Mistress of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  The candles flickered in their glass lanterns, casting shadows across the velvet-lined walls, giving the room an eerie, deathlike feel. Reflecting her mood. If the duchess wasn’t willing to help her, her plan to woo Edmund didn’t look all that promising.

  Hawksford shifted in his seat and winced from the effort. “I say we storm the woman’s house and take her hostage until she agrees to any and all terms.”

  Maybelle sighed. “This is not a war, Hawksford. If she doesn’t come, we will simply have to improvise.”

  Heavy footsteps now echoed from down the corridor. Maybelle glanced toward the open doorway, the candlelight barely reaching the fuzzy shadows within the corridor.

  Harold loomed in the doorway and stepped aside. “The duchess is here.”

  Maybelle’s heart jumped as a cloaked figure swept into the room. Oh, thank goodness! All was not lost after all.

  Maybelle rose to her feet as the duchess pushed back the hood of her black cloak, revealing her flushed face and her tightly knotted salt-and-pepper hair.

  The duchess nervously eyed everyone in the room, then quietly announced, “I apologize. I had trouble making my way through the tunnel. Whatever happened to the front door?”

  The men chuckled but otherwise didn’t say a word as they all stood to greet her.

  Maybelle’s grandmother rose to her feet with the help of her cane and steadily made her way toward the duchess. “If men are willing to crawl through tunnels in the name of pleasing a woman, Your Grace, that is how I know they are deserving of enlightenment. Merci. Merci for coming and wanting to help my granddaughter.”

  The duchess nodded and turned her dark gaze to Maybelle. After a moment, she smiled and reached out a gloved hand from beneath her black cloak, revealing her bombazine gown beneath. “Come here, child,” her soft voice broke with emotion and her eyes visibly glistened with tears. “Let me be the first to give you my blessings.”

  Maybelle stepped toward the duchess and told herself she wasn’t going to blub right along with her. The duchess grabbed hold of her and Maybelle was instantly buried against black, stiff garbs and the comforting scent of lilacs.

  “I have waited so long for this day,” the duchess whispered against Maybelle’s shoulder. “So long. Know that I would crawl upon my knees through countless tunnels if only to see my son happy.”

  Tears stung Maybelle’s eyes. This woman was going to be her mother-in-law. She was going to have a family.

  “Now, now, let us not get ahead of ourselves,” Hawksford called out from behind them. “Rutherford hasn’t said yes just yet.”

  Maybelle choked on a laugh and pulled herself away from the duchess’s arms. “We have decided to bring in the French ton to help us, seeing the British are all snobs. So it may be a bit involved, Your Grace.”

  The duchess rolled her eyes and waved her gloved hand about. “It can’t be any more involved than the time Edmund popped his head out from between my legs. Let us have at it, I say.”

  Maybelle grinned, knowing they would get along just fine. It was now a matter of whether Edmund was ready to take on a wife and the fact that the School of Gallantry was here to stay.

  Lesson Twenty-Three

  My, my, my how easy it is to catch a man’s eye.But catching his mind and catching his soul?Therein lies the part that takes the toll.—The School of Gallantry

  Six days later, the onset of evening

  Edmund tossed his newspaper onto his desk, tilted back his chair, and shook his head. Christ. More gossip to add to his name. His life resembled a damn horse market. And he, of course, despite being a duke, was nothing but a horse being sold off to the local butcher. The gossip and the complete back turning he could deal with. But knowing that everyone in London knew he loved Maybelle was simply not acceptable. At all.

  “Edmund?” His mother paused in the entryway of the study, dressed in a low-cut, rose-colored evening gown. “The carriage is here.”

  Edmund slowly brought the chair back to its four legs in disbelief. It was the first time since his father’s death that he’d seen her in anything other than black. Even her black and silvery hair had been arranged beautifully into cascading ringlets held into place by gold and ruby hair combs.

  He stood. “Mother. You look…beautiful.”

  She smiled shyly and placed her gloved hand to her corseted waist. “Thank you. With all the attention we’ve been getting, I thought I’d feed the fire.” She quirked a dark brow, tilting her head. “You don’t look all that bad yourself. Bruises aside, of course.”

  Edmund looked down at his freshly pressed attire and shrugged. “I will take that as a compliment.” He eyed her. “Do I have to go? I don’t even know who the host is and only have about enough enthusiasm to sit in a corner.”

  She waved a gloved hand. “Oh, come now. You don’t expect us to give in to all the horrid gossip by altogether disappearing from public? They can all sod off. I’ve been waiting for this particular ball all Season long.”

  Edmund pulled in his chin. Never in all his thirty years had he heard his mother curse. It had to be one hell of a gathering. Edmund blew out a breath, turned, and picked up the newspaper he’d been reading. He held it up. “Did you read this?”

  “No.” A smile ruffled her mouth. “But clearly you did. What does it say?”

