by Darcy Burke
The man had come. Despite everything.
Ronan slowly grinned, damn relieved knowing it. “Hawksford! There you are! Hell, I thought you weren’t coming.”
Hawksford slid in through the doorway and adjusted his morning coat. He slowly strode toward them.
Everyone rose to their booted feet to acknowledge Hawksford as he approached.
Ronan gestured toward Lord Banfield. “This here is Banfield. He and I have become rather quick friends.”
Banfield once again swiped away a long strand of hair from the side of his face, forcing it back into its place and smiled, extending a prompt hand by stepping around his chair and toward him.
Hawksford shook the man’s hand. “Hawksford. How do you do?”
Banfield retrieved his hand and stepped back, amused. “With you here, I suppose I shouldn’t feel quite the dolt.”
Ronan bit back a ruffled smile. It appeared Hawksford’s reputation was well known amongst women and men.
Hawksford let out a less than enthused laugh and turned his attention to Brayton.
Brayton solemnly held out a scarred hand to Hawksford. “Brayton. How do you do?”
Hawksford accepted that grip. “Well enough. Thank you.” Hawksford searched Brayton’s facial scar. “If you don’t mind my saying, that’s a rather wicked scar you have there.”
Ronan cringed in disbelief that Hawksford would be rude enough to mention it.
Brayton gave a curt nod, averting his gaze, and took back his hand. “I’ve learned to never trust a woman with my knife.”
Ronan’s brows shot up. A woman did that to his face? With a knife? Jesus. He glanced toward Banfield who glanced at him.
Hawksford let out a well-amused laugh.
Ronan glared at Hawksford. Why the hell was he laughing? That wasn’t funny.
With a lopsided grin, Hawksford leaned in and quipped to Brayton, “Fortunately for you, she stayed above the waist.”
Ronan almost smacked a hand against his own head. Hawksford needed more than basic etiquette lessons. The man needed a better sense of humor.
Brayton fixedly stared Hawksford down for a weighty moment, clearly not amused, before turning away and taking his seat, extending his legs.
Hawksford’s grin faded. Clearing his throat, he eyed Ronan as if to silently ask what the man was about.
Caldwell grudgingly shrugged, not knowing what to say in response to Hawksford’s stupidity.
“Bonjour, everyone!” a familiar female voice chimed in a sultry French-accented voice. “Might we begin?”
It was happening. It was time. Ronan turned to Madame de Maitenon and paused.
Primly dressed, she wore a pale pink printed muslin gown with puffed sleeves. Despite her elegant and matron-like appearance, her pale hand held a tightly coiled, black leather horsewhip.
Ronan sure as hell didn’t want to know why she was holding it. But given how well he had come to know the woman through their private sessions, he knew that whip was going to be part of their lesson.
Madame breezed across the room, wafting a soft scent of mint in their direction, and paused beside the red velvet chair set before the small writing desk. Her blue eyes scanned all of their faces as her full lips curved into a playful smile. She set the whip onto the desk and gracefully seated herself with a self-assured sigh.
She gestured toward their chairs. “Be seated. I am very pleased you are all here.”
Ronan sat in the chair and shifted in his seat, wondering if he was the only male in the room uncomfortable with the idea of an older woman toting a horsewhip.
“I am Madame de Maitenon,” she announced regally, scanning their faces. “By the end of this Season, I expect to see notable results from all of you. Results that will be evident in the lives you are leading. And though I would be most honored to have all of you reenroll with each Season, I have organized the lesson plans in a way that requires you to attend only one Season’s worth of classes.”
She laced her fingers on the desk before her, her hands unnervingly close to the whip as if she meant to snatch it up at any moment. “Though you are all here due to various reasons that shall for the most part remain undisclosed, in accordance with some of your wishes, I can assure you, each will equally benefit.” Madame de Maitenon stood, pushing back her chair and snatched up the whip. With a snap of her wrist, the braided leather horsewhip uncoiled and thudded against the wooden floorboards.
