by Darcy Burke
Goddamn it. Was there a placard for the school that he didn’t see earlier? Leaning back, Ronan scanned the gate and the door and the building itself. He blinked. There was none. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
More people passed behind him on the pavement, also slowing by the gate. A well-dressed gent with large, waxed whiskers, and a folded newspaper tucked beneath his hefty arm, paused altogether and stared, his thin lips drawn.
It was like the people in the neighborhood knew despite there being no placard.
It was like they were all holding him accountable for the school’s existence.
Shifting his jaw, Ronan turned back to the door, twisted the bell again and chanted for the damn door to open. It didn’t.
More people walked by and a gentleman from across the street gruffly hollered, “Be a real man and cease supporting whores of the devil, you bloody side-slip!”
Side-slip? Ronan swung toward whoever had said it and, pointing rigidly to his own face, yelled back at whoever it was, “How about you cross the street and say it to my face! I’m not here for my own fucking entertainment. Where are you? I have no trouble showing you what a real man can do!” He thudded his chest with a fist, ready to prove it.
Startled women scurried out of sight.
Ronan winced and muttered, “Damn it,” and swung back to the door. This was far from turning him into a romantic. His hand jumped to the bell and twisted it several times.
The door finally edged open.
He was so damn grateful.
A portly, gray-haired gentleman in well-ironed, dark blue livery observed him from beneath the thick, fuzzy tufts of his brows. “Do you have an appointment, sir?”
Ronan cleared his throat, fully aware that this man probably thought he was a major disappointment to all women. When the reality was, he was only a disappointment to one. Which made it all the more pathetic. “I do. Yes.”
“Excellent. We require a card at the door, sir. Regardless of whether or not you have called on us before.”
“Of course. Yes.” Reaching into the right side of his coat in his breast pocket, he withdrew a calling card from the small stack he always kept on him whenever he was out and about. He held it out. “My card. I was told Madame de Maitenon would be expecting me.”
The butler slipped it from his fingers and, holding it away, read it by lowering his round chin onto his stiff collar. “Ah, yes. Lord Caldwell.” He glanced up. “I am Mr. Hudson.” He stepped back, widened the door and extended a gray-gloved hand. “Welcome.”
Dread seized him, for he knew the moment he walked in, there was no walking out of this situation. With several quick strides, he entered, if only to keep more people on the street from looking at him. Seeing people glancing over, he quickly said, “Thank you, Mr. Hudson. I believe I have received more attention than I am used to. I ask that you please close the door.”
The man sniffed. “I certainly planned on it, my lord.” The door closed, darkening the quiet foyer.
Cheeky bastard.
The sweet smell of mulled wine floated in the air and a clock chimed twice in the distance, somewhere upstairs, before clicking back into silence.
The butler set the card on a silver calling tray with the flick of a gloved thumb, then turned and expectantly held out a hand, waiting to receive a hat.
Ronan quickly stripped it and handed it off by its rim. “Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Hudson whirled it once, ensuring it was properly positioned top down and rounded him. With the jut of a chin that turned into several round chins against his high starched collar, the butler carefully positioned the hat atop one of four, red velvet cushions lining the walnut hall table against the entrance wall.
It was like his hat had just been escorted into a harem.
Mr. Hudson glanced toward the stairwell beyond, as if to ensure no one was coming, then sidled up to him. The man lowered his voice to respectfully impart, “A donation would be much appreciated, my lord.”
Ronan pulled in his chin. Since when did butlers ask for donations? He paused. Unless the man wasn’t being paid. Ronan glanced up the stairwell, then leaned in and lowered his own voice in turn. “Not to pry, sir, but are you not being paid by the woman?”
Mr. Hudson set both hands behind a stiff back. “I am. But it is my hope that a well-to-do gentleman such as yourself would understand the extraneous work involved in answering the door, taking your card and your hat.”
Ronan snorted and almost clapped the man on the back for being the first butler to have a sense of humor.
