She sighed. “Heartbroken, Thimbla sewed herself into a frenzy until both her blistered thumbs bled from the agony of it all. On the day of her master’s wedding, he secretly came to Thimbla and presented her with one last gift. A token of the secret love they would always share. It was a silver covering for her thumb that would protect her whenever she sewed.”
Maybelle thoughtfully traced her finger. The finger where a wedding band might have rested had she accepted Edmund’s proposal. “She accepted his last gift and wore the silver covering from that day forth, like a wedding band, never once removing it from her thumb except for when she sewed. She wanted to remind herself that there was no greater pain in this world than that caused by a broken heart. Since then, women have forgotten all about Thimbla. They wear their little thimbles to protect themselves from pain, yet little do they realize that only through pain and sacrifice does one learn about the true meaning of love.”
Maybelle looked away, blinked back tears, and nodded thoughtfully. She never understood her father. Never understood why the fool couldn’t move past her mother’s death. Witnessing his emotional imprisonment to a woman who no longer existed was something she’d learned to genuinely fear. And how.
Even on his deathbed all he really wanted was to hold the lock of her mother’s golden hair which she’d given him when they first married. That’s when Maybelle swore to herself she’d never marry or love. For she refused to be crippled in the same way her father had been. Needless to say, her grandmother’s world had made it easy for her to keep that promise. And so here she was. Caught between two worlds.
Clive cleared his throat. “Shall I go and wake Madame for you?”
Maybelle bit back a laugh and shook her head, knowing what he was getting at. “There is really no need to worry, Clive. I’m well aware of the state of mind I’m in. Or rather the state I’m not in.” She set aside her sewing. “Perhaps I should see to her. She has been sleeping for quite some time.”
Clive bowed, resuming his position as butler, glanced at her one last time, then hurriedly departed. Lovely. More stories for the servants to gossip about. Maybelle shook her head and rose from her chair. She should have kept her damn mouth shut. The trouble was, she inwardly ached so much, it was difficult for her to keep anything in.
Peering over toward the tray Clive had brought, she leaned toward it and picked up one of the three warm pastries beautifully laced with berries. She stared at it, the sticky, doughy texture clinging to her bare fingertips. Though it was her favorite, and the cook rarely made it, it looked strangely unappetizing. And she knew all too well why.
Damn the man for altogether taking away her appetite. Thoroughly frustrated, she pinched her lips and made a fist, crushing the pastry. She watched it crumble through her knuckles and back down onto the plate like clumps of wet sand.
There. Now it looked exactly how she felt.
Sucking off the remaining stickiness from her fingers, she wiped her hand into the napkin. It was time to tell her grandmother all about the mess she’d made. Not with the pastry, of course, but with her life.
Maybelle slipped in through the door of the bedroom and softly closed it behind her. Her grandmother’s silver head was propped against the pillows, her eyes closed, the center of her silk robe rising and falling with each soft breath she took.
Maybelle paused, and stepped back toward the door to leave, when her grandmother opened her eyes and turned her head to look at her. She smiled sleepily and waved her over.
“How are you, Grand-mère?” she whispered, approaching her. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Och, you did not wake me. I was merely resting my eyes.” She sat up and patted the space beside her on the bed. “Before we delve into the delectable details of your evening with the duke, how was yesterday’s lesson?”
Maybelle sat and stared down at her hands. Miserably. “It was rather short. And it…it resulted in my doing something I probably should not have done.”
“Oh?”
Maybelle cringed and kept herself from wringing her hands. “I allowed the duke to make love to me sooner than what had been arranged.”
“In the bounds of my school?”
“No! No. What happened is…well…he took over my lesson. Against my will. Carried me out of the school. Through the front door, mind you—sorry, I tried to reason with him—and then whisked me away to this—this townhouse. Before all of London and in broad daylight! And although the townhouse was empty, it was beautiful, Grand-mère. Upstairs, there was this glorious, white bed. Fit for a lady’s wedding night. It was amazing. Utterly amazing. He was amazing. I never knew sex could be so amazing.”
Her grandmother shifted and leaned toward her, trying to get a better look at her face. “So what is the problem?” she drawled.
“Oh.” Maybelle winced at the faux pas she was about to confess and felt her cheeks burning. “Well, actually, I…allowed him to spill his seed into me.”
Her grandmother’s brows went up and she slowly sat back. “I see.” She hesitated, then tilted her silver head slightly to the side before matter-of-factly saying, “Your father came about that way. I know I never regretted it. After all, Henri made my life worth living and gave me so many wonderful memories before he left for England.”
Her grandmother smiled warmly. “He also gave me you. Understand that there will always be moments of passion, chère, you cannot predict. It is to be expected.”
