Mistress of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  Although Maybelle desperately wanted to peer back at the duke, knowing full well it would be their last encounter, she knew it was best to simply let it be. Their moment, whatever she would define it as, was over.

  She and her grandmother walked up the remaining stairs of the balcony. Maybelle drew strength from the sudden squeeze her grandmother gave her. She set her chin and did her best to remain calm.

  The men on that balcony, both young and old alike, openly gawked at her with unwavering fascination as they passed, while several women leaned in toward each other, whispering behind their elaborate, hand-painted fans.

  Maybelle’s pulse thundered. A strange fluttering seized her stomach as she walked on. Being the center of so much attention, albeit scandalous attention, felt strangely wild and invigorating. As if she’d finally stepped out from a black and white painting she’d been trapped in all these years and into a canvas-free world exploding with color. This is what it was like to feed one’s pleasure and not that of society’s. To be one’s ruler. It was surprisingly provocative and amazing.

  Although thick strands of hair had escaped from her chignon, Maybelle didn’t bother pushing them away from her face. Instead, she proudly marched on in a slow procession, past all the endless faces of the ton, and bit back the smile that threatened to break free. She could only imagine how proud her grandmother was.

  The orchestra’s minuet soon faded and she and her grandmother eventually left the ballroom. At long last.

  Their steady steps on the marble floor echoed all around them as they headed toward the front door. A part of Maybelle was still in shock as to what had happened, although another part of her was thrilled to be shocked.

  “So,” her grandmother whispered excitedly, tightening her hold on her arm. “Was he worth the parade?”

  Although the man hadn’t actually finished, she could well say that it had been worth every damn moment. “I promise to tell you everything later,” she whispered back.

  “Later, later. You will have me wait that long? Absolutely not. I—” Her grandmother paused, her grasp suddenly slipping from hers.

  Maybelle also paused and turned toward her. “Grand-mère?”

  A confused look overtook her grandmother’s pale, oval face as she took in a deep, ragged breath. Her grandmother shakily placed her gloved hand to her heaving bosom as if she were unable to breathe.

  “Grand-mère?” Maybelle heard the panic in her own voice echo all around them. She stepped toward her. “What is it?”

  “I feel…” She staggered back, trying to reach out for her with gloved hands, then collapsed, her slim figure crumpling to the floor with a solid thud.

  Maybelle screamed and threw herself to the floor beside her. No! Not now. Not like this. Blinded by an onslaught of tears, she frantically lifted her grandmother’s head to determine whether she was breathing. She pressed her cheek against her grandmother’s mouth and let out a sob of relief at the heated breath escaping.

  She refused to lose the only person who had ever truly understood her. The only person to give her the sort of freedom she had always sought. The sort of freedom her father never could have understood. It never mattered to her what the world really thought of them. All that had ever mattered was that they had each other. But now…

  Lesson Three

  When one is uncontrollably smitten by an unexpected conquest, one might think it best to simply outrun one’s attraction and in turn avoid complications. Such thinking is pointless and unwise. For even running shall induce heavy breathing.—The School of Gallantry

  Edmund Worthington, the sixth Duke of Rutherford, continued to stare after the two women who had very calmly, very regally departed past the gathering crowd and into the ballroom. Without hysterics. Without a single pointing of the finger. As if absolutely nothing had occurred.

  Which led him to ask, what the hell did just occur?

  One moment he’d gone out for a cigar and a bit of time away from the noise, and the next he’d been tackled and pounced on by a virgin. Mind you, a very well-rounded and ambitious virgin who knew exactly how to frig a man out of his wits.

  Though a part of him wanted to let the whole matter be, another part of him simply couldn’t. And he didn’t know if it was his moral sense of responsibility or his lower half speaking for him. A lower half that still ached and demanded to finish what had been started.

  Edmund roughly adjusted his jacket and gritted his teeth. This was his fault. His fault for letting the situation get out of hand in a very public place. Which is why it was up to him to do the right thing. Whatever that was.

  Pushing his way through the small crowd, which continued to linger, Edmund made his way into the ballroom and headed toward the front of the large hall. Pausing for a moment, he searched for the beautiful blonde and her silver-haired French chaperone. Only they were nowhere to be found. Then again, as crowded as it was, he couldn’t very well spot an elephant. He grimaced.

  “A physician!” A man hurried from person to person. “Is there a physician?”

  Edmund spun toward the man rushing by and grabbed at his arm to halt him altogether. “What is it?”

  The man turned toward him, his round face flushed. “A lady, Your Grace. She…she collapsed. In the entryway. No one is tending to her save one other lady.”

  There was the ton for you. “I’ll see to it immediately.” Edmund released him. “Keep searching for a doctor.”

  “Yes, Your Grace!”