Mr. Hudson blinked, still observing him with lethal calmness.
Ronan cleared his throat. Apparently, the plea was genuine. He sighed. If there was anyone who understood what a man resorted to in the name of financial desperation, it was him. Ronan removed both gloves by tugging on the fingers of the leather, draped them atop the side rim of his hat and turned back to the portly man. He smiled, trying to remove any awkwardness that an exchange of money might bring to the man, reached into his inner coat pocket and withdrew his leather satchel.
Mr. Hudson inclined his head in vast appreciation and then set both hands behind his back and watched with expectant raised brows and set lips to see what he would get.
Ronan smirked at the audacity of the man and withdrew five shillings, from the ten pounds he had, which in his opinion was rather generous. He held it out.
Mr. Hudson hesitated. “I have seventeen grandchildren, my lord.”
Ronan coughed. And he thought his aunt had a brood. “Seventeen?” he echoed. “Do you really?”
“My daughter was widowed a few months ago.”
Ronan’s brows flickered. “I am very sorry to hear it.” While Ronan wanted to counter that he himself had too many nieces and nephews to support, he felt achingly bad for the man. Seventeen grandchildren? Shit. He sighed and counted out twelve more shillings from his satchel and held it out.
Mr. Hudson accepted the seventeen shillings and offered a deep incline of his grey head. “Your kindness is much appreciated, my lord.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Slipping all seventeen coins into his livery that tinkered from the deposit, Mr. Hudson smiled and sweepingly gestured toward the adjoining room. “If you would please seat yourself, Madame will be joining you shortly. She is visiting with Lady Chartwell upstairs.” He stoically departed.
Lady Chartwell. Where did he know that name? The newspaper? He couldn’t remember. Ronan slowly shook his head from side to side, wondering what he was about to encounter next and tucked away his leather satchel.
Striding into the adjoining room, across the wooden inlaid floors, Ronan jerked to a halt and leveled his chin at seeing only a single gilded chair set in the middle of the receiving room. And nothing else. There were no carpets or side tables or vases.
No wonder the butler was asking for donations.
Although afternoon sunlight poured in from the windows, various candles in their sconces had been lit, as if awaiting a guest. Him being that guest, of course. Moving further into the large room, he swiveled on his booted heel, scanning the expanse of the brocaded, coral silk walls. Large gold-framed paintings of Greece, the Parthenon, various Greek temples, as well as an array of naked Greek goddesses, ranging from Aphrodite to Athena, graced almost every wall.
Someone apparently wanted to go to Greece.
Ronan paused, his brows going up and up. Correction. Someone had gone to Greece. Four life-size, six-foot tall, white marble statues of well-muscled, nude men – without fig leaves – lined a section of the empty receiving room. One of the statues wore a beaver hat angled over his left eye. Another wore a red silk cravat tied mail-coach style about his neck. One had an unbuttoned evening waistcoat, displaying the well-defined muscles on his chest and stomach. And draped on the outstretched muscled arm of the last male statue was an unlaced rose-colored satin corset.
Someone had a sense of humor.
He edged toward the gilded cha
ir, in the opposite direction of said nude men and slowly sat, gripping the gilded arms. Leaning back and thudding out a leg in an effort to get comfortable, he realized that having been seated, he now had a direct level eye view of one statue’s oversized marble cock barely a few feet away.
This was planned.
He winced and shifted sideways in the chair, directing his gaze toward the corset that hung from one of the outstretched arms of the statues.
Silence drummed.
The clicking of self-assured heels echoed down, down, down the stairwell, drifting toward him through the open double doors. Ronan stood and set both hands behind his back, facing the entryway.
Caroline was worth of all this and more.
Ronan let out a breath.
Within moments, a familiar, elderly woman appeared in the doorway of the receiving room. Her thick, silver hair was meticulously arranged in fashionable curls around her pale, aged face. Silk, bright yellow flowers had been woven through its tresses, fashionably matching the shade of her elegant lace gown that showcased a slim, well-corseted frame. A long, expensive-looking string of pearls had been draped from her slender throat to her waist as if to emphasize and draw attention to the sizeable breasts surrounding them.
