Master of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  “Only the ones who take a keen interest in Madame. Be careful. You’re not like these other men. She won’t be able to help you in the way you think.”

  Malcolm eyed him. “She already has. I’m here because of her.”

  James paused. “What do you mean?”

  Malcolm smoothed a hand over his prayer book before tucking it back into his pocket. “She told me the only way I was going to be able to face what I am is by accepting what I am. And I’ve decided she is right. I’m done fighting it. Prior to going to the monastery, you told me I would never be anything but what I already am. And you were right. This is who I am. I have to accept it.”

  His brother slowly grinned. “I like being right.”

  “I know you do.”

  James smacked his hands together and let out an astounded laugh. “I don’t believe it! After all the nagging you put me through for years and years and— Do you have any idea what this means? Jesus Christ, you and I are going to take over the Whipping Society and burn London to the ground. We’re going to—”

  “No. No, no, no. Keep sweet Jesus and your society out of this. There will be no burning of London. I leave in a few weeks.”

  “Annnnd…it’s back to boring.” James puffed out a breath. “I thought you wanted to be a fellow earl of the lash? I thought—”

  “I do. But…” Malcolm hesitated. “It’s a touch complicated. I basically plan to get married to a woman who is nothing like your Dorothea or the people you associate with. Leona is…she is incredibly passionate and well-grounded and stunning and everything I could ever want her to be, but…she isn’t our sort of passionate, if you know what I mean. I will have to either entirely give up what I am and hide it over the course of our marriage or altogether risk losing her. Neither of which are an option. So the question is…what happens next?”

  Those dark brows went up. James gaped. “You’ve bloody involved yourself with a milk-and- water female? Are you fucking mad?”

  Cringing, Malcolm offered, “She has more milk than water.”

  James smacked him hard upside the head.

  Malcolm winced, accepting the reprimand. He deserved it. “Ow.”

  “End it,” James bit out. “She won’t ever accept you and you’ll be miserable for the rest of your life. Is that what you want?”

  Malcolm glared. “I’m already in love with her, damn you. So avoiding misery really isn’t an option. I’m already miserable!”

  James muttered something with the shake of his head and shifted against the landing they sat on. “You always were a ponce.” He sighed. “How far have you tried to take her tolerance of pain?”

  A snort escaped Malcolm. “Not very. I bit her damn lip and her hand and got reprimanded both times. She isn’t even remotely interested.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Quite.”

  James puffed out a breath. “You won’t be able to train her. She may tolerate a few spankings here and there, but…these milk-and-water females like their pleasure in the guise of too much honey and not enough blade. Which means you’ll have to focus on getting her to deliver all the pain. Is that something you’d be willing to work with? Are you fine with that?”

  Malcolm rolled his tongue inside his mouth, knowing he had always preferred receiving pain more than giving it. It wasn’t a loss. At all. “I’m more than fine with it. You damn well know that. Better to receive than to give, I say.”

  “Good.” James patted Malcolm’s knee. “You still have to train her lest you end up dead. We had one of those last week.” He let out a low whistle. “It made the newspapers, which miffed Mrs. Berkley to damn pieces given he was part of the club and made us look like— This fucking moron took on a milk-and-water female prostitute and when he forced her into stabbing him in the name of pain, she panicked and darted out of his house so damn fast, she left him tied to the bed. He bled out in less than four hours before anyone could find him. You don’t want that.”

  “Uh…no. I don’t.”

  “Exactly. You may want to start your girl with techniques that don’t involve any marks, bruises or blood. Then scale the wall from there and see where it takes you. A little at a time. I myself don’t actually specialize in soft play, so you’re going to have to get advice elsewhere.” James smirked. “Maybe at your so-called…school? Madame knows soft.”

  “That woman knows more than soft. Have you met her?”

  “No. I only know what Mrs. Berkley wags at me. What was she like?”

  “Brilliant. I liked her.” Throwing back his head, Malcolm stared up at the cloud-ridden, grey sky that threatened to release rain. “Madame mentioned I needed to wait for the perfect moment to reveal myself.”

