Maybelle paused, not knowing how she was to answer that. They did know there was no dallying, right? “Uh…yes. I will see to it today’s lesson includes all of you.” That is if the lesson wasn’t a complete disaster.
Not knowing what more she could possibly say to these beautiful women who continued to stand before her, she quickly said, “Lovely to meet you all. I must see to class. Good day.”
She then turned and tried to walk toward the stairs as elegantly and calmly as she could. She was, after all, the headmistress and had to set a good example.
Once she made her way down the narrow stairs, leaving behind the scent of lavender, and stepped back out into the world of the school, she glanced toward Harold, who was still waiting for her by the door. “Thank you.”
He nodded, closed the door to the pleasure room, and directed her toward the classroom once again.
She smiled shakily, nodded, and headed toward the room. Without giving in to thinking anymore about it, Maybelle swept into what appeared to be a large bedroom, its walls draped with brocaded red velvet.
But instead of a bed or any other furniture associated with a bedroom, there were five leather wing-backed chairs set in a semicircle. With a grown man sitting in each one. A red velvet upholstered chair and a letter-writing desk which was piled with nightshirts had been set across from all the men, indicating where her place was to be.
Her heart jumped as she paused just inside the room.
Conversations faded and all five men rose to acknowledge her. Every single one of them was meticulously dressed in his finest morning clothes. Maybelle tried to remain calm as they stared at her in complete and utter silence.
Whatever composure she did have at that moment felt under complete attack when her eyes unexpectedly met those of the man on the far right. The Duke of Rutherford. His black eyes pierced the distance between them.
Her stomach fluttered at the thought of his hot, wet tongue stroking her and his tousled dark hair between her thighs. Calm. She needed to remain calm and focus on why she was really here.
Maybelle averted her eyes, counterfeited a confident smile, and forced herself to scan the faces of the other four men, who continued to silently observe her, each in his own, domineering way.
They were all surprisingly fit, well muscled, and good looking. Men you wouldn’t expect to be in need of lessons. And even though there was only one blonde amid all of them, their hair tones varied from deep, rich brown to almost bronze.
Edmund stepped forward and bowed. “Madam.”
She inclined her head toward him. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
The man standing beside Edmund also bowed, albeit a bit more sweepingly, causing his unruly, wavy blond hair to fall across his forehead. Lush, chocolate brown eyes met her gaze and a half-smile tilted his lips. “I am Lord Caldwell, at your service.”
Ah, yes. The one who was so intent on seducing the American woman who had caused an uproar a few weeks back by wearing trousers and pistols in public. To each his own. “Good morning, Lord Caldwell. I have heard so much about you.”
Lord Caldwell’s half-smile broadened, exposing a perfect set of white teeth. “I am quite certain you have.”
The brown-haired gentleman with the startling, deep blue eyes standing beside Caldwell stepped forward and bowed curtly. Though he met her gaze head-on, there was a sharp aloofness and distance not only in his stance but in his eyes. A long jagged scar trailed from the left side of his ear down to the bottom front of his square jaw. No doubt a blade having met it.
“Lord Brayton,” he said coolly, introducing himself. Although the man’s voice was courteous, it sounded rather patronizing. And unlike Edmund or Lord Caldwell, his full lips were set in a grim line as if he were not at all pleased to be in her presence.
Brayton? The virgin? Rather dark for a virgin. “A pleasure, My Lord. Are you always this cheerful? Or is it the early hour?”
Caldwell grinned and smacked Brayton hard on the back. “From what we have gathered, this is as cheerful as he will ever be.”
One of the men at the end coughed, disguising a laugh.
Brayton shifted his scarred jaw, placed his hands behind his back, but otherwise remained quiet and detached despite the stab at his honor.
Despite his being a virgin, Maybelle sensed that this man was not someone to be trifled with. “Any other man would have been quick to draw blood on less. It seems you have a talent for self-control, Lord Brayton. I have no doubt it serves you and your lady well.”
Lord Brayton met her gaze and for a fleeting moment she sensed there was a new approval lingering in his blue eyes.
Maybelle eyed the bronze-haired gentleman beside Lord Brayton. “And you are?”
The man instantly caught her gaze, a mischievous light dancing in his green eyes.
She froze, wondering why he seemed so familiar. It was as if…no. It couldn’t be. Oh God. It was. The man who’d kept her from falling that night during the scuffle at the ball.
He strode toward her, slowly, his large, muscular frame moving with suave, steady intent. Everything about him, from his perfectly swept back bronzed hair, right down to his polished boots reeked of arrogance and wealth. He stopped not even a foot away, bringing with him the seductive scent of leather and lemon she remembered all too well. Reaching out, he took hold of her gloved hand and brought it up toward his lips, his eyes never once leaving hers.
He paused, the heat of his breath lingering above her glove, and answered indulgently, “I am Lord Hawksford.” Although he kissed her hand once, his thumb traced her knuckles the whole while. “You shall have my undivided attention. At all times.”
