Mistress of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  Edmund came to an abrupt halt and turned to stare at her. “You are poisoning not only your life but mine. I have given you all the support a son can give and this is how you choose to repay me? By forcing me into a marriage so far beneath me I cannot even see the bottom?”

  “Edmund, we need an heir.”

  He groaned and threw back his head. “This much?”

  “You have outright rejected every respectable woman in London who might have married you. What options do you have left?”

  He leveled his head. “I need someone who will help me rise above scandal.” He waved his hand toward his mother. “Not add to it. For all we know this woman might be touched in the upper works. Need I remind you, she hunted me down in that garden? What is worse, her grandmother is running a school for Casanovas. Casanovas. How much lower do you intend to sink us in the name of an heir?”

  “Edmund.” The duchess leveled a dark gaze at him. “Have you considered the possibility that she might already be with child? Unlike others in the ton who have no qualms about turning away from their transgressions, I will not cast away an innocent grandchild.”

  Edmund opened his mouth to respond to that, but quickly clamped it shut, not wanting to damn well go into any more detail than he already had. This was his mother, for pity’s sake, how much more was he to disclose?

  She sighed. “I suppose your father would have brushed off this matter just as easily.”

  He stiffened as if she’d struck him. “I am nothing like the man. I face responsibility.”

  “As you are facing this?” She mocked a laugh. “You robbed the girl of her innocence.”

  Edmund pointed at her. And didn’t care that he was being rude. “You tell me this. Exactly how does one rob someone of something when it is being given quite freely?”

  She narrowed her gaze and lowered her chin. “Is that how you justify all of this nonsense? That she was willing? One would certainly hope she was!”

  “I…” He dropped his hand back to his side. Damn her. Marriage was a very serious commitment. Not a set of china to be bought and set out on the table. “And what about the school? You have no qualms about having our name tied to something so…so ridiculous?”

  She shrugged. “With an offer of duchess, I have no doubt we can convince Madame de Maitenon to close the school. After all, you have the means to enlist Parliament if you so choose.”

  She rose and daintily arranged her bombazine gown. “I shall make myself useful elsewhere during the woman’s visit. In the meantime, make an acceptable offer to the girl’s grandmother and be done with it.”

  “And if I choose not to make an offer?” he challenged.

  She paused and studied him for a brief moment. “After what your father did to us,” she finally said in a very cool, calm tone, “I was able to gather whatever was left of my name and bring forth several proper, marriageable girls for you to consider. Yet despite all of my pride and all of my efforts, none of them ever pleased you. They were never pretty enough, or wealthy enough, or titled enough, or intelligent enough. Your list of complaints truly knew no bounds. And I, my dear boy, have had quite enough. You have no further excuses considering the circumstances, and in my opinion, it is far better to marry beneath oneself than to allow a bloodline to altogether disappear.” And with that, she jutted out her chin and departed, slamming the parlor doors behind her.

  Edmund blew out a breath. Perhaps he should simply look into marrying her off. That way, she wouldn’t feel so inclined to interfere with his life and blame him for not perpetuating the Rutherford name.

  Adjusting his silk cravat, Edmund went back to pacing. His boots clattered each time he stepped from the oriental carpet to the polished wood floor. Perhaps he simply needed to leave London. Disappear. Disappear somewhere where women couldn’t complicate his life. Was there even such a place?

  The calling bell rang, interrupting his trooping. Edmund closed his eyes and focused on calming his dizzying thoughts. Egad. The granddaughter of a courtesan? For a wife? He wouldn’t even be able to take her to the park without causing a riot. And seeing he was still dealing with the aftermath of his father’s death and the mess that had created, he didn’t know if he could handle taking on much more.

  As the sound of quick steps approached, Edmund opened his eyes and sighed. In the end, his mother was right. He and he alone was responsible for this nonsense. He needed to prove to himself and the ton that he was nothing like his father. That he could take responsibility for his own transgressions. And move on.

  So there it was. The first Rutherford to be shackled not to a lady of gentle breeding but to the granddaughter of a French courtesan. There were worse things to be shackled to. Like an eternity of explaining to blue-blooded virgins that he would never pop off the way his debauched father had done.

  Edmund shifted his jaw and turned just as the parlor room doors fanned open.

  “A Mr. Adams,” the butler announced, “and a Madame de Maitenon.”

  Mr. Adams? Now who—

  A tall, balding man dressed in gray livery entered, his aged chin propped high as if he were a general of some sort. Edmund narrowed his gaze. Oddly, he recognized the man. It was the damn butler. The one who had sent him packing each and every time he’d called upon Maybelle while trying to settle all this business quietly.

  A petite blonde followed a few steps behind, dressed in a high-collared, pale blue lace gown and a matching parasol.

  Edmund stiffened as the familiarity of the woman’s face jolted him. For it was the same body and face that had drifted in and out of his thoughts during these past three weeks.

