Master of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  A choked laugh escaped her knowing he hadn’t even meant to be funny. “No. I was waiting for you.”

  “Were you?” He lifted himself a step closer. “How nice.”

  In the mugginess of the narrow stairwell, she could smell the crisp tonic that had been brushed into his dark brown hair. There was also another more distinctive scent that lingered. It wasn’t cologne or anything a man would usually wear. Whatever it was, it reminded her of an orchard. He smelled like…apples. It clung to her very breath.

  With him being only two steps below, the jagged scar that traced his face from ear to jaw had become distinctively visible. She could make out the small dotted white scars that originally had threaded the wound together. Her chest tightened. “Did it hurt?”

  “What?”

  “The scar on your face.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t remember. I was a babe when it happened. The forceps sliced it open.”

  She swallowed. His mother must have cried. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  His hand trailed up higher on the banister, his muscled arm edging closer. “And yet you did pry.” His gaze never left hers. “Why is that, Miss Webster? Are you curious about me?”

  He had to be flirting. And yet that aloof expression said otherwise. She honestly couldn’t tap a finger on the sort of man he was. “Don’t mind me. I’m curious about everyone. And it always gets me into trouble. Which I don’t need. Shall we go up?”

  He stared. “Why? Am I boring you?”

  His level of seriousness was a touch rattling. Men usually conveyed some sort of emotion during a conversation. But this one— It was a wall. “No, of course not. I was merely…”

  He leaned in close, blocking all view of the stairwell. He sniffed.

  Her heart skipped. She leaned back. He’d sniffed her. Much like a dog would sniff another dog’s rear. “What are you doing?”

  “I was noting your perfume.”

  She paused. “I’m not wearing any.”

  “You naturally smell like that?”

  “Like what?” she echoed, trying not to be offended.

  “Like sex and cookies.”

  Not expecting that answer at all, she almost fell against him.

  He steadied her, his large hands gripping her hard.

  She froze, noting both her hands were set on each substantial pectoral buried beneath his waistcoat. By gad, the man was a solid brick wall. Her fingers instinctively curled against the rough fabric of his tweed waistcoat.

  His jaw tensed. “I would rather you not grope me.”

  She snapped her hands back toward herself. “I’m sorry. I…I didn’t mean to—” Her heart raced. If she had known men could produce muscles like his, she would have never bothered with Ryder.

  Lord Brayton edged down several steps back, putting more distance between them. He swiped his face and paused, his gloved fingers grazing the scar on his face. He dropped his hand, dug into his pocket and pulled out a watch. Glancing at it, he tucked it away again. “I actually have fifteen minutes to spare. Not ten.”

  She paused. What was that supposed to mean? Was she imaging it or was this getting serious?

  “I could make it twenty,” he rumbled out. “It depends on you.”

  She swallowed. Something told her he had just announced his interest. After he had just chastised her about groping him. “Twenty would be lovely.”

  “Good.” He stared. “Did you know chess originated out of India?”

  Where did that come from? And why was he staring? “No. I did not know that.”

  “Do you play?”

  She shook her head. “No. I never learned.”

  He searched her face. “I’ll teach you. I have a chess set I travel with. We can play at night after you tend to the house. I don’t usually get much sleep. I’m incredibly restless whenever I’m not at sea. Are you interested in…oh, I don’t know…playing?” A raw huskiness lingered in his tone.

  He wasn’t talking about chess anymore. He was advancing.

  Her skin prickled at the thought of having so much muscle wrapped around her. And while, yes, she was genuinely intrigued by the thought of having sex with a man who physically filled up an entire stairwell, she wasn’t that intrigued. She needed a father for her son first. A bed mate for herself second. Not last, mind you, but second.

  She moved up a stair. Then two. “Whilst flattered, Lord Brayton, I ask that you keep all of your chess pieces to yourself. You and I both know your level of standing would never find its way down to mine. You’re an earl, and I’m nothing more than the daughter of a deceased plantation owner whose finances went bankrupt. I also have a six-year-old. I’m not exactly a good investment for a man like you.”