  Edmund looked at the newspaper still clutched in his hand. He snapped the paper straight and read aloud:

  The Duke of Rutherford strikes again. Quite literally. The School of Gallantry to blame. In the end, there are some things that simply cannot be taught to men.Edmund shook his head and hit the newspaper with his good hand in agitation. “Damn these people. They don’t even know whether I was enrolled or not. Who the hell would publish this goddamn nonsense?”

  “The real question, dear, is who reads it?”

  Edmund threw the newspaper aside. “Well said. Let us go and tell them all to bloody sod off, shall we?”

  Maybelle tried not to shift from foot to foot as she impatiently eyed the large entryway from the distance she kept. It seemed all of France had come to her aid in the name of love. That is, her grandmother and all of her French aristocratic acquaintances. It’s not like the ton was going to help. She only hoped this wasn’t all for naught. “Where is he?” she muttered. “What if he doesn’t come?”

  “He will, chère,” her grandmother assured her. “Do not allow your nervousness to get the better of you.”

  An older gentleman with too much tonic slathered in his hair strode by and grinned at them with too many crooked teeth to count. He nodded his pleasantries.

  Maybelle ignored him and kept her eyes on the entrance.

  Her grandmother nudged Maybelle. “That was a Frenchman, Maybelle. Never ignore the French. Especially with all the help that they are now giving you.”

  Maybelle sighed and was about to comment on it when an attractive older woman walked in arm in arm with Edmund.

  She blinked at the realization that it was actually the duchess. She looked…amazing. At least ten years younger. And Edmund…oh, poor Edmund. His jaw and the left side of his cheek were still black and blue, with hints of yellowing. The man had endured so much for her. Which was why it was time to bring his suffering to an end.

  She drew in a calming breath as their names were announced and they started heading their way. “He is here,” Maybelle excitedly whispered, grabbing hold of her grandmother’s arm and squeezing it. “At last.”

  “Yes, yes. Go.” Her grandmother waved her off and eyed the doorway. “Before he sees you.”

  Maybelle kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “I will see you at the end of the evening. Hopefully with a duke in tow.”

  Her grandmother grinned, waved her off, then turned and walked toward the crowded ballroom, her ivory cane following each regal step.

  Maybelle took in another deep breath, as if she were about to dive into the depths of unknown waters, and quickly stepped into a lar
ge group of people, removing herself from sight until it was time to make her appearance. It wasn’t her reputation on the line anymore. It was love.

  “Isn’t this lovely?” the duchess cooed, dragging Edmund by the arm down the plush red carpet that lined the center of the enormous and luxurious high-ceilinged foyer after they’d been announced.

  “Yes. Lovely.” Edmund scanned the moldings that crowned the high ceilings, and noted the large portraits of overbred French bluebloods that lined the walls on both the left and the right. Ones that had no doubt fled France during the days of the guillotine. Ah, the French. They were always causing trouble.

  He should know.

  Just ahead, at the very end of the entrance, huge ferns and bountiful flowers were strategically placed alongside a sweeping staircase, giving it an exotic look of paradise. The long red-carpeted staircase wound up to both sides of the upper floor. A crowd of men and women made their way up to the balconies overlooking the ballroom.

  A good place to be, actually. “We’re going upstairs,” he quickly said, catching his mother’s arm to keep her from leaving the red runner. “Away from the crowds.”

  She resisted his firm hold. “But I want to dance.”

  He paused and stared at her, not sure what to make of her new tastes. “You never dance.”

  The duchess released herself and set her chin to him. “I am not growing any younger, Edmund. And with each Season, I lose a year. Which is why I am going to dance.”

  Edmund glanced around, leaned toward her, and whispered, “You don’t expect me to dance with you, do you? Because I really—”

  She took hold of her fan and smacked his forearm soundly with it. “I, dear boy, will find another gentleman. One with less scandal attached to his sleeve.”

  Edmund bit back a laugh and stepped back. “Thank you.”

  The duchess eyed him sympathetically. “My dancing shan’t last long, I assure you. In the meantime, do try and enjoy yourself.”

  “I will try,” he muttered, turning and heading up the stairway behind a line of people.

  Eventually, he found a small alcove off to the side. He sat in the far corner of a balcony near a row of ferns, where he knew he wasn’t going to be disturbed.

  He blew out a breath, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched as couples danced below, splashing the ballroom floor with vibrant and warm colors as they whirled to the music. He wondered how long he would have to sit and watch them before his eyes finally crossed over.

  Someone suddenly came in from behind and sat next to him. Pale yellow skirts and a waft of cinnamon assembled next to him.

  Edmund didn’t bother to look at whoever had offered him company. Instead, he stared out before him.

  A fan snapped open and began waving and waving, sending cool, quick drafts of air in his direction.

  Though he tried to ignore the fact that there was someone next to him, the waving incessantly continued, and after a while, he grew irritated. Very irritated.

  He shifted away. “Please, Madam. Do hoist all the air in your direction, not mine.”

  Her fan snapped shut and he hoped that he had offended her enough to send her back to wherever the hell she’d come from. Yet, to his surprise, she stayed.