Hawksford? Oh well, that certainly explained everything.
Maybelle drew her hand away. According to her grandmother, Hawksford was obsessed with unattainable conquests and had no morals whatsoever. And coming from a courtesan that was a very serious charge. “Try not to overdo the kissing of a lady’s hand, My Lord. It leads a woman to think that you are desperate and we all know a man should be anything but.”
The men behind Hawksford refrained from laughing, several of them opting to clear their throats instead, while Edmund looked as if he were about to trounce the man.
Lord Hawksford didn’t seem to be in the least bit affected by her curt words. He merely nodded in her direction, a smile tilting his lips, and stepped back toward his seat. “Some see it as desperation; others see it as adoration.”
Maybelle ignored him and decided to move on to the next. With Hawksford’s introduction being over, the only one left to be made was from none other than Lord Banfield. A man intent on seducing his own wife. A wife who interestingly enough refused to be bedded by her husband for reasons that were not stipulated on the application.
Lord Banfield stepped forward and bowed. Unlike the rest of the men, whose hair was short and swept back, he had long golden-brown hair, which he neatly tied. Though a queue went out of fashion years ago, it rather suited him and showed off his sharp features and soft brown eyes. Maybelle couldn’t begin to imagine why his wife would refuse such a good-looking man.
“I am Lord Banfield,” he said in a low, steady voice. Although he acknowledged the fact that she was a woman by sweeping his gaze across the length of her body, he quickly took to looking straight at her face. “An honor. How is our Madame? Is she feeling better?”
“Yes, My Lord. Thank you. Depending on her progress, you can expect her return sometime in the next two months. Now please, if you would all sit, I’d like to commence.”
She smiled, still in disbelief as to how calm and collected she appeared even to herself.
Everyone, including Edmund, sat without further ado.
Maybelle paused, noting how quickly they had all obeyed. That’s when it occurred to her that she rather liked this whole idea of commanding so many good-looking men about. Especially Edmund. He’d been rather difficult to manage from the moment she’d met him.
And needless to say, she planned on taking advantage of her position of power. In every way imaginable.
Drawing in a calming breath and slowly letting it back out, Maybelle folded her hands before her and eyed all of them. “I believe my grandmother requested that you bring your nightshirts to class. Did you bring them?”
Edmund cocked his dark head and pointed in her direction. “Behind you, Madam.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Maybelle turned and walked toward the small mahogany table piled with nightshirts. She plucked up the first, turned, and held it out before her. It was so big it looked like a wrinkled white cotton gown. What was worse, it had been ripped around the collar and appeared to have a few off-white stains. You would think at a hundred pounds a week, a man could afford basic upkeep. Or a maid.
Maybelle brought the material toward her and sniffed. The familiar scent of leather and lemon drifted toward her. But of course. She quirked a brow and found all of the men intently observing her with marked curiosity. “Lord Hawksford, the only pleasant aspect of your nightshirt is the way it is scented. It is wrinkled, disturbingly tattered, and has unidentifiable stains. How do you think a lady will respond when she sees you in this?”
Hawksford smirked. “Unfortunately, love, I am unable to keep up with all the demands. And as for the stains, I think they speak for themselves.”
Edmund let out a laugh and shifted in his chair.
Maybelle tossed aside the nightshirt, thankful she was wearing gloves, and glared at Edmund for laughing.
Edmund cleared his throat and put up a hand in apology.
Maybelle snapped her attention back to Hawksford. Her grandmother had warned her about him. “If you intend on making life difficult for me, My Lord, I assure you that I will see to it your life becomes difficult.”
Hawksford’s green eyes slowly and seductively raked over her. “I rather fancy the sound of that.”
She pinned him with a hard stare. “If you do not intend on taking these lessons seriously, I will see to it that Harold escorts you out of the school. Through the front door. London will no doubt have all sorts of questions for you.”
The gleam in Hawksford’s eyes faded, though not entirely. “Point well taken. My apologies.” He was quiet for a moment, then pointed toward his nightshirt. “Please. I am rather curious to hear about my nightshirt.”
“Above and beyond all else,” Maybelle drawled, trying to maintain her composure, “do try and maintain basic upkeep. Especially after an encounter. Otherwise you will be giving away your history, when in fact a lady prefers mystery. On to the next.”
She only hoped Hawksford hadn’t set the tone for the entire lesson. She sighed, turned, and picked up another nightshirt.
It was also white and made out of cotton. However, unlike the last, it was not only devoid of stains, but it appeared to be so white and so perfectly pressed that the cotton appeared to glisten and glow. She brought it to her nose. It smelled of soap and too much starch.
Maybelle held out the shirt for all to see. “And who does this belong to?”
Lord Banfield shifted in his seat, put up his hand, and then lowered it back onto the armrest.