  An inexplicable look of withdrawal overtook his gruff features. “I wish to assure you, Miss Webster, that I’m not in a position to make those sort of advances. Not that you aren’t attractive. You are. I simply will have to return to my regular way of life at sea. I hope you aren’t disappointed.”

  Annoyingly, her cheeks grew hot. “I’m not disappointed.”

  “Good.” He tapped the banister with a fist, no longer meeting her gaze. “So who lives on King Street?”

  She stiffened. He was referring to their conversation from two days earlier. When they first met. “Why do you ask?”

  He kept tapping. “Why did you think this gentleman sent me to pay your debts? Who is he to you? Your brother?”

  Heaven forbid. “No. I never had any brothers. Or sisters, for that matter. My father never remarried after my mother died. He was very devoted to her memory. Which, of course, my aunt always scolded him for, claiming such sentimentally only perpetuated pain. She was very bitter about relationships. She had been abandoned at the altar twice. By the same man, no less.”

  His brows came together. “You answered every question but the one I wanted to know.”

  Oh, for heaven’s— Her mind these days. “Forgive me. I always say more than I should.” She sighed. “Annoyingly, I’ve known him for a long time. His name is Ryder William Blake.”

  “And who is he to you?” he pressed. “Why do you associate with him? Any particular reason?”

  For someone who wasn’t interested, he was interested. “Yes. He is the father of my…son.”

  “I see.” He hesitated. “Are you and he still together?”

  “No.” Thank God.

  “Why aren’t you and he together?”

  This one just got curious. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

  He gave her a withering look. “I’m not.”

  “Clearly you are. You’re asking about my life and former lover. Why?”

  He shifted his jaw, pulled out his watch again and glanced at it. “I have to go.”

  “Have to or want to?”

  He tucked the watch away. “Both.”

  “And I thought I was wary of the opposite sex.” She eyed him. “Who was she?”

  His features tightened. “Pardon?”

  She softened her voice. “Don’t deny it. I know a broken heart when I see it.”

  He set a large boot on the stair between them with a glorified thud. “I appreciate your concern, Miss Webster, but I haven’t associated with enough women to let them break anything. I’m too smart for that.”

  “Really? Then why are you so skittish?”

  He lowered his chin. “I’m not skittish. I’m simply a touch confused as to how an attractive, self-assured woman like yourself would have permitted any man to seduce her. You don’t appear to be the sort. You seem more intelligent than that.”

  He was accusing her of being stupid. “If you’re interested in specifics, Lord Brayton, which you clearly are, you may be astounded to find that he and I were engaged at the time. So I don’t appreciate you—”

  She gripped the banister harder in a riled effort to remain calm. There were times when she surprised herself into not even thinking about what happened. And then there were times when she disappointe
d herself and thought about nothing at all. “If you’ve never suffered from a broken heart, my lord, consider yourself lucky. It’s like watching yourself bleed to death, but for some reason, you keep breathing.”

  His harsh features softened just enough to reveal the real man beneath the jagged scar: one capable of genuine understanding. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Forgive me.”

  Leona picked at the seam of her apron, shrugged and admitted, “There is no need to apologize. Because you’re right. I was stupid. I was stupid to think his growing popularity as a pianist would have allowed us to ever marry. He and I were friends for a long time. Which was the problem. Friends first and lovers last. We used to get along very well. But the more popular he got, the more distance came between us. I wasn’t as refined as he needed me to be, and soon, I wasn’t even allowed to attend his concerts. I had cost him an audience with the duke of Clarence after I showed up in a shabby morning gown for an evening event. I simply wasn’t raised entertaining the aristocracy and didn’t realize everything about them was so petty and superficial. Which is what Ryder turned out to be.

