Maybelle pulled in her chin, her heart pounding. “Their nightshirts? Whatever do you mean?”
Her grandmother chuckled, reached out and patted her hand. “They will not be wearing them. They will merely be presenting them to you as part of your first lesson. Try to remember. You are there to offer these men the psychology of an experienced woman they do not usually have access to.”
“And their nightshirts have to do with…?”
“Your opinion. As you know, you will be addressing bedside manners before and after an encounter. And a man’s nightshirt very well includes that. Och, why I remember back in Paris a very rich and very titled man offered that I share his bed at a price I could not resist.”
Maybelle inwardly winced. Her grandmother had a tendency to divulge much more information than was really necessary.
“So I agreed. Until I saw him in his nightshirt.” Her grandmother rolled her eyes and clucked. “A man must know how to present himself in the bedroom or he shall find himself at a complete loss. Which is why you must advise these men as to what you find attractive and what you do not. Right down to their nightshirts. Easy, oui?”
Maybelle half nodded. She supposed there was no chance of getting out of this now.
“Ah, yes. One other matter. Do try to touch upon the subject of flowers in the next few days. Explain to them that delivering funeral flowers to a lady is not acceptable and that too many flowers is rather obsessive and disturbing. Between all four of my students, I should not have received more than two hundred.”
Maybelle grinned. “You expect me to nag them for you?”
Her grandmother wagged a finger at her. “Of course not. Always be tactful. And do be wary of Lord Hawksford. He has quite the reputation.”
Hawksford? The one obsessed with conquests? Maybelle leaned toward her grandmother. “Shall I bring a pistol?”
“Your intelligence is the only weapon you will need against them. And that I know you have. Arrive early tomorrow morning. Before seven. It will allow you enough time to conduct class and have the men out of my school by ten. That way, the men are able to abide by their daily schedules without drawing any attention to their activities.”
“Absolutely brilliant.” Oddly, Maybelle meant it.
Her grandmother smiled. “Merci. Now. Like you, all of my girls will be arriving for the first time tomorrow. They all know to be there before you and the men arrive. It has taken me a bit of time to find the right girls for the pleasure room, but I am certain the men will be more than pleased.”
Maybelle leaned toward her. “The pleasure room?”
“Oui. It is where the girls will be staying. They have strict orders to remain there at all times while school is in session. Until they are called upon by you. They also know there is to be no dallying with the men, as it is a school, not a bordello. Harold will ensure everyone is adhering to my rules.”
Clearly, this was becoming rather complicated. Maybelle cleared her throat and leaned away. “Now these girls. What would I need them for? Exactly?”
Her grandmother frowned and waved a hand toward her. “They are for the classroom, of course. You do not intend on using yourself to demonstrate techniques, do you?”
Maybelle gawked at her grandmother. A raging blush took over her entire face. “Of course I don’t intend on using myself.”
“They are paid very well and will do whatever it is you ask them to. Be sure to introduce yourself to them before you start class. Harold will escort you to where they are.” Her grandmother pointed past her, toward the dresser on the other side of the bedroom. “Now fetch that book for me.”
Dread was beginning to ebb into every part of her being. She simply couldn’t imagine herself positioning any woman, dressed or not, before an entire group of men. Or Edmund.
Maybelle rose, drawing in a shaky breath, and made her way toward the dresser. A large, black leather book of about five hundred pages of bound parchment sat on its corner. Maybelle took hold of it, its massive weight surprising her. She returned to her grandmother’s bedside. “What is this?”
Her grandmother patted her lap. “Set it here.”
Maybelle leaned toward her and set the book gently on her lap, curious as to what this was all about.
“Now.” Her grandmother opened the large book and paged through it, pausing every now and then to read her own perfectly scribed writing. “Read as much as you can. It will educate you all the more on the subject of what men like to do in bed.”
Her grandmother flipped a few more pages and then stopped and pointed to one of the four columns that divided each bound parchment. “Disregard the names and money received. Instead, read my notes. It is in French, but I know you can translate very well.”
With that, her grandmother turned the book toward her. “Read this one.”
Maybelle tilted her head to one side and slowly translated aloud: “The man prefers to talk of dirty things rather than actually doing them. ‘If given a chance you would lick my wife’s—’” Maybelle’s mouth dropped open as she stared at the rather dirty French word.
“Go on,” her grandmother insisted, tapping at the page. “Go on.”
Maybelle cleared her throat, knowing modesty was not something she could hold on to anymore. “‘You would lick my wife’s cunt,’ he says. ‘Yes, I would,’ I say. And so on and so on as he joyfully masturbates. The man is not actually looking for sex as much as self-gratification. And for it, I like him. There is less work on my part.”
Maybelle looked up. “What on earth is this?” she demanded.
Her grandmother shrugged. “Detailed notes on every client I have ever entertained.”
