Mistress of Pleasure Read online

  She paused in the doorway and was greeted by a very disheveled Hawksford, who quickly caught her arm. Edmund narrowed his gaze. That is why the bastard left the table. To shag. And no doubt he did it before a cheering crowd.

  Hawksford leaned toward Maybelle, plucked her gloves from her bosom, and handed them to her. Edmund’s stomach knotted at the obvious intimacy the two shared. Regardless, no two-timing bloody son of a bitch who’d just left her side to go stick his cock into some woman was going to then try to stick it into Maybelle.

  What shocked him to no end was that Maybelle didn’t seem to mind. At all. She actually took the bastard’s arm and offered him a smile as they disappeared out into the corridor.

  What happened to that whole not wanting to be a demimondaine bit? He refused to believe the two were an item. Hawksford had always agitated her. But then again, so had he. Damn it all.

  Edmund stood, leaned in toward the table, grabbed up his glass of wine, and finished it. Seeing one of the servants walk by with a decanter of wine, he waved the servant over, had another glass poured, and drank that one as well.

  Slamming his glass onto the table, he strode down the length of the table and made his way into the corridor and into the crowded rooms of the townhouse. He kept walking until he paused just off a makeshift dance floor where a lone violinist stood playing the strings of his instrument with only a pair of trousers and boots on.

  Edmund searched for Maybelle and Hawksford.

  And sure enough, there they were.

  Hand in hand. Dancing. And neither one of them was wearing gloves. Hawksford’s skin was touching her skin. As if they did that sort of thing all the time.

  Suddenly, Edmund couldn’t breathe. And though he tried to slow the beating of his heart, he could not seem to gain control over it.

  Maybelle’s beautiful, flushed face appeared in and out of view as she whisked forward and back, her full burgundy gown swaying with each brisk movement. Hawksford watched her intently the whole time. In the sort of way a man watched a woman before he threw her onto his bed. And the ass that he was went as far as stealing kisses from her by bringing her bare hand up to his lips every time their dancing brought them near.

  Although Edmund wanted to murder the bastard there and then, he knew that in some way this whole matter was his own doing. His greed and his lust for her had publicly compromised her to such an extent that it made her appealing to the likes of Hawksford.

  Fisting both hands, Edmund forced himself to turn away, before he gave into his urge to outright storm the dance floor, throttle Hawksford senseless, and announce to all of London that Maybelle was still his. Even if she didn’t want to be.

  Christ. He should have never allowed Caldwell to convince him into coming. Brilliant manner of resolving unfinished business. Idiot.

  Blowing out an exhausted breath, he decided it was best to head to the refreshment room and cool his thoughts. If he was going to survive the remainder of the night without murdering anyone, he had better go off and numb his senses. Or at least damn well try.

  When Maybelle left the dance floor with Hawksford, after a total of seven exhausting dances—which would have had the ton in a fit for months if they had been around to see it—she glanced around the room. Why hadn’t Edmund followed her? She hadn’t seen him in the longest time.

  “I must find him,” Maybelle insisted, yanking Hawksford, who was leading her, to a complete halt. “No more games. I must bring an end to this suffering of mine.” She hated admitting that she was in fact suffering, but there was simply no way around it.

  Hawksford turned toward her and after glancing around pointed at her. “If you and he do not resolve this within the hour, I will have no choice but to get involved. You understand?”

  Maybelle smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I appreciate your enthusiasm. Thank you.” She gathered her silk skirts and weaved her way through people.

  “One hour!” Hawksford called after her.

  “Yes, yes,” she muttered to herself. One would think he had something to gain.

  As she wandered through room after room, past naked bodies and moans galore, none of the faces around her were familiar. Face after face and there was still no sign of him. Then again, there was no sign of the widow either.

  An hour had already passed. And if Hawksford was at all true to his word, he would no doubt get involved. God forbid.

  Maybelle made her way around the house again and prayed Edmund hadn’t left. Prayed she hadn’t lost the opportunity to see him. And explain everything.

  She blew out a breath, exhausted, and made her way into the refreshment room just beyond the gambling room. Drifting over toward one of the serving tables, she paused for a long moment and couldn’t even bring herself to consider what it was she wanted to drink.

  She sighed, wondering if she should simply investigate every bedroom upstairs a bit more thoroughly, then finally said to the server, “Champagne, please.”

  “Not gin?” a deep voice drawled from behind.

  Maybelle froze, recognizing the voice. Edmund? She slowly turned, inwardly yearning to see him, yet dreading that she would have to explain her actions with regards to Hawksford.

  Edmund towered close behind her, a nearly empty snifter of cognac in his right gloved hand. He observed her with unusually heavy and hazy dark eyes. A slow, sloppy grin spread across his handsome face. “So.” He jauntily cocked his dark head to one side. “How are you?”

  She took in a sharp breath. Dear God. Edmund Worthington, the sixth Duke of Rutherford, was as drunk as a sailor heading out to sea.