Ronan inwardly withered to a prune watching her slender fingers tighten around the handle of that whip. He had tried the art of flagellation once. Once. When he was twenty. It hadn’t gone well.
“For some—” Madame de Maitenon strolled around her desk, the whip dragging behind her morning gown. She headed toward them. “Pleasure knows no bounds. It is a way of life they weave not only into their own daily lives, but the lives of others. They are what I would call, the gifted few.” She paused directly before Hawksford and intently stared the man down. “You are all here because you have come to the profound realization that you are not those men. Your pleasures have turned into a form of punishment. And it has caused you to do things you normally would not do.”
Hawksford leaned forward in his seat and pompously drawled, “Such as?”
She swung the whip aggressively toward his leg, missing it by a mere inch in reprimand for his pompous nonchalance. “Such as enrolling in my school.”
Ronan almost bit his hand.
Hawksford glanced down at the tasseled edge of the braided whip that now tamely rested beside his boot and smirked. “I assure you, Madame, it will take more than the crack of a whip to educate a man on the topic of pleasure.”
That was the wrong thing to say to a woman with a whip.
Madame tugged the end of the whip back toward her and wound the whip into a circular coil around her hand, her gaze never once leaving Hawksford’s. “So true. So true.” With that, she held out the whip. “Take it, Lord Hawksford. You have earned the lead in my first lesson.”
Oh, God. This was it.
Hawksford grinned as if he were back at Eton ready to recite poetry and rose, taking the whip into his right hand. Theatrically stepping back, Hawksford released its length, allowing the end to thud to the floor and gestured tauntingly toward the whip. “So I take it length does matter?”
Ronan burst into laughter at the unexpected quip that took him back to their days at Eton. Banfield chuckled behind a hand, while Brayton remained his grave, stoic self.
Madame de Maitenon turned and clapped her hands toward Ronan and Banfield in reprimand.
Ronan cleared his throat and winced. He ought to be taking this seriously.
Madame pointed at Hawksford. “Now. Extend the whip in Lord Caldwell’s direction.”
Ronan froze and gripped the arms of his chair so hard he thought the leather would burst beneath his grip. Something told him he was officially today’s lesson. He was more than fine with it, and had actually given the woman permission to unfold the truth to Hawksford whenever and however she saw fit, but he hadn’t really imagined a whip being brought into the conversation before two men he didn’t know.
Hawksford shifted from boot to boot, the leather whip still in his right hand, and feigned a laugh. “You want me to whip the man? What for?”
Jesus Christ. This wasn’t actually the woman’s plan, was it? Ronan scrambled to his feet. “Madame. This is not what I had in mind.”
She snapped up a hand and pointed in reprimand at Ronan. “Sit. You came to me for help, and I intend to give it.”
Aw, hell. Ronan flopped back down into his chair.
Hawksford glanced at him.
All of his lies to ensure Caroline’s honor were about to die a sorry death by leather.
Madame coolly announced, “You are all here to learn. And learn you shall. Though first, I will require respect. My experience outweighs all of yours by almost two decades. I have bedded well over one hundred men, all of them privileged such as yourselves.”
Hawksford leaned in and added, “You’ve also bedded a few women from what I hear.”
Ronan blinked again. That was new. He’d never thought her to be the sort.
Madame de Maitenon waved Hawksford off with a hand, jangling the ruby bracelets on her wrists. “Oui. And all of them were far more knowledgeable about my needs than most men. For the art of pleasure involves more than just that stick between your legs. Most women’s delicate little pearls cannot even be reached by those sticks, no matter how long or how large. Which leaves a woman quite wanting.”
Ronan set a fist against his mouth.
“And your point, Madame?” Hawksford asked.
She smiled. “My experience is what will eventually lead you all to a form of enlightenment. A means of not only seeing to your own pleasure but, more importantly, to that of your lady. Now. What is about to happen here today shall not be breathed or whispered of outside of this school. I pride myself on giving privacy and ask that you in turn give privacy to those around you. Is that understood?”
There was a moment of silence, then a unanimous “Yes” by everyone in the room.
