Maybelle’s hands and snapped it open with the flick of her wrist. No sooner had her grandmother finished reading, the woman leaned over and pulled the servant bell. She jerked the red calling rope not once, but several times.

  Maybelle leaned toward her. “What is it?”

  The young chambermaid entered the room. “You rang…Madame?” she asked in between breaths.

  Her grandmother pointed at the chambermaid. “Fetch Clive. Quickly.”

  “Yes, Madame.” The chambermaid disappeared without closing the door.

  Her grandmother snatched up the letter once again and after reading it, waved it thoughtfully before her. She then eyed Maybelle and mischievously quirked a silver brow.

  Maybelle lowered her chin slightly. “I do not care for that particular look of mischief.”

  “Seeing I am bedridden, you will make the visit for me.”

  Maybelle felt the hairs on her arms standing on end. Although she’d been diligently helping her grandmother maintain the school without actually stepping foot into it and had even corresponded with all of her students with regards to her grandmother’s progress, she wasn’t quite prepared to take any more steps. Besides. One incomplete dalliance didn’t even begin to qualify her for something like that.

  Maybelle shook her head. Violently. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Och, you are such a prude. Go and advise the man. We will bill him later.”

  “Bill him later? No! I couldn’t possibly—”

  “If he is not satisfied with your approach, I will gladly offer up a detailed letter free of charge.”

  “But I don’t even have the sort of experience you do. All of my knowledge is…is…is theoretical.”

  Her grandmother wagged a finger at her. “Believe me, chère, when I say that is substantial in and of itself. The women here in London are completely repressed. The men have absolutely no one to turn to. You will do just fine.”

  The butler unceremoniously skid into the room, causing Maybelle to turn. He paused, smoothing his livery jacket into place, and calmly approached, even though his chest still heaved from the flight he’d taken. “Yes, Madame?” he breathed out.

  Her grandmother pointed at him with the letter. “Clive. My granddaughter will be conducting some business for me in a few days. You will make yourself available and chaperone her.”

  Clive paused, then replied, “Of course, Madame.” He smiled crookedly at Maybelle, looking rather amused. And needless to say nothing ever amused the man.

  Oh God no. No. Maybelle snapped toward her grandmother who had already comfortably settled into her pillows.

  Her grandmother waved the man off. “That is all, Clive. Thank you.”

  Clive regally bowed and departed. With a swagger, might she add. Who knew what the man would tell the servants.

  “Grand-mère,” Maybelle pleaded, now altogether hovering at her bedside. “You cannot expect me to call upon a complete stranger. The man will laugh at my advice.” She snuck a glance at the door. “As will Clive.”

  “Oh, they will not. I have taught you everything I know. Besides, it will be good for you to leave the house. You have not left since my stroke. Now come here.” Her grandmother leaned over, reached out, took hold of Maybelle’s forearm, and proceeded to drag Maybelle toward her.

  Maybelle stiffened, knowing full well that the woman, as always, was trying to use her charms to get her way. “I am not that gullible.”

  Her grandmother grabbed Maybelle’s hand and placed it firmly over the silk of her robe. Right over her heart. She stared up at Maybelle with those soft, blue eyes. Pleading. The way she always did when something meant so much to her. And when she was bent on getting her way.

  It was so unfair. Maybelle took in a calming breath that was anything but calming and drew her hands away. “I am not responsible if all of London goes down in flames.”

  “London could do with a bit of excitement, chère.” Her grandmother grinned. “Let the city burn.”

  Lesson Five

  There are two types of conquests: the easy sort and the difficult sort. Men always fool themselves into thinking that the easy sort makes for better sport. Yet it is without question that the latter will ultimately result in what is known as total seduction.—The School of Gallantry

  Edmund paced before the parlor windows, feeling as if his chest was about to explode from the frustration of it all. “What the blazes were you thinking?” he demanded, glaring at his mother every now and then. “This is my house and I refuse to be bullied into this nonsense.”

  The duchess swept into a plush burgundy chair and daintily plucked up the blue and white porcelain teacup before her. “You brought this upon yourself by exhibiting no self-control. Now stop grouching. The woman should be here at any moment. Only d
o keep it to ten minutes, as we really should try and lull the tongues until the banns are printed.”

  Edmund continued trooping back and forth across the wood floor in an effort to refrain himself from roaring obscenities at his own mother. That she could sit there and drink tea at a time like this proved to him she had truly lost whatever was left of her mind. “Do you realize,” he seethed through his teeth, “that if I marry the granddaughter of a courtesan it will damn well turn into the biggest uproar London has ever seen?”

  She took several quiet sips from her tea, then set it onto the polished surface of the table before her. “No, dear. The biggest uproar went to your father.”