“I also didn’t take the money. I—I couldn’t. It didn’t feel right.” She chewed on her bottom lip, readying herself for the whole free baked-goods lecture.
Her grandmother stared at her, her blue eyes widening. “Why, you’re in love with him. You’re in love with the duke.”
Maybelle sucked in a sharp breath. Oh dear God. “No. I can’t be. I shouldn’t be.”
“Denial. Och, an obvious sign.” Her grandmother grabbed for her hand, shook it, and let out a small laugh. “Well. There goes your independence and your promising career with the school, eh?”
Maybelle glared at her. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, be serious. This isn’t love. I am simply overwhelmed by the ordeal. I’ve never given my body to a man before.”
“Or your heart.” Her grandmother puckered her lips and patted her hand. “There, there. All will be fine, I assure you. The misery you feel will pass. It is merely a matter of how you want it to pass. Naturally, with time? Or sooner, by you simply deciding to go back to the man who is causing the misery? If I were you, I would pick the latter. There is no need to make yourself or those around you suffer.”
Maybelle yanked her hand away from her grandmother and tried to control the rapid beating of her heart. “I couldn’t possibly go to him. I told him I never wanted to see him again. And I don’t.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because…oh because!” Maybelle winced knowing how stupid she sounded even to herself. Where had her sense of reason gone to? “I don’t know why I’m so confused, Grand-mère. I thought I was capable of playing the role of a demimondaine for one night, knowing everything I do about sex, yet I found myself unable to accept what I have done. It felt wrong taking anything from him. His body and all the pleasure he gave me was enough payment for me.”
Her grandmother sat back against her pillows, closed her eyes, and pressed a hand to her lips. After a few moments of silence she whispered, “This is my fault, chère. All my fault.” She opened her eyes, half nodded, and lowered her hand. “I have taught you far more about sex than I did love.”
Her grandmother sighed. “I will have you know that passion should never be feared. Only embraced. For it leads us down beautiful, unexpected paths. When I turned fifteen, Maybelle, my world changed. I blossomed. Every man in the village suddenly noticed my breasts, my face, my body, and I, of course, noticed that they noticed. And I rather liked the attention. More than any God-fearing girl should. My parents
were understandably worried and before long arranged for me to marry the pastor’s son. Och. Perish the thought.”
Her grandmother’s blue eyes lit up and her pale face visibly flushed as she leaned toward her. “One morning, three weeks before I was to marry, I was walking alongside the road heading toward the market. And that is when I came upon the most beautiful man I had ever seen in my life. Duc de Andelot. He was half French, half British. An explosive combination. Andelot rode toward me upon his horse. When he came upon me, he slowed. Then completely stopped.”
Her grandmother glanced lovingly up toward the canopy of the bed as if he were there now. “Our eyes met and suddenly, I was swept upon his horse and into his life. Nothing mattered. Nothing. I fled everything to be with him. Andelot introduced me to a violent passion I never thought possible. A passion that is still with me to this day. I would have married him, chère, but I was naught but a thimble on his thumb. I was but his Thimbla.”
Maybelle’s lips parted as her eyes widened. Thimbla? Like the story Papa had told her? Impossible. Never would she have connected it to her grandmother. Ever.
A tremor touched her grandmother’s lips and she shook her head. “When I became pregnant with Henri, that is when everything changed. Andelot had me swear that I would never reveal to the world Henri was his. And though it assassinated my soul, I understood. He gave me a generous settlement, a beautiful house and told me when Henri was born I should try to lead a respectable life. Without him.”
Her grandmother was quiet for a long moment, as if reminiscing, then cocked her head and grinned. “Respectable, indeed. After the passions he had introduced me to, I had acquired an insatiable thirst for sex. After several unsatisfying experiences as a demimondaine, I started thinking about creating a school to better educate men. And so here I am with you and my wonderful School of Gallantry.”
Maybelle swallowed hard, struggling against tears that were now blinding her. For she finally knew. Finally knew why her grandmother was what she was. “Why did you never tell me?” she whispered, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. “I would have been more understanding. More supportive.”
Her grandmother reached out her free hand and gently patted the side of her face. “I did not think it necessary to burden you with my past. At twelve, you were already cynical about men and relationships. I did not want to add to it by making you think a man made me into what I am today. It would have destroyed any possibility for you to enjoy men.”
Taking back her hand, her grandmother settled against the pillows once again and whispered, “Allow me to give you advice, Maybelle. The only advice I can give you on this very complicated subject matter. Tell him how you feel. If he feels the same, you may have a different ending from mine. Unlike my Andelot, who could not get past our differences, this one is willing to offer you marriage. The question is, what are you willing to offer up in return?”
Maybelle choked in unexpected sentiment. Sentiment she never knew she was capable of. Swiping away tears, she scrambled off the bed. “No. I can’t. I can’t crawl back to him after what I said. He will think I’m a complete want-wit. Confused. Mad.”