  Maybelle de Maitenon.

  And the woman was even more delectable in daylight. The color of her cobalt merino and lace gown complemented her bright blue eyes and the pale creamy tone of her flawless skin. A yellow bonnet, which had been tied in place with a wide satin ribbon beneath her chin, perfectly sat atop her gathered blond curls. It framed her oval face and accentuated the graceful length of her neck. Edmund didn’t dare note the remaining inventory for fear he might grow hard there and then.

  Her eyes visibly widened as she paused. “Clive,” she whispered in the drumming silence of the parlor. “This must be a horrid mistake.”

  The servant looked toward her, then back at Edmund. “’Tis the same gentleman who called on you several times before.”

  “Yes.” She brought her parasol close to her chest. “I know.”

  Apparently, this meeting of theirs was a bit of a surprise to all of them. And Edmund didn’t know why, but her presence actually soothed a part of his curiosity, which had been obsessively restless since that night in the garden.

  The woman’s gaze suddenly paused, then to his surprise, swept the length of him. His breath hitched in his throat at the possibility that she was outright weighing whether she might like to ride him to Tattersal’s.

  He struggled to keep his voice cool and steady. “Miss Maitenon. How gracious of you to deign me with your presence. I was beginning to think I was unworthy.”

  She cleared her throat and met his gaze. “I apologize that you were turned away each time, Your Grace, but my grandmother is still recovering from her stroke and I simply was not taking visitors.”

  Now he felt like the ass that he was. “I see. How is she?”

  “Better, thank you. I certainly appreciate how you tended to her that night.”

  Edmund nodded and they both stood in silence staring at one another. And he had to admit, it was the most awkward silence he’d ever endured in his goddamn life. All being witnessed by a rather uppity old servant masquerading as a chaperone.

  She switched her parasol into her other hand and broke their gaze by glancing around. “I do not wish to be apart from her too long, Your Grace. Her condition is still very delicate. Might we tend to whatever business you have?”

  “Yes. That.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps it is best I clarify this whole matt
er. My mother wrote that letter to your grandmother. Not I.”

  “Your mother?” She blinked several times in astonishment and fidgeted with her parasol. “I…forgive me. I don’t think I understand.”

  Her fidgeting allowed Edmund to unwittingly note her curves. He swallowed, noticing the way her full breasts were pushed up by her corset. And how they pressed against the delicate blue lace of her gown.

  An ache started to build in his body at remembering the feel of her soft breasts weighing in his hands and how she had waited for him, panting and begging. Imagine. Her. Panting. Begging. He shifted his jaw and fought from lingering on their unfinished encounter.

  Certainly, marriage to Maybelle de Maitenon would be anything but tiresome. He’d have access to her body whenever and wherever he pleased. Not the worst arrangement compared to all the homely, overbred girls his mother had tried to shuffle him off to. The woman also seemed pleasant and intelligent enough to be able to learn the ways of a duchess. And with time…who knew.

  Edmund blew out a breath and pointed toward the cane chair beside him. “Be seated. We have quite a bit to discuss.”

  Her mouth dipped into a frown. “We do?”

  He leaned heavily against the chair he’d offered, realizing that he was about to embark upon a very bizarre adventure. And the butler who continued to stare blankly at him wasn’t going to help matters either.

  Edmund smiled. Tightly. “Might we speak in private, Miss Maitenon?”

  She flushed to the tips of her ears. “Despite what you may think, Your Grace,” she said, her blond curls quivering from beneath her bonnet, “I intend to keep this visit respectable as I have no intention of gathering any more offers from your peers. I assure you that whatever is said before Clive will be kept in strict confidence.”

  Edmund inwardly cringed at the thought of proposing before a servant. A male one, at that. He pushed himself away from the chair. Perhaps he ought to change the subject for a bit of time and come back to the whole shackling of the leg bit later.

  He eyed her. “Seems your grandmother’s school is gaining vast popularity. I cannot seem to go anywhere these days without reading or hearing about it. Even all the clubs of Pall Mall are placing bets, guessing at to what goes on inside.”

  Maybelle lowered her chin and tartly stared at him, clearly displeased with their line of conversation.

  Damn. Perhaps a compliment should alter that. “Your grandmother must have quite the experience to undertake such an endeavor.” He paused and only then realized that had not come off quite as he’d intended.

  Maybelle narrowed her gaze and pointed her blue parasol at him as if it were a sword. “You are being an ass, Your Grace. Is this what I was called here for? To be insulted?”

  Edmund pulled in his chin. Nobody had ever called him an ass before. Not to his face anyway. He held up a hand. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to offend. I simply—”

  “No. No one ever means to offend.” She lowered her parasol and snapped it back to her side. “I think it best I leave.”

  Her lips tightened as if she were withholding from spitting something besides words out. She glanced toward the butler. “Come along, Clive. Our business here is done.”