  He turned abruptly toward the woman and was about to say something more on the matter when he froze and clamped his mouth shut in disbelief.

  Maybelle sat in the chair next to him, her smooth face faintly tinged with a hint of pink color. “Did you miss me?” she eagerly asked, leaning toward him. “For I certainly missed you.”

  He leaned back, trying to remind himself to breathe. Why did she sound like she meant it? Something wasn’t right here. Even the granddaughter of a French courtesan wouldn’t make public overtures unless she stood to benefit from it.

  He slowly rose. He still had some dignity and planned on holding on to whatever was left. “If you’ll excuse me, Madam. I’m looking to find a quiet corner for myself.”

  Before he could leave, Maybelle reached out a gloved hand and grabbed hold of his waistcoat. Hard. Her touch sent flaming heat through his flesh as the memory of her hands touching him naked unexpectedly hardened him.

  He turned and glared down at her, annoyed with her ability to make his body respond so quickly. “What more could you possibly want?”

  “Only you.” She stood, bringing a scent of cinnamon toward him. One he never smelled upon her skin before but one he very much liked. She eyed him for a moment, paused, and very slowly slipped her two gloved fingers into the front of her bosom.

  Edmund froze, and despite all common sense, couldn’t keep his eyes from following her fingers. She seductively dipped her neckline just enough for him to see the deeper plunge between her perfect, powdered breasts.

  The hardness he’d earlier felt in his groin throbbed again. She had far more power over him than he realized.

  She smiled sweetly and slipped out a lace handkerchief, obstructing his view.

  Edmund quickly looked away and wanted to adjust the stiff collar that was beginning to stick to the growing heat of his neck.

  “Did you receive the flowers?” She dragged the tip of her lace handkerchief across the bottom of her full lips, her blue eyes keenly watching him the whole while.

  He glared at her. “I tossed every single one of them. They were a bit overwhelming.”

  “That was the point.” She stepped closer toward him. “Forgive me. For everything. It was not my intention to hurt you.”

  Edmund pointed a rigid finger at her, wishing he could poke it deep into her heart and make her feel the pain and frustration he felt. “Setting aside all of your dirty business with Hawksford, did you forget that you never wanted to see me again?”

  She drew herself closer, provocatively close, and looked up at him in a manner that begged for attention. “Forget everything that has ever passed from these lips,” she whispered. “I simply did not understand my feelings for you. Now I do.”

  He stared down at her, his strength wavering. With such words, she never looked so damn alluring. Her thick golden curls framed her small oval face and her skin was slightly flushed.

  More than anything, he wanted to believe that those lips he’d claimed for his had never touched Hawksford’s. That none of her had touched Hawksford and that he could end his misery here and now.

  “Edmund, please. Say something.” She lifted herself up high on her slippered toes, and brought up her small hand, the one with the handkerchief, toward the side of his forehead. “Your poor face.” She lightly brushed the bruises on his skin in the most provocative and tender way. As if she cared. Her gloved wrist smelled of powder and cinnamon as it teased his cheek with each soft touch.

  He stood frozen and swallowed hard, wondering if it would be so bad to give in. Edmund snatched hold of her tiny wrist to push it away, but found himself unable to let go. The passion he felt for her dangerously raced through him, demanding he take her body.

  A devious light lit up her blue eyes and a grin overtook her full lips. As if she knew the effect she had on him. She leaned toward him, not at all concerned about the fact that he continued to hold her wrist so tightly. “I love you, Edmund,” she whispered. “And I know that whatever happens, we will manage. As will our children.”

  Edmund froze. Their children? He had expected everything to fall from her lips—excuses, explanations—but…this? He refused to believe it. No. If she truly loved him she would have said something to him that night when he confessed his love for her. And if she truly loved him, she would have tended to him before all of London. Not Hawksford’s damn nose.

  He narrowed his gaze, released her wrist by pushing it away, and growled out, “I am so pleased that you found my drunk proclamation amusing. Unlike you, however, I meant it.” With that, he headed toward the main staircase, away from Maybelle.

  “Edmund!” He could hear her skirts rustling after him. “Wait! Please! Edmund!”

>   He ignored her and kept marching on until his heavy feet pounded the runner of the stairs and led him back into the large foyer. He struggled not to replay her seductive glances, gestures, and words. In the end, they didn’t mean anything. It was all a game. One she learned to play from her grandmother very well.

  Edmund strode into the large ballroom. Finally surrounded by people, he propped himself against one of the walls just inside the entrance of the ballroom and momentarily closed his eyes. It was going to be a rather tedious night.

  “Thought you could escape, Your Grace? You’ll have to leave London to do that. And even then, I promise to follow.”

  His eyes popped open. Maybelle stood before him, her lovely face set in clear determination. A determination he simply did not seem to understand. What is it that she wanted? “I am not playing this goddamn game with you anymore,” he sharply said, pushing away from the wall.