  James wrapped an arm around him and jostled him. “There is no perfect moment. Not given what we are. Spend a lot more time with her. Get her to feel more comfortable with the idea of her giving you pain and then…hit her.”

  Malcolm paused.

  James chuckled. “Not in that way. You know…with the news.”

  Malcolm sighed.

  Later that afternoon

  The best cure to keep one’s mind fully occupied was to scrub the very floor she was tired of walking on. It was dirty, anyway. Leona dipped the large rag into the tin bucket, splashing soapy water across the parlor floor, and hitching up her skirts to allow better movement, slapped it onto the wooden planks she earlier swept.

  She then scrubbed and washed and scrubbed and washed, scooting her way across the length of the floor, only stopping on occasion to dip the filthy rag back into the soapy water and start again.

  Jacob ran into the room, his small booted feet echoing as he rounded her. He bustled over to the far side of the room and yanked open one of several trunks, throwing everything out of it.

  Leona paused on all fours and glanced over at him. “Jacob, that isn’t yours.”

  “I know,” he called back.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking.” He buried his head far forward into the trunk, his feet scrambling in an effort to balance himself as he lifted something out. He turned toward her and triumphantly held up a checkered board in one hand and a carved wooden box in the other. “Malcolm told me to get it. We’re all going to play right now. You, me, and Malcolm. Chess requires three players. Three. Malcolm said so. Put away the bucket, Mama. Hurry up. Before Malcolm gets here.”

  She sighed, sat back on the heels of her slippers and flopped the rag into the tin bucket. She didn’t even know how to play chess. Only draughts. “I’ll play later. I have to finish washing the floor.”

  “Wash it later. We have to play. Malcolm said so.” Jacob scampered over and in the middle of the floor, set down the board and sat cross-legged, opening the wooden box. He dumped out all the pieces into his lap and dug through them, setting the black and ivory pieces all randomly onto the wooden board. “Mama, I’m waiting.”

  Despite herself, Leona allowed for a smile and swiped her hands into her apron. Pushing up onto her feet, she abandoned her bucket and walked over to the middle of the floor. She sat beside Jacob and peered at the organization he was doing.

  His little fingers set the black and ivory pieces in between the painted squares, alternating the colors all on one side of the board to create a wall, which he nudged as closely together as possible. He plucked up a piece and held it up. “It looks like a horse, Mama. Look. See its head?” He wagged it in the air.

  Leona took the piece and pretended to gallop it through the air. “Its legs appear to be missing,” she chided. “Whatever shall we do?”

  Jacob tsked. “It isn’t supposed to have legs, Mama.” He took the piece back and trotted it across the board. “It balances better this way. See?” His hair fell into his eyes as he continued trotting it.

  Reaching out her hand to brush away the hair from his eyes, Leona’s heart squeezed knowing she didn’t have to worry about Ryder anymore. It was just him and her and—

  Heavy booted steps crossing towa
rd them made her look up and drop her hand away. Her breath caught.

  Malcolm lowered himself to the floor beside them and stretched out long, trouser-clad legs beside them. He winced, giving away that the healing wound hidden from sight still bothered him. He let out a calming breath as if adjusting to the discomfort. Tugging his morning coat around himself, he then propped up on an elbow, to ensure he was close beside her and tilted his dark head toward her, his blue eyes brightening. “Good afternoon, pigeon.”

  Her heart skipped. She had grown stupidly accustomed to that endearment. Strangely, over the past few days, he acted as if nothing had happened. Absolutely nothing. As if they hadn’t argued. As if they had made love and were now merrily heading straight for the altar.

  Men. She adjusted her bundled hair and quirked a brow. “You appear incredibly cheerful.”

  His mouth quirked. “I spent the entire morning and early afternoon with my brother. I haven’t seen him in thirteen years. It was nice.”

  Her brows went up. “You have a brother?”

