Mistress of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  Edmund made his way to the end of the corridor and eventually paused in the walnut arched doorway of the receiving room, the noise and chaos drumming against his ears.

  He froze and stared wordlessly at what was going on. In the middle of the crowded parlor, Maybelle struggled to uphold what appeared to be a very drunk Hawksford. Her blond pinned curls had come undone and were coiling down to the side of her waist, waving back and forth as she desperately tried to balance herself and Hawksford.

  Although the unfamiliar faces around them appeared to be laughing at the whole matter, Maybelle looked quite distraught, her limbs shaking.

  What the devil was going on?

  He strode toward her, only now realizing Hawksford was unconscious. Edmund quickly grasped the man’s heavy arms and transferred his weight onto his own.

  Maybelle released her grip and gasped, staggering back. “Oh thank God. Thank you! I thought I was going to have to drop him on his head.”

  “What happened?” Edmund yanked up Hawksford’s body higher. The man’s bronzed head rolled forward sloppily.

  “One moment he was asking me an absurd question,” Maybelle confessed, the astonishment as clear in her voice as it was on her face, “and the following moment, I was breaking his fall.”

  Edmund shook his head. “Consider yourself fortunate. I might as well take the bastard home. He is done for the night. As am I.”

  He shifted Hawksford into a better position, stooped, and draped him up onto his shoulder. He stood and turned about, making certain not to swing Hawksford’s long limbs out at anyone.

  Maybelle hurried after him. “I should go with you. To ensure that he arrives home. He is, after all, my student.”

  Edmund didn’t want to think about what that did or did not mean. “Wave down my brougham. It should be outside.”

  “Of course.” Maybelle hurried around them and disappeared.

  Edmund carried Lord Hawksford out into the foyer and through the open door, out into the misty night. “You owe me, Hawksford,” Edmund grumbled as he held the limp-limbed man in place. He made his way down the stairs of Caldwell’s house and out onto the street.

  Maybelle waved down the driver, who had already pulled the horses to a halt. The footman jumped down from the brougham to help. The footman opened the carriage door, and together, they hoisted Hawksford in and rolled him onto the seat, pushing him as far over as possible.

  The footman adjusted his livery, then quickly scrambled back to his post at the back of the brougham.

  Edmund leaned against the open door of the carriage and called out Hawksford’s address to the driver. Delivering Hawksford first would ensure that he and Maybelle had more time together. He blew out a breath and stepped back down from the brougham.

  “You are a good man when you choose to be, Edmund,” a soft voice said from behind him.

  Startled, he turned and looked down at Maybelle. Her beautiful blue eyes peered up at him, appearing gray in the gas-lit streets of London. God, how he wished she would look at him like that more often—with genuine tenderness. It was something he’d never seen on her face before. And he rather liked it.

  “From time to time I surprise myself.” He put out his hand and helped her up into the carriage.

  Her skirts brushed past him as she stepped inside.

  She seated herself opposite Hawksford and arranged her skirts into place to make room for him. When she had settled in, Edmund slammed the door of the carriage shut and took his place beside her.

  Her skirts accidentally brushed against the side of his ungloved fingers. Edmund stared ahead at nowhere in particular and secretly fingered the satin material of her gown, remembering how she had allowed him to pull up her skirts that one night in the study and explore her core, her softness.

  God, how he wanted her that way again. Completely.

  He swallowed, slowly drew his hand away, and set it on his knee. It was foolish to think of her in any way knowing that everything she’d said earlier was true. They were of two separate worlds. She was a wild spirit who thrived on independence. While he thrived on maintaining control and trying to balance the responsibility of being a duke.

  When the brougham pulled away and the horse’s hooves clattered against the cobblestones, Edmund finally looked over at her.

  She was leaning slightly forward, as far forward as her corset would allow, staring at Hawksford, who lay across from them, unconscious. She sighed heavily. “There are some things you cannot give advice for. Poor Hawksford.”

  Edmund shrugged. “Ah, he appears to have had a productive night.”

  Maybelle stifled a laugh with her gloved hand and shifted toward him. “Can you imagine?” She shook her head, more long, blond curls dropping loose. “Men were actually placing wagers as to how many drinks Hawksford could ingest before he collapsed. I arrived just when he had reached his limit of twenty.”

  Edmund laughed. Not just at the story, but at the way she said it. The way she always said things. With amazing zest and humor. So unlike the stuffy ways of the ton.

  Maybelle’s laugh eventually faded. She smiled as she tilted her blond head slightly. “You should laugh more often, Your Grace. It suits you beautifully.”

  “Thank you.” Edmund cleared his throat and couldn’t help but return her smile. In that single fleeting moment, he actually wished nothing divided them. Not their status, not their past, not the present, and not the future.

  Her full lips, although still spread into a smile, slightly parted, as if she wanted to say something more.