  Never a dull moment in the life of a Rutherford. Edmund hurried out into the corridor, skidding across the freshly waxed floor. He glanced right, then left, trying to find the woman in need and froze as his gaze snapped toward the front entrance of the house. A slim, silver-haired woman lay motionless on the marble floor, her abundant mauve evening gown crumpled all around her.

  The world around him ceased to exist in that single moment when he realized who it was.

  He sucked in a harsh breath.

  His beautiful mistress from the garden wept silently beside her unconscious chaperone, her dirtied cream satin skirts gathering up and around her corseted waist. Long blond curls, which had escaped from her chignon, glistened in the light of the candles, as her dirt-streaked gloved hands fingered her chaperone’s colorless face.

  “Grand-mère,” she whispered pleadingly, smoothing gray hair away from the woman’s forehead. “Wake up. Please. Please.”

  His pulse quickened as he moved toward her. This woman was actually her grandmother? He kneeled beside her. “What happened?”

  Wondrous wet blue eyes snapped up to look at him, suddenly inhibiting his ability to move. He never realized how beautiful a woman’s eyes could be. Even in the throws of sorrow.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, her lips trembling. “I don’t know.”

  “A doctor should be arriving shortly. In the meantime, we shouldn’t leave her here.” He looked up, noting that the footmen still weren’t coming to assist. Where were they? There were always servants loitering the corridors at these functions.

  Edmund shook his head, knowing he’d have to do it. He leaned in toward the elderly woman’s sizable breasts displayed by her low-cut gown and carefully listened, making sure not to touch her. Shallow breaths escaped her. Thank God. “Fortunately, she is still breathing.”

  “So why isn’t she awake?”

  “Let us hope we find out soon enough.” Edmund threw off his evening jacket to free his arms and jerked up his sleeves. “The footmen seem to be on holiday. Stand aside.”

  Slipping his hands beneath the slim frame of the elderly woman, Edmund rolled the limp body toward him, resting her against his chest. He quickly rose, surprised as to how light the woman was considering the mass of her gown alone.

  Lord Hughes rushed toward them, his large belly swinging to and fro, and his eyes wide with horror. “This way! At once! To the drawing room!”

  Edmund followed Lord Hughes down the corrid
or and into what appeared to be a small receiving room. When he reached the rose-colored sofa he’d been directed to, Edmund stooped and gently laid out the unconscious woman.

  Maybelle, who had been trailing behind him, hurried toward her grandmother. She leaned over the woman, her small gloved hands smoothing the woman’s silver hair.

  Edmund cleared his throat, trying not to think about how those same hands had earlier grabbed for him. Had earlier begged for his body.

  And though yes, he was an inconsiderate ass for thinking about it at a time when her grandmother was desperately in need, how could he not think about it?

  It was best he leave. For her sake. She didn’t need to be further tied to his reputation and there was nothing more he could do to help her grandmother. Edmund strode toward Lord Hughes, who silently and worriedly stood holding his gloved hand to the back of his gray, thinning hair. As if it was his own mother.

  Just as Edmund was about to walk past the man and out of the room, he paused, unable to control the searing images of Maybelle that continued to flash through his thoughts. Her moist lips. Her burning warmth. Her smooth thighs. The weight of her full breasts in his hands. All…perfect.

  Bloody hell, he was going to regret it, but he had to at least know her full name. Edmund turned and leaned toward Lord Hughes. “Should anyone inquire, My Lord, who is the lady I assisted?”

  Lord Hughes dropped his hand back to his side and blinked at him with large brown eyes, appearing even more astounded than before. “Why, Your Grace. That is Madame de Maitenon.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “She is the most exquisite courtesan known to France and for the sake of all men, I hope to God the woman survives.”

  Startled, Edmund turned to glance toward the blonde who continued to affectionately touch her grandmother’s pale cheeks. Bugger. The granddaughter of a French courtesan had handed him…him…her virginity. And there was no doubt in his mind that this Maybelle de Maitenon was well on her way to becoming a siren in her own right.

  Edmund cleared his throat and issued Lord Hughes a curt nod. “Thank you, My Lord.” He then strode out of the drawing room, trying to remain as calm as possible.

  Shit. Shit! He only hoped to God his mother wouldn’t get wind of this. The poor woman had been through far too much and this…hell, this could very well kill her.

  Once outside the room, Edmund folded the doors shut behind him and heavily leaned into them, blowing out an exhausted breath. Why? Why did trouble always come in the form of a woman?

  “Edmund? Edmund! What in heaven’s name is going on?”

  Speaking of trouble. Edmund pushed himself away from the doors and turned toward his mother, the Duchess of Rutherford, as she marched toward him.

  Her salt and pepper black hair, which had been set in a mass of heavy curls on each side of her flushed round face, quivered with each determined step she took. She came to a quick halt before him, her drab, bombazine gown swishing into place around her petite and curvy frame. She narrowed her black eyes, yet still said nothing.

