Master of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  Numbly wandering over to the bucket of water that was as flat and murky as she felt in that moment, Leona sank to the floor beside it. A crop. He wanted her to wield a crop and treat him like an undisciplined animal by taking it to his body.

  She wasn’t even capable of spanking her own child beyond a mere tap.

  And he expected her to…?

  She grabbed up the rag floating in the water and frantically scrubbed the floor, wishing she could scrub out the vision of Malcolm’s scarred hand reaching out to her, expecting her to further scar him.

  All she wanted to do was love him in the only way she knew how. Not—

  Whipping the rag against the floor, she closed her eyes in anguish and let out a sob burning within her, knowing her dream of them being together was cracking down its center. Malcolm was making her choose between hurting herself or hurting him.

  And she honestly wasn’t ready to do either.

  11 Berwick Street

  A man knew he was outdone when for the sixth week in a row, he was sitting in a one-room school house setting with four other grown men seated side by side awaiting instruction on women, love and seduction. All that was missing was a slate and some chalk.

  He knew why he kept staggering through the cramped, underground tunnel leading into the adjoining building where ‘lessons’ were being held. He was doing it to hold on to a glimmer of hope that Leona would kneel to him as he knelt to her.

  After the ever brilliant Madame de Maitenon suffered an unfortunate physical collapse that led to her being bedridden for at least a few weeks, her granddaughter had taken over the school with equal flare. The petite Miss Maybelle Maitenon, who appeared to avoid men, knew far more about intimate relationships than he knew about his own left hand.

  Sometimes, while in class, he silently prayed without anyone knowing. After all, God had a lot to be angry about, given he, Malcolm Gregory Thayer, the Earl of Brayton and Admiral of the Persian navy, had fornicated with an incredible, beautiful woman who wasn’t his wife. An incredible woman who still had no idea whether she wanted to love a pain-obsessed freak or not.

  Not knowing her decision was killing him.

  So he…kept coming to each and every class in the hope he was preparing himself for their union. He kept waiting for there to be a topic about the art of seduction by pain (not pleasure), but annoyingly, it never came up. How was he supposed to learn anything? His time in London was running out. His time with Leona was running out.

  When erotic texts were plopped into their laps one by one by Miss Maitenon, asking them to dissect what was wrong with the eroticism portrayed (other than the fact they were all written by males), Malcolm knew he had to forget about the other four men, that included Holbrook’s own brother, and just ask. What did he care? They were about as pathetic as he was.

  He raised his hand high above his head. As a good student would.

  Miss Maitenon paused from paging through the erotic text she held. Her brows went up as her blue eyes brightened. “Yes, Lord Brayton? Did you have a question?”

  He sure the hell did. “Yes.” He lowered his hand.

  The Duke of Rutherford, Lord Hawksford, Lord Caldwell and Lord Banfield all leaned far forward in their seats to look at him like men about to watch a horse race.

  Malcolm ignored them. Unlike them, he was here to learn. “Are there any pain focused techniques a man and a woman can share in that won’t involve bruising, marks, scabs, blood or any other visible signs of damage to the skin? Because I need to learn them.”

  There was a pulsing silence.

  Miss Maitenon lowered her chin. “Pain focused techniques?”

  Why was she looking at him like that? “Yes.”

  “Explain,” she prodded.

  He sighed. “I’m looking for techniques that won’t leave marks on my body. Why? Because I’m in love with a woman who doesn’t share my vast appreciation for pain. Which is a problem. After thinking and thinking on how to introduce her to it, I’ve come to realize the only way to approach this is as softly as humanly possible. That means no whips, no chains, no birch, and no blades. But I still want the pain. It’s what I enjoy.”

  Hawksford snorted. “That explains everything.”

  Malcolm narrowed his gaze.

  Caldwell kicked out a foot to Hawksford. “Are you looking to die?”

  “Lord Hawksford,” Miss Maitenon snapped, pointing the erotic book at him. “Do you need a dildo for that mouth?”

  Hawskford puffed out a breath and sat back. “No. I’m capable of keeping this mouth shut.”