“Let us begin.” Madame de Maitenon turned toward Hawksford and arched a silver brow. “Extend the whip toward Lord Caldwell. Though try to keep it above the waist.”
Ronan bit into his one knuckle, trying desperately to make sense of what Madame was doing and why.
Hawksford paused, the room growing awkwardly silent and pointed to the whip in hand. “I really don’t see what this has to do with pleasuring a woman.”
Madame de Maitenon sighed, then swept a hand toward Ronan. “Is that a woman, Lord Hawksford?”
Oh, God.
Hawksford laughed. “Uh...no. I hope not. Though he did mention having a secret.”
Oh, God.
“I am attempting to demonstrate the power a man holds whenever interacting with others. “ Madame paused. “What sort of man are you, Lord Hawksford? Can a man or a woman trust you to remain calm when a dire situation arises? Even though you hold a whip in your hand?”
The woman’s philosophies by example were going to get him killed.
Hawksford’s gaze flicked over to Madame. “I know myself well enough to say that I would never whip anyone. No matter how dire the situation.”
“Let us hope so.” She glanced toward Ronan expectantly.
Ronan could feel his pulse thundering. This was it. No more secrets. No more lies.
Hawksford met his gaze from across the short distance of the room, and assured him in a low tone, “Whatever you have to say, Caldwell, I vow to remain calm.”
He doubted the man would remain calm with that whip in hand. Ronan rose and with a breath that felt like he’d been holding it in since the night it had happened, he announced, “I deflowered Caroline and I hope that in time you’ll forgive me.” There. He said it.
Banfield and Brayton both scooted their seats away from Ronan’s own chair.
Ronan widened his stance, more than ready for it.
Hawksford’s green eyes flared as he rigidly stood before him in pulsing silence. He slowly edged back the whip in his clutching, white-knuckled hand and eventually seethed out between clenched teeth, “You did what?”
Ronan winced, already feeling that whip. “I bedded Caroline,” he tonelessly admitted, in case the first time wasn’t quite as well understood. Knowing he had to say it, he added, “I did not know it was her, Hawksford.”
Those eyes widened. “What the devil do you mean you didn’t know?” the man roared, raising the whip higher, ready to use it to its full extent.
Brayton jumped up from his seat and stalked toward Hawksford as if ready to defend Ronan from said whip.
It was humiliating having another man try to defend him. But not as humiliating as knowing he had betrayed Hawksford in so many ways.
Seeing Brayton approach, Hawksford rigidly tossed the whip to his feet as if announcing he wasn’t interested in a brawl. He glanced toward everyone in the room and said unevenly, “I need a moment alone with him.”
Ronan dragged in a breath, ready for it.
“Non,” Madame tossed out. “We stay.”
Ronan swallowed. He had learned to trust Madame and what she thought was best. And if she thought this needed to still be played before this small, quiet group, so be it.
Hawksford swung toward Madame and savagely bit out, “My life is not a theatrical you can pay admission for.”
Ronan swiped a hand over his face, trying to stay calm. He felt like punching himself knowing what the man was probably thinking and feeling.
Madame half-nodded in response to that anger. “Oui.” She stared at Hawksford. “But you are very angry right now. And as such cannot be trusted to do the right thing. Which is why we will all stay to help.”
Ronan swallowed finally knowing why she had insisted on unveiling the truth to Hawksford in this manner. To keep it from getting physical or turning it into a duel.
Madame snapped her fingers at Brayton who stood off to the side, lingering. “Pick up the whip. He cannot be trusted.”
Brayton strode toward Hawksford, following the command. As he leaned over to pick up the whip, Hawksford smashed his boot down onto it, and ground out, “It stays. Now move away.”
Ronan inwardly blanched. One didn’t tell a man with scars all over his hands and face to move away.
Brayton peered up at Hawksford from over the wide shoulder of his morning coat. The jagged scar that ran from his ear to the bottom front of his jaw appeared eerily more pronounced. Without changing his bent position, Brayton swept a muscled arm out and cracked the backside of Hawksford’s right knee.