  He nodded, averting his gaze. “Yes. And when I’m crazy enough to do it, I’ll introduce you. But first, you have to get used to me.” He cleared his throat and averting his attention to Jacob, pointed to the board. “The black and white pieces have to be separated, Jacob. The black pieces go on one side of the board and the white pieces on the other side.”

  Jacob blinked and set the horse he was playing with onto the middle of the checkered board. “Why separate the blacks from the whites? They want to be together. Look. Look how happy they are.” He nudged them all even closer, no longer keeping them in their squares. “It’s a city. Everyone likes each other. And if they don’t follow the rules, they go back into the box.”

  Malcolm smirked. “It’s genius. I don’t know how I didn’t come up with it.” He eyed the board. “I have an idea. How about today we play chess your way and tomorrow, we play chess the way everyone else plays it?”

  Jacob perked. “Yes!” Jacob squinted at the pieces and gathered a few up, holding it out to Malcolm. “These are for you. Don’t lose them.”

  With the bow of his head, Malcolm took the four pieces and splayed out his large hand. “Thank you. Now what?”

  “Now you have to give them all names. They can’t be real until they have names.”

  Leona couldn’t help but inwardly melt watching them both interact. This man was a natural with children. It made her want at least three more. Which meant…Persia. With him at her side, fear wouldn’t exist. Biting her lip, she leaned closer to Malcolm’s shoulder, pretending to only be interested in the pieces in his large hand. “I’m very good with names.”

  “I bet you are,” Malcolm drawled. “I remember the sort of names you came up with for the creditors on the street. Rumpot was my favorite.”

  She nudged him with her shoulder. “Cease.” She tapped on each piece. “This here is Anna, Beatrice, Mary and…Sarah.”

  Malcolm’s gaze flicked up to her face. “There should be at least one male in this crowd.” He rattled the pieces. “Where is he?”

  Leona shrugged, trying to remain serious. “I don’t see him.”

  Jacob leaned in and scooped up the pieces. “It’s time for them to sleep.” Jacob shoved them all into the box, including the ones on the board. He closed the lid and then gathered the board and box and stumbled to his feet. “I’ll go show Andrew.”

  Malcolm lifted a brow. “Andrew is still sleeping.”

  Jacob sighed. “Is that all he ever does? I’ll go wake him up. He won’t mind. I’ve done it before.” He turned and with the checkered board hefted under one arm and the box under the other, he trudged out. “I’ll be back in thirteen minutes,” he called out over his shoulder.

  “Should we stop him?” Leona chided.

  “No. Andrew had to be somewhere in an hour anyway.” Malcolm hesitated and edged in closer. “Leona?”

  She paused. “Yes?”

  He searched her face. “I don’t want us arguing ever again. It’s not who we are.”

  Her skin prickled in awareness. She half-nodded. “I agree.”

  He was quiet for a moment then murmured, “Deltangam.”

  She leaned in. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s what I carved into the wall. It means…my heart is tight.” He averted his gaze. “It’s uh…it’s how I feel when I’m around you.”

  A deep ache almost overtook her ability to breath. “I feel the same.”

  His gaze veered back to hers. “Do you?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good. I needed to know.” He wet his lips and pushed himself up into a sitting position. He eased out a long breath and then smoothed his cravat before patting his leg. “Can you lean on this with both hands? It needs attention.”

  Her brows came together. Realizing his large hand patted the muscled thigh that was still recovering, she flicked her gaze to his. “You don’t want me leaning on that, Malcolm.”

  His features tightened. He patted his thigh again. “I can take it. Start with one hand and lean into it.”

  Her lips parted. “Lean into it? Aren’t there still threads in your leg?”

  He shrugged. “Only a few. Lean into it. And then kiss me. I need you to kiss me.”

  Something wasn’t right. She lowered her chin. “I’m not leaning into it.”

  He shifted his jaw. “But I’m asking you to. I want you to.”