  He glanced at her mouth, and without thinking, leaned forward, reached out, and touched her lips with his thumb. As his thumb brushed across her soft, bottom lip, she stiffened.

  “Kiss me,” he whispered.

  Her heated breath was now coming in short takes against his finger and she seemed to struggle with the idea of giving him something so simple.

  “Kiss me,” he repeated, urgency tinting his voice.

  She glanced toward Hawksford and then back at him, her wide eyes stating the obvious.

  “Where is your sense of adventure, headmistress?” he teased, dragging his hand away from her lips and cupping the back of her exposed soft neck. He leaned in and softly kissed her lips.

  He pulled away, though not completely. “Again?”

  She didn’t respond, only kept her eyes half closed.

  Edmund grabbed her waist with his other hand, digging his fingers into her corset beneath, and forced her lips apart. Her wet tongue was tinted with the bitterness of gin, but he felt as if he were tasting honey. He rolled his tongue inside her mouth, wanting to explore every bit of it.

  His cock throbbed and once again he was lost in wanting her and only her. His cock sprung hard against his trousers, wanting to feel her wetness around its shaft again. Like that night in the garden.

  The carriage suddenly rolled to a stop and his world of wonderful, hard bliss came to an abrupt end. She pushed at him, managing to break free, and took in several deep breaths.

  No relief. As always. Edmund cleared his throat and adjusted the front of his snug trousers. He blew out a breath, looking over at Hawksford, who still lay in drunken slumber. Ignorance truly was bliss.

  The door of the carriage opened and the steps were quickly unfolded.

  “Pardon me,” he murmured to Maybelle. “This should only take a moment.” He leaned forward and yanked Hawksford into a sitting position. Pulling him onto his shoulder, Edmund stood and made his way out of the carriage.

  Striding up the stairs of Hawksford’s townhouse, he used his foot to bang on the door, hoping the servants were still awake. After a few moments, the door cracked open and the butler peered out.

  “You may want to set a large pail beside him in the morning,” Edmund commented to the man, gesturing toward Hawksford.

  The man’s beady eyes widened as he yanked the door wide open. “His lordship prefers the sofa when he is
at his worst.” He gestured toward the drawing room.

  Clearly not the first time. And most likely not the last. Edmund strode toward the sofa and dumped Hawksford onto it. He smirked down at him. “Enjoy your morning, Hawksford.”

  Edmund made his way out, pulled the front door open, and paused within the darkened corridor, feeling as though someone was watching him. He slowly turned and glanced up at the darkened staircase leading to the second floor of the townhouse.

  A brown-haired girl, of about fifteen or so, stood perfectly still atop the stairs, bundled from shoulder to feet in an exuberant amount of white linens. The sparse candlelight from the wall sconces cast long, flickering shadows across her pretty, but pale, thin face. Her silent and vacant expression was quite haunting. Almost…disturbing. She didn’t even seem to blink.

  Edmund was so moved to pity by her presence, he could not even force himself to move. From what he knew from the clubs he frequented, Hawksford was the only male in a brood of six. And this girl could have very well been part of that sisterly brood everyone always poked fun of. Though, oddly, he hadn’t heard of any of them being ill.

  The girl suddenly turned and stumbled away to wherever it was she came from, altogether disappearing from sight.

  Edmund swallowed and continued to stand in the open doorway, though God knows for what reason. When silence still hummed, and the girl did not reappear, he stepped out and quietly closed the door behind him.

  It was not his business or his right to know what went on in Hawksford’s life. He shouldn’t have been loitering about in the man’s home. Which is why it was best he simply leave this matter be and forget what he’d seen. Out of respect for the entire household.

  Calling out Maybelle’s address to the driver, Edmund climbed back into the brougham and decided it was best to sit across from her. He was in no mood to further battle his emotions or his physical needs. He was far too exhausted. He needed sleep.

  They rode in silence the whole while. Which was quite a long while. Edmund blankly stared out through the small window at the foggy, gas-lit streets that rolled by.

  Eventually, the carriage came to a halt.

  Edmund rose, stepped out, and held out his hand toward Maybelle. “I will escort you to the door.”

  She silently took his hand, her warmth overtaking his hand, and he guided her down the steps. The street was eerily quiet and the fog hovered, as if holding the silence.

  Together they made their way up the stairs to her townhouse. The door unexpectedly opened and the balding butler, dressed in full livery, pulled the door all the way open and stepped off to the side waiting for Maybelle.

  The butler bowed from his place at the door just inside the foyer. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  Edmund suspected the entire household knew not only who he was but what he was after. No doubt they all thought his antics to be amusing.

  Not wanting to linger, for he just might convince himself to hide somewhere in the house and sneak into Maybelle’s bedroom when all had gone quiet, he inclined his head in a quick good-bye. He turned and made his way down the steps.