  “I thought so.” Miss Maitenon brought the book back to her corseted waist, returning once again to her cheerful self. She pertly smiled. “Now what was the question again, Lord Brayton?”

  What, indeed. “Your grandmother knows quite a bit about my penchant. She and I talked about it. She was incredibly helpful to me and is the only reason why I’m here. Since you’ve taken over the class, I’ve been patiently waiting for the topic of pain to come up, but it’s like I’m surrounded by sugar cookies and marzipan. None of which I need. Pain, please. That is what I need. Because I have plans that depend on me having a technique that won’t break skin or leave marks. And pinching doesn’t count. It does nothing for me. Is there such a thing? My brother mentioned there was.”

  Every last male gaze veered from Malcolm to the teacher.

  She let out a breath and slapped the book she was holding shut, setting it on the small desk behind her. “My grandmother never mentioned your penchant for pain.”

  At least his privacy was being respected. “Thank her for that. Now are there any…

  techniques? Something? Anything? Because I’ve been strangling myself with this damn situation long enough.”

  A small smile touched her lips. “While I will admit, I’m not at all versed in the art of pain, my grandmother did bring a Chinese gentleman once to the house to teach me something that might be helpful to you. She was worried about my travelling abroad to Egypt with only a chaperone and therefore had this gentleman introduced me to a very effective measure of defense.”

  Oh, hell. “The Chinese idea of defense includes combing the flesh off of their enemies with metal picks that expose the bone. I’ve seen it. I’m looking for something more—”

  “I know. Techniques for pain that won’t bruise or break the skin.” She swept toward him and paused before his chair. “Stand, please.”

  The duke sat up, clearly worried.

  Malcolm rolled his eyes and stood, towering over the petite blonde like a gorilla over a banana. He widened his stance and dubiously met her gaze from above. “Now what?”

  She patted his arm. “Am I allowed to demonstrate the technique?”

  He spread his arms. “By all means. Have at it, Miss Maitenon.”

  She politely reached up and under his arm, toward his back. Setting her fingers against a group of muscles, she clamped her thumb and forefinger together through his morning coat, pinching what felt like a bundle of too many nerves.

  Amplified pain seared straight up the length of his legs and up his back, causing him to suck in a breath. He staggered in disbelief, his chest tightening.

  She released him and stepped back, primly folding her hands. “How was that?”

  If Leona did that to him, he’d never leave the house. He hissed out a breath, trying to regain composure and a sense of calm as the tendrils of pinching already subsided. It had seized him as quickly as it had left. “That was…unexpected.” He swallowed and reached under the area she had accessed.

  Miss Maitenon set her chin. “According to this Chinese gentleman, there are bundled nerves all over the body. Given pain is your penchant, I suggest you play with the idea of finding them.”

  Damn. Now he wanted to go take Leona to China. “Thank you. I’ll do exactly that. I…can you show me other areas on my body I might be able to use?”

  The Duke of Rutherford stared him down lethally. “No. She can’t.”


  Malcolm paused. Maybe he was taking this school a little too seriously.

  Four days before Persia

  A flash and the sharp crack of thunder startled Leona from deep sleep.

  Sitting straight up, she paused.

  Rain drummed against the small, lattice window, echoing in the quiet darkness of the room. Looking around, she slowly recognized the shapes of the house and the small hearth across from the foot of the bed that barely glowed. She was still in the rickety bed she and her son had snuggled into. She blew out a slow breath and yanked up the thick coverlet around her, the one that smelled like Malcolm and made her stupidly yearn for him.

  The man always tucked them both into bed at night.

  Or rather…Malcolm tucked Jacob into bed at night, and she was merely there to see it. The man was barely around. He always left early in the morning, propping his collar up high as if to hide his face from the world, and only returned shortly before the sky turned dark.

  While he did speak to her, and sometimes lingered in her presence, it was always with a removed distance that was very visible not only on his face but also in the tension of his shoulders he always set whenever she walked into the room.

  She missed him. She missed being the center of his regard.