“Pride has no place when it comes to love, chère.” Her grandmother waved her off. “Go. Tell him how you feel.”
“But if I tell him how I feel, or rather what I think I feel, and he doesn’t feel the same, he will take advantage of me. I know he will. He enjoys sex far too much.”
Her grandmother eyed her, that playful glint now returning. “Is he any good?”
Maybelle’s mouth dropped open. She pointed at her. “I am not disclosing any details. That is rude.”
Her grandmother shrugged. “Perhaps I am pushing too hard. Give it time. Think about what I have said.” She leveled her with a soft gaze. “Now be honest with your grand-mère. How concerned should I be? Will this affect the school in any way? Should I be acquiring another teacher? Or getting out of bed?”
Maybelle dropped her hand back to her side and blew out an exhausted breath. “No,” she grumbled.
“Good. Because it is supposed to be a school that teaches men the art of seduction. Not the art of misery. Take a week off to clear your mind, oui? I will inform everyone that you are ill and pull together some of my own lessons for them.”
Ill.
Right.
That certainly made her feel better.
Lesson Nineteen
Games can be delicious.Games can be divine.But when they go wrong remember, ’tis your fault, not mine.—The School of Gallantry
Five days later, late morning
A curt knock sounded on the bedroom door. Maybelle set aside the lesson plan she’d been tediously working on and rose from the writing desk set against the window. “Yes?”
“Lord Hawksford to see you, Miss,” Clive called out from the other side of the door.
Maybelle froze before she could get to the door. What on earth could Hawksford possibly want? She was planning to attend school tomorrow.
“Shall I tell him you are indisposed?” Clive prodded from the other side.
Drat. No doubt all of London already knew her business. She had to face this. Head-on. “Tell him I will be down shortly!”
Maybelle hurried over to her mirror set in the corner of the room, leaned toward it, and checked her face. Why did she look so pale? She pinched her cheeks. Smoothing out her full indigo skirts, she stepped back and set her chin. She would face whatever Hawksford had come to say. With dignity.
Rushing over to the door, she threw it open and quickly made her way down. When she reached the bottom stair of the foyer, she took in a deep calming breath and then breezed into the parlor.
Hawksford rose from the sofa. His green eyes met hers as he gave a small bow. “Madam.”
“My Lord.” Maybelle smiled, suddenly feeling a return of her old self. And it was nice for a change. “It pleases me to see you walking on your own again.”
He chuckled. “I was rather disappointed you didn’t choose to take advantage of my condition.”
She smirked. “In your condition there was nothing to take advantage of.”
Hawksford grinned and put up a gloved hand. “I confess I have not come here to duel.” He strode toward her, quickly closing the distance between them. He paused only an arm’s length away, his lemon and leather scent teasing her.
After eyeing her, he said in a low, devious tone, “Caldwell is hosting another one of those infamous gatherings. I was rather hoping you’d join me.”
Maybelle’s eyes widened and heat spread across her face as she remembered the last time she went. “Although I am…” Oh dear God, what was the right word for this situation? “Honored that you’d think of me, I regret to inform you, My Lord, that I am not available.”
Hawksford’s green eyes sparkled with mischief. “Ah. Now what if I were to tell you that we both stand to benefit from going tonight?”
She pulled in her chin. “Benefit? From what? I don’t know what the devil you’re up to, My Lord, but I have absolutely no—”
“Rutherford will be there,” he sing-songed, raising both brows. “The poor man is only attending because Caldwell told him you’d be there. You wouldn’t want to disappoint Rutherford, would you?”
Maybelle froze. Edmund wanted to see her? Even after she had outright rejected him? Why?
Hawksford sidled up beside her, leaned in with his large body, and slid a gloved hand around her shoulder, swallowing her whole. “Furthermore, there is this rather amazing widow Caldwell is inviting. She rarely makes public appearances and I mean to make the best of it. While you—you clearly need to finish this unpleasant business with Rutherford. It is affecting the quality of my education. Which is why I was hoping you and I could…” He made a rolling gesture with his free gloved hand as if that explained everything.
Maybelle moved out of his grasp and took another large step aside. She crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her gaze. “What are you
suggesting, My Lord?”
He scratched at his chin, eyeing her. “That wasn’t plain enough for you?”
She rolled her eyes. “No.”
“I see.” He cleared his throat. “’Tis simple, really. Make my widow jealous, and I will make your Rutherford jealous. What say you?”
Maybelle dropped her hands to her sides. A rather devious, not to mention absolutely ridiculous, approach in dealing with the opposite sex. Then again, it’s not like she’d been able to come up with a better way to approach Edmund after telling him to more or less sod off.
Mistress of Pleasure Page 20