  “Edmund?” Maybelle called after him.

  He paused and turned back to her. The light that flooded the steps from the open door of the townhouse illuminated her in a soft yellow glow, highlighting all her blond, loose curls.

  Her full lips curved into an unexpected smile as their eyes met. “Tomorrow,” she whispered. “After the lesson.”

  Edmund’s breath hitched in his throat. All he could manage was a slight nod. He then turned and quickly walked away before she or any other circumstance changed their set date.

  He wanted to believe that she had actually conceded because she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. And not because she was hoping to finally be rid of him or collect her one hundred thousand pounds.

  Either way, he had every intention of making it an affair they would both remember long after they returned to the lives that they truly belonged to.

  Lesson Fifteen

  Remember. The timing of your seduction is everything.—The School of Gallantry

  The next morning, 11 Berwick Street

  Maybelle clutched her beaded reticule and quickly made her way up the red-runner stairs with Harold in tow, shaking the staircase as always. All she could damn well think about was Edmund. And what would happen between them today. By the dark, almost disturbed look on his face when she had conceded last night, she sensed nothing would be the same. And it bothered her not knowing what that meant. Yet she was more than ready to finish what had been started between them. So they could both finally move on.

  Maybelle paused for a moment at the top of the landing and, without waiting for Harold, made her way into the bedroom, where she could hear low, almost urgent voices.

  Upon entering the red velvet room, only three men rose to greet her. Caldwell, Banfield, and Brayton. Maybelle stiffened at finding two of the five wing-backed chairs empty. Hawksford’s and Edmund’s.

  “Hawksford is still in his cups,” Caldwell quickly provided. The blond stubble on his face as well as his crooked cravat indicated that Caldwell himself had trouble this morning.

  Maybelle smiled tightly. “And His Grace?”

  Caldwell glanced toward the two others, who in turn shrugged. Caldwell also shrugged.

  Edmund was no doubt sleeping in, getting ready for the long night ahead. Maybelle let out a shaky breath at the very thought and moved to the middle of the room. What was she thinking?

  Setting her reticule onto her small letter-writing desk, she turned toward them and tried to pretend she was not at all affected by her thoughts. “We shall proceed without them. Lord Caldwell, you may begin first. What is your gift and how will you present it to your lover?”

  She quirked a brow at him, waiting for his presentation.

  Caldwell reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew a flat small package wrapped perfectly in beautiful white lace. He strode toward her, paused, took her right hand setting her palm up, and gently set it on her hand, his brown eyes never once leaving hers. He then brought her other hand and set it atop the lace wrapping.

  Although every movement was refined and seductive, Maybelle couldn’t help but compare Caldwell to Edmund. She swallowed, glanced at the gift, and proceeded to unwrap the lace from around it.

  She paused when the lace slipped from a worn, brown leather binding of a book whose gold lettering had long faded. Voltaire. She smiled and smoothed her gloved hand across its surface. “Impressive. You paid attention in class yesterday, Lord Caldwell, when I quoted Voltaire. Being perceptive will certainly endear you to the woman you are looking to impress.”

  He leaned toward her and tapped on the book. “Open it.”

  “Open it?” Maybelle opened the book and to her surprise found a faded scrawl across the yellowing, delicate parchment. Her eyes widened. Voltaire had actually written something on it.

  She glanced up at Caldwell. “Where did you get this?” she couldn’t help but demand.

  He grinned. “It is yours, Madam.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly, I—”

  He held up a hand. “Consider it a small token for seeing to Hawksford last night. We all had other far more pressing matters.”

  Maybelle laughed and shook her head. “On that basis alone, I will gladly accept it.” She closed the book gently, kissed its binding, then turned and laid it on the writing desk behind her. “Thank you, My Lord. You did beautifully.”

  Caldwell bowed, then returned to his chair and sat.

  That was certainly unexpected. Maybelle met Banfield’s gaze and smiled. “My Lord?”

  Banfield nodded, strode toward her, and upon pausing before her, withdrew a small gold carved box. He leaned toward her and holding it up for her to see flicked open the lid. On a small white satin pillow laid blue lapis lazuli stone carved into what appeared to be an Egyptian scarab.

  Her mou
th fell open but she quickly shut it. “A scarab. From Egypt.”

  Banfield smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkling seductively. “You like it? Someone told me you would.”

  Her grandmother? That woman knew no bounds. Maybelle reached out a gloved hand and ran the tip of it along the edges of the small smooth stone. “It is absolutely beautiful.”

  “And it is now yours.”

  Maybelle took it from him and slowly closed the lid. Why did she feel as if these men knew her so intimately? This was only their second class. They must have done some serious homework. “Always play into the interests of a woman’s heart. It will endear you to her.”