  She didn’t need to.

  Edmund cleared his throat. “Allow me to fetch my jacket.” He pointed down the empty corridor. “I left it on the floor.”

  She glanced around, then hissed, “Did you lure some girl out into the garden?”

  He grabbed her arm and hastily led her away before anyone could eavesdrop. “Do we need to discuss this here? Now?”

  “Do you think it matters where we discuss this? Everyone in the ballroom is already gossiping all about your theatrics. Now it is best you tell me what happened. Did you arrange a meeting in the garden? Is that it?”

  He released her and swooped down to pick up his jacket. Jerking it on, he glared at her, angry that she would think the worst, as always. “She and I had a running in, of sorts. I swear it was nothing planned.”

  “An unlikely story.” Her eyes traced his overall appearance in a frown of disapproval. She flicked open the fan that dangled from her wrist and fanned herself. “Edmund, you are thirty years old. A man your age does not crawl about the garden with an unchaperoned girl doing—”

  She reddened and seemed to fight against wincing. “You know what. Do you realize how many people witnessed the two of you emerging from that garden? Half of London, I’d say. And the things being whispered would certainly make an entire ship of sailors blush. Have you heard what is being said?”

  Edmund crossed his arms, noting her flushed features. “No. I was occupied. Her grandmother lost consciousness and needed to be tended to.”

  “Lost consciousness?” She released her fan, letting it dangle once again from her wrist. “Goodness, is she all right?”

  “She’s breathing, if that is what you mean.”

  She shook her head, the gold combs in her hair glinting at him. “The poor woman no doubt suffered a stroke after what you did to her granddaughter.”

  Judging from the older woman’s calm demeanor with regards to his apologies, he somehow doubted that. And in some odd, inexplicable way, he sensed that the woman was rather proud of her granddaughter’s garden liaison.

  His mother glanced about, then drew close. “Come. What happened? You can tell your mother.”

  “Nothing happened,” he growled out. As if he was going to further smear the young woman’s name.

  What was worse, for the life of him he could not deny what he’d felt when their bodies had been pressed together in the darkness and how damn good it was to have her tight, soft warmth surrounding him. No matter how short lived. He could still smell the intoxicating sweetness of mint that had filled the air with each breath he took. He had imagined her to be pretty and was stunned to discover that she was a physical replica of everything he could possibly want in a woman. A replica he did not think could exist.

  Hell. Why was it so unbearably hot? He removed his jacket again, agitated. “Let them talk. People will eventually grow wary and find some other form of gossip.”

  “After the legacy of your father? Unlikely.” She lowered her voice, but her dark eyes became unusually bright as her lips curved into a devious smile. “I suggest we take advantage of this. You need an heir, while the girl will be in desperate need of a husband. Marry her. It is by far the best solution for us all.”

  “Marry her?” He almost choked on the words. If his mother actually knew that Maybelle was the granddaughter of a French courtesan, he had no doubt she’d faint. Then come to and faint again. For she was the most sexually repressed woman in all of London. And as her son, he hated the fact that he knew that.

  Wanting to do anything but look at her, Edmund tugged on his jacket one last time. “We are talking about a misunderstanding, is all. A serious misunderstanding.”

  “Yes. That would certainly explain your missing gloves.” She put a hand beneath the jacket he had just pulled back on and yanked the left side of his embroidered waistcoat away from his body. “You surely won’t be wearing this particular attire again.”

  She released his waistcoat and looked at her hand as if she had soiled her glove. She cleared her throat, and then stared at him. “You didn’t force yourself on her, did you?”

  Edmund smacked the sides of his clothing against his torso. “Is that what you think of me? Christ, I barely finished a cigar when she appeared from the shadows like a she-wolf and demanded satisfaction there and then.”

  Her eyes widened as she huffed out, “Indeed. I’ve heard better stories out of your father.”

  Footsteps interrupted their conversation as several gentlemen, no doubt doctors, threw open the doors to the drawing room where Madame de Maitenon was and rushed inside.

  The duchess paused, glanced about, and lowered her voice. “At least your father tried to be discreet.”

  Edmund glared at her. “Yes, insult me. It’s been so long.”

  “My dear boy, this isn’t about insults. This is about a poor girl’s reputation. Not to mention whatever is left of ours.” She narrowed her gaz
e. “I will not have any more scandals in this family. Do you understand me? You will do what is right by her and you will do what is right by me. We need an heir. And I don’t care if she is the daughter of an Irish sheepherder, you will marry her and that is that.”

  He smirked. “Do be careful of what you ask.”

  “Edmund, she will suffer because of you. And I will not have it. A woman’s reputation is extremely fragile. You of all people should know that.”

  Edmund wearily raked his hand through his hair. Yes, yes. But how was he to protect the reputation of a courtesan’s granddaughter? Duke or not, it was impossible.