  It made her want to pick up a damn crop in his name and just—

  Lightning streaked the sky again, illuminating the dark room. Leona sunk into the warm coverlet and scooted closer toward Jacob’s side of the bed.

  She paused and patted the empty space beside her.

  “Jacob?” She sat up and threw aside the comforter. He was gone.

  Thunder rumbled, punctuating the realization.

  “Jacob?” She scooted off the bed and noticed the door to the room was slightly open, the dim light of flickering candles from the corridor illuminating the open crevice. She groaned. Not again. The boy was now always playing chess with Andrew or Malcolm.

  Did the male species never sleep? Damn them.

  She puffed out a breath, her bare feet padding across the room as her wool nightdress tangled around her. Throwing open the door, she peered out into the dimly lit corridor, looking left, then right.

  “Jacob?” she called out. “Jacob, it’s late. I think it time you come back to bed.”

  No answer. Huh. Maybe they were downstairs.

  Her bare feet tapped the wood boards as she meandered down the flickering candle-lit corridor, toward the stairs that led down into the narrow entrance of the townhouse.

  Just as she came to the end of the corridor, at the top of the stairs, a large shadowy figure loomed before her, blocking her path. She yelped, skidding into the massive body.

  Large hands grabbed her, keeping her in place. The crisp scent of davana ittar surrounded her. “Don’t tell me thunder scares you more than I do,” someone rumbled out.

  Her heart skipped, knowing it was Malcolm. Leona gripped those muscular arms, finding enough strength in them to breathe again. She looked up. His rugged face was strained and ready for whatever it was she had to say.

  “No, I…I’m actually trying to be a good mother and put my child back to sleep. Jacob needs rest and can’t keep going to bed this late every night. I appreciate the time you’re giving him, especially given you and I don’t…” She sighed. “Are you and he done playing chess? Because it’s late and—”

  Thunder shook the house.

  Leona jumped and instinctively gripped Malcolm’s arms harder.

  He paused, leaning into her. “Jacob and I weren’t playing chess. I was actually sleeping but got woken by the thunder.” He stared. “Are you saying Jacob isn’t with you?”

  Dread suddenly scraped its way through Leona. “No. I thought he was with you.”

  “No. He isn’t.”

  Oh, dear God. “Is he with Andrew?” she demanded.

  Malcolm released her arms, jerking toward the closed door a few feet away. “Andrew retired hours ago.”

  Her eyes widened. “Then where is Jacob?”

  “God protect him.” Malcolm swung toward the corridor leading toward the rest of the house. “I just walked through the entire house, blowing out candles I could have sworn I had already put out.”

  Panic gurgled within. “Something isn’t right. Something isn’t—” She rushed around him. “What if Ryder sent someone to take him? What if—”

  Malcolm grabbed her arm, yanking her toward him. His eyes flickered over her nightdress and snapped back to her face. “Stay here. I’ll find him.”

  “No, I’m going with you,” she insisted, pushing past him and breaking into a run.

  He sprinted past her and thumped down the stairs before she could even get to them.

  She thumped her way after him, gasping breaths escaping her. Although she swore to never open her heart to the possibility of begging a higher being that she even doubted existed, her pride was no match against her heart, Please, God. Malcolm claims that You are capable of mercy and goodness. Show me that goodness. Please. For the love I have for Jacob, please—

  Malcolm rushed to the entrance door and paused, his chest heaving. “The latch is broken.”

  “No!” Leona frantically shoved past and banged open the door.

  A lashing gust of wind and heavy rain assaulted her. She squinted to see beyond the dull gas lights of the street and into the darkness, but too many drops of rain blurred her vision.

  She rushed out into the deserted street in bare feet, frosty rain instantly drenching her. “Jacob!” she screamed above the whirling wind, tears and rain blinding her. The rain might as well have been the sea her father had been lost in. It was too much. Too much. “Jacooooob!” She sobbed, her bare feet sinking into icy mud as torrents of rain continued to whip unmercifully all around her.