Maybelle’s eyes widened. “You retained notes on every man you ever bedded? Why on earth would you do that?”
“First and foremost I am a businesswoman. I must always have a form of blackmail. Payment is not always guaranteed.”
“And the purpose of showing this to me is…?”
“It is important that nothing astound you as you will be getting all sorts of questions from your étudiants. Share your findings with them and tell them what you find attractive and what you do not.” Her grandmother closed the book and pushed it toward Maybelle. “Take it. All I ask is that you protect its contents. Do not ever let it leave the house.”
Maybelle bit her lip, eyed the big black book, and wondered if she was treading on dangerous territory. By the looks of all the filled pages, there must have been at least a hundred clients listed. Which meant there were at least that many sexual encounters to read. Dear God. This sounded rather like work.
“That is all, chère.” Her grandmother sighed, tilted her head back against the pillow, and closed her eyes. “I am tired and admit the Rutherford ball took more énergie than I had expected.”
“Which is why you will not be leaving bed again anytime soon.” Maybelle snatched up the book, leaned over, and kissed her grandmother’s smooth cheek. “Rest. I will manage.” Somehow. Some way.
“I have no doubt you will. Now go. Read. Enjoy.”
Enjoy? Enjoyment isn’t what she had in mind, though she supposed there were worse things than reading about her grandmother’s sexual experiences.
Like instructing a room full of men on the art of erotic love. Oh what, oh what had she gotten herself into?
Lesson Eleven
Surprise yourself by opening your mind up to the possibility that seduction is not merely good for one’s body, but also for one’s soul.—The School of Gallantry
11 Berwick Street…or rather, beneath it
The dank smell of earth and dry rot filled Maybelle’s nostrils. She wrinkled her nose, trying to keep herself from brushing up against the moss-ridden slate walls, and held up the lantern to see how much farther she had to go. To her relief, in the far distance, she could make out a rough oak door. The door that was to mark the end of her journey. She still couldn’t fathom why anyone would make this sort of effort da
y in and day out. Especially her grandmother.
Maybelle gathered her cloak and morning skirts in one hand and hurried toward the end of the corridor, trying to keep the glass lantern steady. When she finally reached the door, she released her hold on her cloak and skirts, took hold of the rusty iron knob, and pulled. Only it refused to open. So she pushed. But it still would not open.
Oh, no. She was not going back through the tunnel and into Lady Chartwell’s rather desolate townhouse, where no doubt ghosts resided alongside the servants.
Placing the lantern in her other gloved hand, she pounded her fist against the door. “Hello?” she called out, her voice echoing all around her and fading into the distance. “Hello? Is anyone about? Hello?”
A loud clank vibrated the door as someone unlatched it from the other side. It creaked open. A massive, heavyset man with a mop of curly brown hair and sharp brown eyes peered down at her. His hand alone was large enough for him to grab her by the head and lift.
The gatekeeper. She smiled feebly up at him, hoping he knew who she was.
His eyes widened and he yanked the door farther open. He bowed from his place beside the door, showing off his dark blue livery, which must have taken more yards of material than two ballroom gowns. “Madam.” His voice rumbled out deep. “A pleasure. Everyone is waiting.”
Everyone? She swallowed. She thought she was arriving early. Why, it wasn’t even seven o’clock. Maybelle hurried in through the door and into a small, candlelit passageway where a set of rough stone stairs spiraled upwards. She pressed herself toward one of the nearest walls as it seemed the large man beside her took up most of the small space around them.
“You must be Harold,” she offered, trying to make pleasant conversation. Albeit short.
“Yes.” He closed the door, the cool breeze from the tunnel trying to push through to the end, and latched the iron rod across the door. He turned back toward her, towering over her like the giant he was, and pointed at her lantern. “Allow me.”
She quickly handed it to him, not wanting to argue with anything the man said. “Thank you.”
“This way.” He quickly mounted the stairs, each large step rising over three full stairs. Quite easily.
Maybelle gathered up her cloak and skirts and tried to keep up with him lest he disappear with all the bright light. The stairs continued to spiral upward for several more feet until they finally arrived at another door. Harold pushed open the door with a large paw, flooding the staircase with natural light. He stepped into the corridor, hanging the lantern on a hook just outside the door, and waited for her to pass.
Maybelle hurried up the remaining stairs and stepped up into what appeared to be the corridor of a townhouse. As Harold closed the door and latched it behind them, Maybelle paused and glanced toward the front of the house, where a grand foyer awaited.
“Your cloak and hat, Madam.”
“Oh, yes.” She undid the clasp, stripped the cloak from herself, and handed it to him. Untying the lace ribbon from beneath her chin, she carefully removed her blue silk bonnet so as not to ruin her chignon and held it out, noticing that her gloved hands were shaking. And she didn’t know if it was because of him or because of the fact that she was inside the school.