  Edmund crooked a brow at her, whirling the remnants of his cognac inside the glass snifter. “I never realized Hawksford took your fancy.”

  “He never took my fancy.” Maybelle lowered her chin slightly, still in disbelief, but did not break his gaze. “And you are utterly foxed.”

  “A brilliant observation. And I must confess…I haven’t been this foxed since—” He looked around himself as if looking for someone to tell him, then shrugged. “Hell.” He lifted his glass to her, but didn’t drink from it. “Cheers.”

  Had her act with Hawksford actually led him to such a state? Her heart pounded. Impossible.

  “You are beautiful, by the way. Dressed all in—” He reached out his other hand and fingered the upper sleeve of her gown. He then ran his gloved hand down the length of her bare arm. “Burgundy, is it?” He glanced down into his snifter and murmured, “I rather like burgundy.”

  Sparks skid across Maybelle’s skin where he had touched her. She glanced around. “Your Grace, you should sit.”

  “Nonsense.” He made a face as if she were being absurd and stepped back. He lifted his glass to his lips, but paused and lowered it back again. “I hate partridges. Hate eating them. You know that?”

  Maybelle laughed and looked toward those around them and noticed people were beginning to take interest in their conversation. Fortunately, they were among friends, so to speak. “Your Grace, clearly you are not in any condition to—”

  “Pardon.” He swiveled away and waved over one of the servants who had a decanter of cognac. The servant hurried over, paused, then partly filled his glass with more amber liquid. Edmund tilted the decanter against the man’s will and filled his glass completely to the rim.

  The servant yanked back the decanter before the cognac all poured out and just as quickly departed, shaking his head.

  Edmund swiveled back and lifted the glass to her. “To the most beautiful woman in all of London.” He paused. “In England.” He paused again, reconsidering. “In Europe.” He paused yet again. “No. In this vast world.” He nodded, then tilted his head back and drank the entire contents.

  Maybelle choked. As if he’d poured it down her own throat. He…he thought she was that beautiful? Surely, it was the drink having this discussion with her. Not him.

  “Edmund,” she breathed in concern, reaching out for him.
“How much have you had to drink?”

  “Not enough.” Turning away, he waved back the same servant. The servant hurried over with the decanter again, eyeing her nervously, and refilled it.

  Obviously, this routine of waving down the servant is what had led him to the state he was in.

  Edmund lifted the filled snifter to his lips.

  “I think you have had more than enough, Your Grace.” Maybelle leaned toward him and tried snatching the glass away from his mouth, but he held on to it with brute force.

  “I refuse to let you—” She wrenched the glass away from him, splashing cognac all over the front of her dress. She gurgled out a laugh, and tried to brush off the beads of liquid, but her satin dress had already absorbed it. Yet another gown…ruined. Perhaps she should have taken the damn hundred thousand pounds for all the dresses she’d destroyed while knowing him.

  “Hell.” Edmund stepped forward and leaned toward her, also trying to brush off the cognac with his large hands, although he seemed more intent on brushing whatever had splashed across the rounds of her breasts.

  She smiled down at him, enjoying the tender care he was putting into his efforts even if they were completely misguided.

  The servant came by and gestured frantically toward the snifter she was holding. “No more,” the man mouthed.

  Oh dear. When the servant was complaining, clearly the drinking had to be brought to a stop. Maybelle held the glass out for the servant just as Edmund stepped away. The servant grabbed for the glass and scampered off before he was caught stealing.

  Edmund glanced around, as if realizing something was missing, but couldn’t quite figure it out. He blew out a heavy breath, raked his hands through his dark hair, and then dropped them to his sides. “I saw you dancing with Hawksford. Without gloves.”

  Yes. And it was about time to confess all, even if he wouldn’t remember any of it in the morning. “About that. Understand that it was all a silly, silly game. I didn’t know how else I was supposed to approach you after the horrible things I said. I was rather hoping that perhaps you and I could talk and—”

  “We dance first. Talk later.”

  Maybelle’s heart skipped as Edmund scooped her into his arms and commenced twirling her about the refreshment room, scattering people from their path. He pressed her firmly against him, his body and his sandalwood scent tingling all of her overextended senses. He was leading her to a rather bad version of the waltz.

  “Your Grace!” she insisted, turning her head and trying to focus on their surroundings, which seemed to be growing more crowded with observers. And needless to say, when people at a risqué gathering stared, there was trouble to be had.

  His arm tightened around her as he danced her past a group of men who had paused in their drinking to watch them. Edmund inclined his dark head toward them. “Good evening, gentlemen. This lady here is mine. All mine.”

  Maybelle scrambled to keep up with him, her skirts fumbling around her legs. “Edmund, you’ll regret this come morning!”

  “I certainly hope so.” He then brought them both to a rushed stop, his muscled arms keeping her in place. His face softened as he slowly pulled away. Drawing his left hand from around her waist, he touched her chin. “You left,” he whispered hoarsely. “And I never said it.”