  “Leona, go inside!” Malcolm commanded, grabbing her arm. “I’ll find him! I swear it!”

  Leona jerked toward Malcolm, realizing he was as drenched as she was, his dark hair clinging to his forehead, and his white linen shirt, waistcoat and trousers adhered to every inch of him.

  She sobbed, her bare feet numb from standing in the freezing puddle. “Ryder took him. He took him. I know he took him!”

  “I have him!” a separate male voice hollered out through the wind, drawing closer. “It’s all right! The boy is all right!”

  Her head snapped toward the voice, her heart pounding.

  Through the pelting rain, the dark, dim outline of a large figure in a great coat stalked toward her, guiding a tiny figure splashing through puddles. Jacob! Leona drew in a sharp breath of cold air and pushed it back out with weakened relief. Thank you God. Thank you for…answering.

  She darted toward Jacob, trying not to sob anymore than she already was.

  Jacob paused in front of her, his small chest heaving as he tried catching his breath. His bear sagged to one side of his arm, drenched in his thin arms, looking as pitiful as he did. His dark hair clung to his forehead.

  “Don’t cry, Mama.” Jacob’s small, cold hand sloppily patted her cheek to assure her.

  Leona let out a choked laugh, grabbed and kissed his cold fingers. “How brave you are. How very brave. Are you all right?”

  Jacob nodded in exaggeration. “Everyone was sleeping when Papa came into the house. I snuck out of the room. He told me not to wake you. He and I played downstairs for a while but then he tried to take me. It wasn’t really that scary. Because James took him to the ground and tied Papa’s whole body to a railing down the street so he wouldn’t go anywhere. And then James and I were having a bit of fun in the rain making our way back. Only you won’t believe it. Look!” He pointed up at the man beside him.

  Her son certainly seemed to be inspired by her rescuer. “Thank you, sir, for—” Leona glanced up at the large man beside her son and froze. Imposing ice blue eyes met hers as water streamed down an all too familiar rugged face. It was Malcolm. Only…he was wearing different clothes than the ones she had just seen him in. And the jagged scar on his face was…
gone?

  She blinked against the rain, slowly drawing her arms around herself in an effort to give herself warmth as the rain seemed to slowly ebb and dull. She paused, sensing someone was behind her and swung toward the direction she thought Malcolm had earlier been. Another figure with the exact same height and the exact same ice blue eyes and rugged face met hers from behind. A jagged scar from ear to jaw traced that face.

  She choked and scrambled back, slapping a trembling hand against her mouth. Oh. Dear. God. There were two. There were two Malcolms. There. Were. Two!

  Her chest heaved, unable to believe it as she glanced from one to the other.

  Leona lowered her hand from her mouth. She had heard of such oddities out in the country, but had never actually seen a set of twins in person. They really were the same in every way. Height. Breadth. Eye color. Hair color. Face. The only thing distinguishing them was one had a scar slashed across his face and the other one didn’t. “You have a twin?”

  “Yes.” Malcolm’s strained face and voice softened. “A twin who keeps reminding me why the hell I ever loved him in the first place. Thank you, James. Thank you for—” Malcolm swiped his face. “Leona, this is James Zachery Thayer. My younger brother by three minutes. James, this is Leona Webster.” He grinned, pointed at James and chided, “You’re officially soft.”

  The other Malcolm snorted. “Don’t give me that. I’ve been waiting for you to call on me again. Why the hell didn’t you call on me?”

  “For the same reason you didn’t call on me,” Malcolm tossed back.

  James widened his stance. “Well, I’m calling on you now. Some prick was standing outside your townhouse most of the night when I earlier rode by, so I stuck around. Glad I did. I finally get to outdo my brother. I’m the real hero now.”

  Malcolm rumbled out a laugh, jumped forward and grabbed James, shoving his head into an arm lock. “I’m the fucking hero. You’re just a fucking lunatic who breaks glass.”

  Leona frantically covered her son’s ears. “Uh…gentleman. I hate to interrupt this glorious little family reunion, but my son can hear everything you’re both saying.”