His uncle loved fashionable women with large breasts. Seeing her again reminded Ronan of exactly why his uncle was so intent on marking the territory.
Playful, pretty bright blue eyes met his gaze and in a sultry French-accented voice, she announced, “We meet again, Lord Caldwell.”
He inclined his head. “Bonjour, Madame de Maitenon. C’est un honneur.”
She inclined her silvery head, in turn. “The honor is mine, I assure you. But I ask that we speak English. After all, I do not need to practice my French. I am French.”
He smiled. “Of course.”
She eyed him. “I received your uncle’s correspondence late yesterday evening. It took me some time to read. It was ten pages long and every inch of parchment covered with ink that had writing trés petit.” She pinched slim fingers together.
Ronan cringed.
“Hughes explained everything in a manner that was most helpful. It will allow me to ask the right questions. I wish to announce that I usually send men to the application process through Lady Chartwell first, before I consider seeing them. For I do not have that many breaths to entertain them all and more importantly, I have a granddaughter whom I am trying to convince to stay in London lest she prance off to Egypt. But you and this unique situation requires attention. Your incapacité à embrasser fascinates me. I have never heard of a man with an inability to kiss.”
When a courtesan pointed out to a man he was a freak, it meant he was. “Yes, well…more than that, madame, I am here, not so much to learn how to kiss, for that is all merely physical, but because I wish to learn how to be more… romantic.”
Her delicate, older features mischievously brightened. “Ah. I am most pleased to hear you wish to pursue the nuisances of romance. Few men do. Romance, after all, is the epitome of showcasing one’s feelings and desires in a manner most men are incapable of naturally exploring.” She lifted a prim forefinger into the air and shook it. “But…there is far more to romance than ideology, my lord. Romance is a balance between all things made of not only the heart but also all things made of the flesh. Do not mislead yourself into thinking the two can be separated. The art of kissing cannot be flicked aside, merely to be replaced with words or flowers. It cannot. For it is unique to who we are as humans. Whilst animals nudge, nestle, nibble, rub and lick to show their affections, we, my lord, kiss, to show affection.” She paused. “Kissing is a fundamental language every man must know. Especially if he is to capture the true essence of romance.”
Which meant, he had to learn how to kiss. Shit. “I see. And uh…in your vast, experienced opinion, madame, do you think I am capable of overcoming my…incapacité?”
A breathy sigh escaped her. “I would need to know more. Inform me of a few things. What happens when you attempt to kiss a woman? Describe it.”
“I panic.” That was an understatement.
“You panic. And do you panic physically? Or mentally? Do you have certain thoughts that prevent you from wanting to kiss a woman?”
“No. Not thoughts. It’s definitely physical. It lends to me panicking and not being able to do it.”
“Describe this panic.”
He widened his stance. “Well…my mouth goes dry and I…I feel as if my skin is crawling as my throat tightens, leaving me unable to breathe. So I withdraw.”
“Have you ever tried to initiate a kiss?”
“No. I have never been able to.”
“Ah. And are you able to use your mouth against other parts of a woman’s body? Can you offer a woman pleasure using your tongue when you lower yourself to her cove of paradise? Or does that cause you to panic, as well?”
That was rather personal. “Uh…” Feeling his face bloom in heat, he winced, knowing he had to answer despite the fact that she was old enough to be his grandmother. “Yes. I am fully capable of using my mouth on…everything else.”
Her arched brows came together. “So you only have trouble with a woman’s mouth, oui?”
“Yes.”
“And how long have you had this problem? Do you know?”