  “And I’m telling you I won’t. I’ll hurt you.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Yes. I know. Now lean into it, pigeon. Go on. Hurt me.” His eyes brightened. “It makes me feel alive.”

  This was…unusual. She edged back, scooting her bum away from where he sat. “Malcolm, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you enjoy being in pain.”

  “Exactly.” He met her gaze, the amusement fading. “Are you fine with that?”

  She swallowed. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”

  He sighed and reaching for her, grabbed her waist and dragged her back toward himself. Taking her hand, he set it against his thigh and pressed her hand into it. He drew in a ragged breath through his teeth, clearly struggling to breathe his way through the discomfort and then said in a low tone, “It’s like sex when you do it. Every time you press, it makes me want it more.”

  She jerked her hand away, her heart pounding. “Malcolm, what is this? This…I…this isn’t…”

  He grabbed her hand back hard and bringing it to his lips savagely kissed it, holding her gaze. “This is who I am, Leona. And it would be the greatest honor I have ever known if you would share my life and bestow me with the sort of pain I deserve.”

  She gasped and yanked her hand away from his. She scrambled up onto her feet and stumbled, her chest heaving. Now she understood. He enjoyed having the dagger in him. He had enjoyed it so much he had pleasured himself before her very eyes proving it.

  Malcolm lifted somber eyes to hers, remaining on the floor. “Take all the time you need to understand it, Leona. It took me my entire life to understand it. Simply know, that when we marry, our lives will be like any other. I will honor and cherish you and be the father you expect me to be. In the bedchamber, however, I will expect a little more than pleasure. I’ll ease you into it when we start. I wish to assure you, I’m softer in my tastes. I won’t need a dagger in my leg. That was actually a bit much, even for me, but…crops would be nice. They wouldn’t be for you, of course. Only me.”

  Her throat tightened in panic. A crop wasn’t even pleasure. Nor was it a way of giving love. It was nothing but…pain. Something she could never do. Not even to someone she hated.

  Still staying on the floor, Malcolm grudgingly met her gaze. “Leona. Talk to me. You’re too quiet and I don’t like the look on your face.”

  Setting a trembling hand against her mouth, she choked out, “I can’t do this. It isn’t—”

  “Normal. I know.” A breath escaped him. He pushed himself up
from the floor, his features twisting as he righted himself and fully stood. He reached out for her, that large scarred hand whispering of all the things he’d done to himself. “Come here.”

  She shook her head and kept shaking it, stepping back.

  He dropped his hand heavily to his side and stared. “Don’t treat me like this. Don’t act like you’re suddenly scared of me. I’m still the same man.”

  She shook her head again. “No. You aren’t. The man I have come to love and know wouldn’t hurt anyone. Not even himself.”

  He glared. “If I could rip it out of myself in your name, Leona, I would. But I can’t. This is who I am.”

  “It can’t be,” she rasped. “You’re too kind in nature to be this cruel to yourself. You’re too kind to—”

  “What is cruel is your inability to accept me for what I am.” He hit his chest. “I can’t change this. I’ve tried. And I’d only be lying to myself and to you if I didn’t give into it. And I’m done lying about it, Leona. I’m done lying.”

  He swung away and stalked toward the door, the brass chandelier above her head trembling from his pronounced weight hitting the floorboards. Before leaving the room, he swung back. “You have five weeks to pick up a crop and be the woman I need you to be or I leave to Persia without you. Because I’d rather live without you knowing I am true to myself than live with you and betray all that I am. And if being true to yourself means being unable to pick up that crop…I will respect that. I will respect we simply were never meant to be.”

  He hesitated, looking anguished about the words he shared. “When we first kissed, you challenged me to come to you, no matter the hour, no matter the reason, asking that I show you’re the only woman I would ever want in my arms and in my life. And I’m doing that. As you had once said, ‘I want a life where I’m not limited to someone who refuses to give me the one thing I not only deserve but want: everything.’ And I do want everything, Leona. I want everything including you and unlike before, I’m not settling for less.” Averting his gaze, he walked out and didn’t look back.