  It was obvious he’d better get to the matter at hand. Even if he had to do it in front of the damn butler. He was a man, after all. A man capable of not only taking responsibility for his carnal actions, but also his duty to sire an heir.

  Which is why he finally blurted, “Miss Maitenon. Upon serious reflection and consideration, I have decided to offer for your hand in marriage. I do hope that you will stay long enough to consider my offer of matrimony and what that will entail.”

  There. Now he could begin regretting his words for the rest of his life.

  Lesson Six

  A man in need is a man indeed.—The School of Gallantry

  Maybelle froze in the doorway of the drawing room, her heart momentarily freezing along with the rest of her. She couldn’t possibly have heard right. The Duke of Rutherford had not just asked for her hand in marriage. Did he?

  “Ehm.” Clive leaned in from behind. “Shall I excuse myself, Miss?”

  Maybelle glanced over her shoulder toward Clive. She’d almost forgotten the man was in the room. She passed her parasol into her other hand and sighed. She supposed she could handle this on her own. Although she’d never dealt with having to reject a marriage proposal before. “Yes, Clive. Thank you.”

  “I will be outside the doors. Should you need me.” He quickly departed, closing the double doors behind him.

  The dark paneled drawing room suddenly became quiet. Unnervingly quiet. Maybelle slowly turned to him. Judging the man’s tiger-like stance, she realized that he was quite serious about his proposal. So why in heavens did he seem so displeased?

  Perhaps she should sit and give him a moment to explain himself. Before she outright rejected him.

  As calmly as she knew how, Maybelle breezed past him, clutching her parasol as tightly as her gloved hand would allow, so as to squeeze away every bit of her nervousness. She sat in a plush burgundy chair, the farthest one she could find from him, and waited for him to say something more on the matter.

  When the large walnut clock on the other side of the room chimed four times and hummed back into silence, and no words had been exchanged, Maybelle glanced toward him.

  To her surprise, she found him staring at her quite intently. With those piercing, obsidian eyes. His lean square jaw was tight, as if he were holding words between his teeth.

  “Yes?” she prodded.

  He crossed his long arms over his chest, the fabric of his gray morning jacket straining against his muscles. “What do you think of me, Miss Maitenon? Aside from our unfinished business out in the garden.”

  An unexpected shiver shot through her. He was rather to the point. As always. She wet her lips, knowing she had to guard herself well. “I do not know you well enough to comment, Your Grace.” Which wasn’t entirely a lie.

  The duke lifted a dark brow. “You have no opinion of me whatsoever?”

  She stiffened. Of course she had an opinion. She simply chose to keep it to herself. For once. “No. None.”

  “Regardless of the fact that you called me an ass only a few moments earlier?”

  She lifted her chin. “I do not take kindly to being insulted.”

  “Understand that it was not my intent to insult you.” He blew out a breath. “Perhaps it is best we commence with pleasantries from the beginning. Allow me to formally introduce myself.” He bowed, his black combed hair falling forward onto his forehead. “I am Edmund Richard Worthington, the sixth Duke of Rutherford, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Maitenon.”

  Maybelle gripped her parasol hard and eyed him. Why was he doing all this? He was a duke, for heaven’s sake, and she was too many classes below him to count.

  He put his hands behind his back, his chest muscles visibly stretching against his gray morning jacket and vest. “I have come to the conclusion that I have wronged you by exhibiting no self-control. I also have no doubt that you require protection against the multitude of complications that surround your grandmother. Our marriage will not completely shield you, considering I myself am not in good standing, but that is simply the way of things.”

  He cleared his throat. “So here is my offer. Upon matrimony, you shall receive the title of duchess, along with a townhouse and the generous sum of five thousand pounds a year to do whatever it is you please with. Any other outstanding expenses you should incur need only be forwarded to me. In return, you will see to the permanent closure of the School of Gallantry. You will make it your primary focus to produce an heir. However long that may take.”

  Maybelle froze. Setting aside that the man wanted to snatch every last bit of her independence away, and engage her in some bizarre matrimonial courtesanship, the man was also demanding that she close the school? Was he mad?


  The duke paused. His gaze drifted from her face down to her neck and farther down to her breasts, making her full aware that he had not forgotten what had passed between them. He quickly met her gaze again. “Until an heir is born, you will have no other in your bed but me, as I am not one for raising bastards. That is my offer. I do hope that you find it to be fair and generous.”

  Fair? Generous? She couldn’t believe that he’d actually related so much intolerable information with such stoic sincerity. What made him think that she was going to sit around in some townhouse playing the part of a snob only to then open the door from time to time to let him crawl into her bed? For what? A title and a dribble of respectability that wasn’t guaranteed? And of course, he failed to mention that while she played the role of a dutiful and faithful wife, he would damn well frig anyone he pleased. Why, she was better off being a full-fledged courtesan!