He paused. He had never really thought about it. None of the women he had engaged throughout the years had ever argued with him over why he wasn’t kissing them once they knew he simply refused to do it. Nor did they ever ask. His jaw tightened. The only woman he had ever kissed was…Lady Stanbury. Whenever she visited him for their ‘sessions,’ her tongue had always gone so deep into his mouth and throat, it had always made him gag. “Fourteen,” he admitted. “I have been unable to tolerate a mouth against mine since fourteen. After…an incident.”
She half-nodded, her features softening. “Hughes wrote about what this Lady Stanbury did.” She grew somber. “Forced seduction is like a blade through one’s soul. There is no mercy in it. None.”
It had, indeed, been a blade through everything he was. He tried not to let it be but it always swarmed back. “Knowing what you do, and that I wish to learn to be romantic, how long do you think it will take to cure me of my inability to kiss?”
Madame de Maitenon observed him. “It is a problem you may never resolve.”
Oh now, shit. “Never?” he echoed, leaning forward and toward her. “So after all your talk about kissing being unique to mankind, where does that leave me?”
She tsked. “You are not hopeless. I am merely implying that you must be patient. You may carry this incapacité in your pocket for life. But men often carry far worse. I will do my best to assist you in overcoming what makes you panic. We will also teach you how to balance your thoughts of poom-poom with more romance.”
He lowered his chin. Poom-poom? What the hell was that? Sex?
“Oui,” she offered, as if he had asked aloud. “I meant sex. What else does a man think about when it comes to women?” She sighed. “Being that this situation is unique, and that you are the nephew of the ever glorious Hughes, you and I will be spending additional time together outside of my school when it opens. Two hours every evening, except Sundays, until June. I suggest you ensure your schedule is free.”
He leaned back. He didn’t even want to know how much this was going to cost him. “And how much will it be for the school and these so-called personal sessions?”
She lifted a silvery brow. “How much is your problem worth to you?”
Which meant she was going to be expensive as hell. “Madame. I don’t know what my uncle may or may not have told you in those ten pages of parchment, but I am a gentleman of few means and therefore must plan all of my upcoming expenses. About how much do you think it will cost? I need to arrange my budget accordingly.”
Her mouth quirked. “Worry not about such unimportant details. I do not send creditors after my clients. There are other ways to collect from men. I will get what I w
ant from you once I decide what it is. I simply have not decided what I want.”
This sounded dirty. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I don’t roll the dice that way. I need to know all costs up front or I am not proceeding. Set the price now, please.”
She lowered her chin. “You wish to set it now?”
“Yes. I have been hanged too many times to walk into anything blindly.”
She puckered her lips in consideration before pertly obliging, “I understand. We will set the price now. For you.” She pointed to the chair with a manicured finger. “Empty your pockets and deposit everything there. I will decide on something I want, based upon what you have with you now and all of your lessons will be paid in full until June. Agreed?”
He blinked. “I think you’re being a little too generous.”
“Hopefully you will remember that should I ever need a favor from an aristocratic man who has the ear of many in society. I have a granddaughter whose happiness I wish to oversee, after all.”
Ah. That was how she worked. No wonder his uncle loved this woman. She knew what she was doing. He pointed at her. “As long as this favor doesn’t send me to the gallows or into any beds.”
“No beds. No gallows.” She held up two fingers together and kissed their tips. “Upon my honor as a French woman and as a courtesan.”
He shifted toward her. If his uncle trusted her enough to write ten pages of his own nephew’s life to her, he knew he could trust her, too. “Then I agree. I owe you a favor as a gentleman and will empty my pockets here and now. Though I will warn you, they contain very little.”
She tutted and lowered her hand. “Do not insult yourself so. I am certain that I will be more than pleased with what I find.”
He snorted. “You would be the first.”
Ronan rummaged through each pocket, knowing he was about to showcase just how pathetic he really was. He pulled out a gold pocketwatch and fob, which his uncle had given him on his eighteenth birthday when he came into his title, but which sadly, had ceased ticking when he was in Paris. No clockmaker had been able to fix it. The watch meant more to him than the actual time, which is why he still carried it. Ronan set it on the chair.