Ronan winced as Hawksford stumbled backward.
Brayton effortlessly grabbed the whip up from the floor and rose to his full height of over six feet. “Take a breath, Hawksford,” he said in a low tone.
It was good to know these men were for him, not against him.
Madame had assured him that they could be trusted.
Stepping toward Brayton, Hawksford met the man’s height and gaze and snapped a fist back. He rigidly held it in the air beside his own head and said between teeth, “You take a breath, you tosspot! What if this was your sister?”
Brayton merely quirked a dark brow at Hawksford, casually winding the whip several times around his scarred hand. “I don’t have a sister,” he chided in a gruff tone of warning. “Now as I said before, take a breath. The rage will pass. In time.” Brayton turned and left Hawksford’s fist to hang in the air as he strode back to his seat.
It was obvious Brayton was not a man who could easily be daunted.
Hawksford lowered his hand to his side, his features tightening.
“Merci,” Madame called out to Brayton. “I knew your skills would prove useful.”
Ronan jerked his gaze over to Brayton. Skills?
The room fell completely silent.
Hawksford slowly turned to face Ronan and coolly and calmly said, “You told me that you had involved yourself with an American.”
Ah. Yes. That. It was the same thing he had told Lady Chartwell during his application process when he couldn’t come up with anything. He had read about some wild American female in trousers causing an uproar and needless to say, he had tried to keep his ‘story’ interesting and consistent. “I lied.” Ronan paused, then added, “Obviously. But I did mean it when I said I was having trouble accepting her heritage.” Given that they were about to be related because of it. It was enough to send him into a panic.
Still lethally staring, Hawksford said between ragged breaths, “Jesus Christ, Caldwell, what the hell were you thinking? Caroline is intelligent and—and sweet...and you are...anything but! How could you even think to—I—”
Ronan raked his hands through his hair in a desperate effort to remain calm. “Upon my life, Hawksford, if I had known I...I wouldn’t have.” Which was true. At the time. He dropped his han
ds, sending unruly hair down across his forehead. “You know I wouldn’t have.”
Hawksford stared him down, his features tense and unforgiving. “And yet you did.”
Ronan felt the room sway and buckle. He tried to stay focused. Swiping a hand over his face, he started pacing, knowing there was no way to even to explain the extent of the mess and how it all came to be. His thoughts and his words were drowning. “Yes. I did. Hawksford. I wanted to tell you the moment it happened. But how does one go about telling one’s childhood friend that he compromised his nineteen-year-old sister at the peak of her first Season?” Or that he had enjoyed it and thought about it every night since? Or that his sister didn’t want him to know?
Hawksford stalked toward him. “When were you alone with her? Did you scale up through the window and into my house? Is that it? Did you cause that diversion with Lady Waverly so that you could run yourself over into Caroline’s bedchamber and have your way with her? Is that it?”
Oh, now, for God’s sake. “No, of course not! Hell, I—” As if he were going to discuss his mother and everything else. Ronan glanced toward the others in the room, then back at him. “I think we’ve said more than enough before this crowd. Don’t you?”
“Oh, flog yourself already!” Hawksford waved toward all of them. “Do you think it matters what we say before them? It isn’t any damn worse than what you’ve already done! I want an answer, and I want it now. When were the two of you alone? When?”
Ronan hissed out a breath. “At the champagne party your mother hosted with my uncle.”
Hawksford’s eyes widened. “What?”
Everything began to blur, including his words. He rambled to say what he could. “My blindfold went on, as customary.” Ronan clasped a hand to the back of his neck, digging his fingers into the skin beneath his collar. “Hell, you know what it involves, that’s when you and all those women—” Noting the look on Hawksford’s face, Ronan cleared his throat, and dropped his hand back to his side. God save him, he knew too much about the man. “Anyway, your sister claimed me, led me into a room, and I initiated physical contact. Without knowing it was her. The thing is, she knew damn well who I was. So we...you know...and then I upset her because...well, never mind that. And that’s when I stripped off the blindfold and...hell. You know?” Jesus. That made no sense whatsoever.