Ah, yes. The man who was having trouble bedding his wife. “Suffice it to say, there is nothing wrong with your nightshirt, My Lord. However, I admit that it does not even appear to have been worn.”
“It has,” Lord Banfield growled out. “It simply hasn’t seen the amount of use Hawksford seems to get out of his.”
Hawksford waggled his brows at Maybelle and caught his tongue between his teeth.
Maybelle ignored him. “My advice, Lord Banfield, is that you personalize this. Do you wear cologne?”
Banfield shrugged. “From time to time.”
Maybelle lowered her voice and stared him down, trying to exude a flare of drama. “Find a seductive scent you think would appeal to her and wear it as often as you can. Whenever she finds herself alone, she will come across your scent and be forced to think of you. Forced to linger on your very presence. A man’s scent is as important as anything else when it comes to seduction.”
Lord Banfield leaned forward and eyed her, as if contemplating her advice.
She smiled, folded his nightshirt, and turned back to the table. Setting it aside, she picked up the next.
She held it up and paused. Unlike the other two, it was made of a simple thin white muslin. She blinked at it and slipped one of her hands between the fabric. Sure enough, she could see her hand. As clear as day. Dear God it was fascinating to think that a man would dare to wear something of this nature.
She slipped her hand back out and looked up at Edmund but just as quickly looked away before their eyes could meet. No. She wasn’t going to even think about it. “And this one?” she ventured, trying to keep her voice steady.
The dark and ever-so-serious Lord Brayton raised his hand and lowered it just as quickly.
What an unexpected surprise. The virgin had rather erotic taste. “I find this rather attractive,” she admitted, “and it allows a woman to see the journey she is about to embark upon. I like it.”
Brayton gave a curt nod, but otherwise didn’t respond.
Caldwell quirked a brow. “Yes, but is it not possible that a man such as Brayton could actually frighten a woman by exhibiting a bit too much too soon?”
Everyone burst into roaring laughter except for Maybelle and Lord Brayton, who rolled his eyes.
Edmund leaned forward in his chair, threatening to altogether roll off. He shook his dark head as several tiny laugh lines crinkled the edges of his eyes.
It was time to set this childish teasing straight. Her grandmother wouldn’t stand for it, and she sure as bloody hell wouldn’t either. “Lord Brayton is a very attractive man,” she called out above all their guffaws. “And if he were to ever wear this in my presence outside the bounds of this school, I would bed him. Repeatedly. Until I was unable to walk.”
The laughter faded and everyone stared at her, not knowing if she was serious.
Lord Brayton’s straight brows rose a fraction and a small tremor, which might very well have been a smile, touched his lips.
Maybelle sensed Edmund’s burning gaze digging deep into her but didn’t dare to even acknowledge it. For acknowledging it meant that in some way she was giving him permission to be jealous. And she was not about to hand over that sort of control.
Instead, she glanced around at the other faces and calmly retorted, “So try and remember that I may not represent every female view, but there will be others who will share my tastes.”
Maybelle met Brayton’s dark blue gaze and held up his nightshirt. “Promise you will never take advantage of my weakness for muslin, My Lord.”
Brayton inclined his dark head in deep gesture. “Never.”
“I thank you.” She folded the nightshirt, turned, and set it aside.
Maybelle plucked up the next one off of the mahogany table, held it up and sighed, noticing that the sleeves on the nightshirt had been sheered off. Or rather ripped off. “Now who on earth does this belong to?”
Lord Caldwell shifted in his chair. “Mine. I despise sleeves on my nightshirt. They’re a damn nuisance.”
Maybelle lowered it and tsked. “If the sleeves bother you, My Lord, then I would advise that you have them removed by a seamstress. Otherwise a woman might think you’re rash. Or without funds. Or worse yet…both.”
With that, she turned, set it aside, and was about to reach for the last nightshirt when she noticed that there were no more left on the table except for those she’d already gone through. She hesitated, then turned back. She eyed the only person left. Edmund. “Did you forget your nightshirt, Your Grace?”
Edmund pointed to himself and looked around. “Me? No. I simply have nothing to present.”
She blinked. “Why ever not? What do you usually wear to bed?”
He shrugged. “Nothing, actually.”
May
belle’s eyes widened. “Nothing?” she repeated in disbelief.
“Nothing. I sleep in the nude.”
Maybelle bit her lip hard trying not to picture his naked, muscled body draped across his bed with all the linens tangled around his thighs.
She blew out a quiet but shaky breath and placed a hand on her hip, trying to keep herself from outright fanning her neck and cheeks, which were growing hotter by the moment. She had to admit that the idea of wearing nothing to bed was rather appealing. For any man capable of sleeping in the nude exhibited a comfort level with his body that could only lead to more fascinating avenues.
“Well…” She cleared her throat and noted that all the men were waiting for her opinion. If she fibbed about this, it would show not only in her face but in the tone of her voice. For she wasn’t a good liar.
Mistress of Pleasure Page 12