Fortunately, Harold didn’t seem to notice as he took her bonnet from her hand. Instead, he stalked with her belongings over toward the coat stands and hat racks set against the far wall, off to the side.
Five male cloaks and five horsehair top hats ornamented the stands and racks.
Long cloaks, mind you. Which meant they were all tall. God help her, how was she to handle so many men towering over her?
Harold, not included.
She bit her lip and wandered toward the foyer, pausing just beneath a large, crystal chandelier lit with dozens and dozens of candles. Silence drummed as the scent of melted wax and flowers permeated the warm air. The foyer walls were painted a soft powder blue. Gold-framed mirrors were scattered along its length, illuminating and reflecting a brilliant amount of light that created a sultry, yet glittering environment.
Surprise didn’t even begin to describe her reaction to her surroundings. She didn’t know what to expect, but it most certainly wasn’t this. It was all so…elegant. Respectable. There wasn’t a single nude portrait hanging anywhere. Which one might expect. Obviously.
“This way, Madam,” Harold rumbled from behind her. “Your students await.”
Startled, Maybelle turned toward him and realized his large gloved hand was gesturing toward the mahogany staircase and its red-runner stairs. Upstairs. Meaning, the bedrooms. Of course. Where else was one to educate rakes?
She drew in a shaky breath, trying to calm herself, and gathered up the skirts of her light blue muslin gown. She’d been mentally preparing for this and yet at that moment she realized no amount of preparation could possibly ready her to face a room full of men. A chaperone would have been rather nice.
Harold’s heavy steps shook the staircase as he followed her.
She quickened her pace. When she reached the landing, Maybelle glanced down the corridor and noted one of the doors leading into the bedrooms was wide open. Low, male voices came from within. Those deep masculine tones unnerved her. One of them, she knew, belonged to the duke.
Oh God. Oh God. Could she do this? Could she stand before a group of men and pretend she knew everything there was to know about sex? No. She couldn’t. She simply couldn’t.
Harold loomed at the top of the staircase. Adjusting his large jacket, he gestured with a gloved hand toward the open door just a few feet from them.
The girls. Her grandmother had insisted she meet the girls. “Harold? Could you please take me to the pleasure room before class begins? My grandmother insisted I introduce myself to the women.”
“Of course.” He moved past her, in the opposite direction of where the male voices were coming from, and approached a narrow door set in the corner just off the stairs. One leading to the floor above them, which usually served as the servants’ quarters. How…fitting.
He opened the door wide and stood waiting for her to enter. She didn’t know why she was nervous. They were only women. Maybelle walked past him, gathered her skirts, and went up the narrow flight of stairs. The scent of lavender overwhelmed her senses.
Maybelle paused at the top stair, her eyes widening. The walls and floors were draped with colorful silk scarves and velvet tarps. Without a doubt, it was a sultan’s harem. Glass lanterns were hanging throughout the room, softly lighting the sloped walls, which were generously adorned with silks and velvet.
Leather trunks of all sizes were scattered everywhere. And from where she stood, she could make out the contents of a good many. One revealed stacked books. Others revealed clothing, glass jars filled with unidentifiable substances, horsewhips, shackles, chains, gloves, feathers, fur mitts, fur rugs, paddles, canes, candles, and…dildos. Dozens and dozens of dildos. And that did not include even half of the inventory laid out before her.
Soft laughter caught her attention, making her turn her head. There, among all the colorful and naughty splendor were four absolutely beautiful voluptuous women. All dark haired, all with rich, olive skin, and all of them dressed in identical red brocaded robes. They were lounging on a large settee, on the far side of the room, giggling amongst themselves as they hovered over what Maybelle might have guessed to be a pornographic book.
Maybelle made her way toward them. “Good morning.”
The women looked up.
Maybelle blinked. All of them appeared to be somewhat similar. Not identical. But similar. Which would certainly explain why it had taken her grandmother so long to put together the small group. For all of them had black eyes; long, thick black hair; and sensual full lips. It was as if her grandmother had been specifically searching for olive-skinned beauties who denoted far more romantic lands. Exotic lands.
The women shoved the book aside, and elegantly rose, their
red robes shifting around their slender long legs and dainty, slippered feet.
They all curtsied.
The one on the far left, who bore a small birthmark on the upper corner of her sensual lips, stepped toward her. In a heavy, Italian accent she said, “Madame requested that we not disclose our names or speak in the presence of her students. For more allure.”
Oh, her grandmother was a genius. No wonder men were paying one hundred pounds per week. It was certainly more entertaining than going over to some boring brothel.
Maybelle smiled and nodded in their direction. “I am Maybelle de Maitenon, her granddaughter, and will be the headmistress of the school until she is well enough to return.”
Another woman with doll-like features eyed her and asked somewhat eagerly, “Will you be calling upon us today, Miss? We have yet to meet the men.”
Mistress of Pleasure Page 11