  “Said what?” Her heart pounded wildly at being touched by him again. And with such tenderness. Obviously, he’d forgiven her.

  Edmund paused for a moment, then blurted, “I love you. There.”

  Her eyes widened as she sucked in a harsh breath. Oh dear God. It wasn’t possible. How could he? How could he have fallen in love with her? She blinked several times and stepped outside of his reach. No. This was too soon. Much too soon to be love. What was she supposed to do now? What was she supposed to say?

  He stared her down, strangely looking stunned despite his drunken state. “You’ve nothing to say? At all?”

  She swallowed hard and felt herself actually shaking. He had to be saying it only to get her to give in. Truly. How could a man like him ever love a woman of her birth?

  “Is Rutherford bothering you, Madam?” Hawksford’s deep, timbered voice drawled from beside her.

  Startled, Maybelle turned and glanced up toward Hawksford. To her further shock, Hawksford’s dark brows were set and his hazy green eyes locked on Edmund as if he intended to gut him. And she knew. Hawksford was about as drunk out of his trousers as Edmund was.

  “Everything is lovely. Absolutely lovely. Thank you.” She patted Hawksford on the shoulder and then pointed toward the doorway. “Go. Please.”

  Edmund stepped toward Hawksford. “You heard her. Off with you, boyo.” Reaching out, Edmund ruffled Hawksford’s hair, causing some of his bronze strands to stand up on end. “There’s no shagging to be had here. Sorry.”

  Hawksford smacked Edmund’s hand away and staggered toward him. “Don’t bloody touch me and don’t bloody call me boyo. You know nothing of me.” He pointed at him. “I suggest you go back to school, Rutherford, and learn a bit more about women before trying to overindulge.”

  Edmund stepped toward Hawksford, a dark look now crossing his face. “I suggest you leave and tend to that poor girl you keep locked up in your rooms. Don’t you even feed her? Or are you too occupied with your own needs to remember?”

  Hawksford narrowed his gaze and the color of his shaven face visibly heightened. “Is that a challenge?” he seethed through his teeth.

  Edmund leaned toward him, also narrowing his gaze, and pointed a rigid finger into his chest. “Pistols.”

  Oh, no. This was about to get out of hand. And though she knew absolutely nothing about some starving girl being locked away, it did not bode well for a reasonable resolution.

  Maybelle hurried in between the two and pushed each one away from the other. “Gentlemen, please. Hawksford, enough. What I really need you to do is—”

  Hawksford yanked her out from between them and shoved her behind himself. “I will defend my sister’s honor.”

  Maybelle stumbled back, stunned. His sister’s honor? What in—

  “I’ll have you know,” Hawksford said, spacing his words out evenly as he drew steadily closer to Edmund, “that my sister is dying. So while you damn well go about and publicly insult a dying girl, how about I return the favor? Last night”—Hawksford hit his own chest with a proud, aggressive thud—“I fucked Maybelle. Repeatedly. And she loved it. Said that I was far better equipped than you ever will be.”

  Maybelle’s eyes widened and she didn’t know if she should laugh hysterically or cry from the shame of it all.

  “How about I equip you with a new face!” Edmund snapped up his right hand and smashed his fist into Hawksford’s face, sending Hawksford stumbling back into the waiter who stood by with the decanter.

  Maybelle flinched, covering her eyes with both hands as cognac and shards of glass exploded everywhere. Oh dear God!

  “Hit him again!” some want-wit yelled out from across the room. “Agaaaain!”

  Edmund’s chest heaved as he held his fist steady and clenched in midair, waiting for Hawksford to come at him. Hawksford scrambled up to his booted feet, growled something out, and charged back at Edmund, grabbing him by the throat and delivering a solid blow into Edmund’s side.

  Edmund stumbled back into the crowd behind him, who then playfully tossed him back toward Hawksford.

  “Cease this nonsense! Cease this at once!” Maybelle rushed toward Edmund and Hawksford as they continued to thrash blow after blow at each other’s heads, chins, guts, and God knows what else. “Edmund! Hawksford! Enough!”

  She edged toward them wondering if she should try to get in between them. Then again, seeing how inebriated the two were, she’d probably have one of her breasts torn off. Or both, for that matter.

  Everyone in the refreshment room was cheering and shouting louder and louder until her ears drummed and her head felt like it was about to explode. Edmun
d and Hawksford seemed to draw strength from it, for they continued thwacking each other all the more.

  “Five pounds on Rutherford!” someone yelled out from the other side of the room.

  “Ten on Hawksford!” another countered.

  Oh God, oh God. They were going to murder one another and no one even cared! She frantically looked around wondering what on earth she should do.

  Brayton and Caldwell suddenly appeared, storming past her, their tall solid frames dressed in only shirts, boots, and trousers. Relief flooded her body as both yelled out to the crowd and waved for people to step back.