  “Because when he had an opportunity to play music for a wealthy, widowed and oh-so-stunning baroness in Bath, he called off our engagement as if it were a dinner party he couldn’t attend. Three months later, I found out I was not only pregnant, but that he had already married his baroness in the name of progressing his career. And there you have it. My entire life laid out in forty-five seconds.”

  Those cool blue eyes grew more subdued. “I’m sorry.”

  It was nice to know there were still men in this world who cared enough to be sincere. She still wished she hadn’t given so much of herself to a ‘friend’. Knowing everyone in Shrewsbury would have made her life difficult, she traveled to London to stay with her aunt’s cousin, Mrs. Henderson, until she gave birth. She was supposed to give Jacob over to the church, but when she saw his tiny face and those tiny hands…

  She swallowed. “My aunt was angry with my decision to keep Jacob and altogether stopped associating with me. Fortunately, her cousin, Mrs. Henderson, has been very kind. She doesn’t have much, but she ensures we don’t starve. I plan to use the money I make from the position you’re offering to take Jacob to Shrewsbury by summer. That way, my aunt will have no choice but to acknowledge him.”

  Lord Brayton held her gaze. “So what about this Ryder?”

  She averted her eyes. “He’s known about Jacob for some time but didn’t seem to take an interest in our lives until two weeks ago.”

  Lord Brayton stilled his hand against the banister. “Two weeks ago? So are you associating with him now?”

  “I wouldn’t call it an association. I haven’t heard from the man since I was pregnant. He appeared at my door fourteen days ago and pretends to have grown a conscience the size of Constantinople. I’m still trying to understand what he wants. It’s rather strange. He is overly focused on my son.”

  Lord Brayton dropped his hand away from the banister. “Have him call on me. I’ll do more than stuff a banknote up his nose.”

  She snorted. “I appreciate that.”

  Realizing they’d been lingering in the stairwell too long, she paused. What was it about this man that made her feel she could talk to him about everything? It was…unexpected. She hadn’t talked to anyone so openly in a very long time. It was nice feeling as if her life mattered to someone other than herself.

  She averted her gaze. “We had better get to those scones before they get any harder and we’re forced to use chisels. They’re from Monday.” She turned and finished going up the stairs.

  His heavy steps followed her up, informing her that he was far from done with their conversation. He rounded her and faced her. “I will look after you for however long I’m in London. It would be an honor.”

  She jerked to a halt and gaped up at him. He was serious. “I’m not looking for a benefactor.”

  “I know. But I admire how you chose to take responsibility for your child despite the hardship. It says a lot about you.” There was an arrested expression on his face. “There are extra rooms in the house Mr. Holbrook and I are leasing. You and your son are welcome to take a room. It would be no cost to you.”

  Everything about him was so unearthly. She searched his scarred face. “There is no need to feel responsible for me. I am not your responsibility. I am my own.”

  His expression remained tight with strain. “You were heinously wronged, Miss Webster. And no one knows more than I how difficult life can be when that happens. I am here to help you. Whatever you require over these next few weeks, it is yours. All you need do is ask.”

  She leaned back. “I dare say, with a generous offer like that, we might as well get married.”

  He glared. “I don’t appreciate being teased, Miss Webster. I’m being serious.”

  Oh save her. If she wasn’t careful, she could end up liking this one far more than she needed to. He wasn’t even trying to beguile her. It was like this was who he was. This. Reserved, gruff but…kind. “Do you always rescue every woman in need?”

  He eyed her. “If I have time.” He was serious.

  She let out an exasperated laugh but quickly squelched it in an effort to ensure he didn’t think she was so easily entertained. It was no use. She already liked him. It was terrible. Absolutely terrible. She didn’t need this. She was trying to get her aunt to talk to her. And getting involved with yet another man would only prolong the bitterness the woman was known for.

  “Leona?” a male voice echoed from behind them on the stairs.

  Leona froze. It was Ryder.

  Malcolm didn’t have to be introduced to the gentleman in the stairwell to know that the dark-eyed dandy dressed in a knee-length blue velvet coat and snug black trousers was none other than the Ryder William Blake he and Leona had been earlier discussing. Annoyingly, Malcolm could see the attraction.

  This Ryder had good, broad shoulders and was tall and lean, with enough muscle to fill out a satin embroidered waistcoat to the point of stretching. Beneath that expensive top hat, dark thick hair tapered neatly to the man’s collar as if it were trimmed around it that same day. The man’s smoothly shaven face was youthful in appearance and had clearly never seen hardship.

  Despite wanting to knock all of the bastard’s teeth out with the back of his elbow given what he already knew of him, Malcolm decided to be cordial. For Leona’s sake. He extended a quick hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Brayton.”

  Ryder’s gloved fingers tightened on the bouquet of flowers he held. “I prefer we not complicate this with civilized introductions. You and I both know aristocrats don’t wander around these parts. So whatever your intentions, leave off. She isn’t interested in associating with any men.”

  What a self-entitled prick. Malcolm lowered his hand. “Then why are you here, Mr. Blake?”

  Those dark eyes flared. “Because she and I share a son. Is that a problem? Are you saying you want to take this outside?”

  The man had no idea who he was talking to. Years in the Persian navy had made him lethal. Even he didn’t trust his own strength. Not that it kept him from using it. “You want to fight?” Removing his black gloves to ensure he didn’t get any blood on the leather, Malcolm shoved them into the wool of his coat pocket. “Lead the way. Be forewarned I will not be held responsible for whatever happens next. In my opinion, you deserve it.”

  Leona set a hand to Malcolm’s chest making him pause. She lifted large green eyes to his. “Please don’t.”

  He swallowed, those soulful eyes and that small, trusting hand making his chest squeeze. Unlike most women, she didn’t appear intimidated by his physical breadth or the scar marring his face. She had even invited him to have scones at her table as if he were worthy of that honor. She made him feel like a gentleman. A real gentleman. Something he had always struggled to be in his mind and in his heart. “Do you want me to leave, Miss Webster?”

  She shook her head, causing her pinn
ed brunette chignon to sway. “No. But I don’t want you encouraging him, either.”

  Malcolm inclined his head, letting her know he was at her command. “Of course.”

  “Thank you.” Lowering her hand, she turned to Ryder and narrowed her gaze. “How dare you disrespect a man I wish to invite into my home? You have no right even being here. Have I not made that clear to you the last time you came up to the door? Now leave.”

  Ryder pointed at Malcolm’s face with the tips of the red roses he held. “Are you telling me my son is associating with this? This? Leona, for God’s sake, someone clearly took a blade to his face.”

  Malcolm smacked the flowers away, sending petals scattering. “How about I take a blade to yours?”

  “Lord Brayton, please. There is no need for threats. Allow me.” Leona pertly pushed her way between them and angled toward Ryder, hardening her tone. “While you insult a man you know nothing about, I wish to assure you, I’m genuinely honored to be in his presence. Honored. This gentleman has shown me far more respect in the past two days, than you’ve shown me since we were ten, you worthless piece of…tripe.”

  While Malcolm wasn’t prone to smiling, her attempt to defend him made his mouth quirk. “Now, now, Miss Webster. There is no need to bite his arm off. I can do that myself.”

  Ryder lowered the flowers to his side and tapped them against his leg, sending more rose petals fluttering onto the stairwell. “Leona, what is this? Are you and he involved? Is that it?”

  Leona folded her arms over her chest, crinkling her flower-patterned dress. “Yes. He makes love to me every afternoon. Do you care to watch?”

  Malcolm felt his mouth go dry. He realized the woman was joking but wondered if perhaps she found him attractive enough to consider it. Not that he’d ever give himself permission to do any of that. Ever. Setting aside his religious upbringing, he recognized the raw and dangerous power of sexual instinct and that the only power greater than that instinct was that of self-control. Which, of course, was something his brother never understood.