Mistress of Pleasure Read online

  Brayton swooped in and grabbed hold of Edmund, locking Edmund’s neck in a tight arm brace. Brayton dragged him back and away from Hawksford. Caldwell did the same to Hawksford, although Hawksford kept trying to slip down and out.

  Edmund thrashed and struggled violently against Brayton, his chest pumping up and down.

  Hawksford also struggled as bright red blood poured out of his nose in a torrent, dripping down his lips and chin, quickly soaking Caldwell’s white shirtsleeve. Hawksford gagged as if struggling to breathe.

  Maybelle’s heart stopped. “Hawksford!” She scrambled toward him, blindly yanking off one of her gloves. “Caldwell, release him! He’ll choke!”

  Caldwell immediately did so, sending Hawksford stumbling toward her.

  Maybelle grabbed hold of Hawksford’s staggering body and tried to steady him. “You are a damn fribble, to be sure,” she snapped, trying to place her glove against his nose. “Was that necessary?”

  Hawksford yanked the glove out of her hand and tended to himself. “Forgive me,” he muttered, still staggering. “I am quite not myself.”

  Who knew she would actually grow to like Hawksford despite his devious shortcomings? “You are quite forgiven. Now go home. Rest.”

  Maybelle turned back to Edmund, and sighed, ready to take on the last challenge of the night. Brayton had already released Edmund. Only instead of Edmund staring Hawksford down with murderous intent, he was now staring her down with murderous intent.

  “Edmund.” She rushed toward him, knowing there was so much to explain. She should have never even tried to play games in order to push her way back into his life. “I am to blame here. Entirely. I was searching for an excuse to find my way back into your life after everything I had said. Edmund. I have decided I can relinquish some of my independence if it means we’ll be together. I can settle upon being your mistress and that way—”

  “No,” Edmund coolly said, raising a hand. He sounded strangely sober. “I refuse to settle on anything less than marriage and seeing that that is not something you want, and that you have already taken another man into your bed, there is absolutely nothing left to discuss. Good-bye.” He then turned and shoved his way through all the people who had gathered around.

  Maybelle stared after Edmund in disbelief as shock overtook her faint body. She struggled not to altogether collapse. No. He couldn’t leave her. Not now. Not like this. She choked at the thought of never seeing him again. Especially because she finally knew she wanted him. Wanted him more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life.

  Clearly, it was time to take off the damn thimble and face the fact that she was in love with the Duke of Rutherford. Or she would live with the regret of never knowing if it was possible for their happiness to exist.

  Maybelle clenched her fists at her sides and squeezed her eyes shut, preparing herself for the big fall. “All right, Rutherford!” she yelled at the top of her lungs over the incessant noise of the crowd. “I’ll marry you if that is what you bloody want! But I refuse to live in a separate townhouse! And you damn well better wish to see me for more reasons than the procurement of an heir!”

  Laughter rumbled out from the noisy crowd.

  Maybelle cringed and waited with her eyes still closed, her fists still clenched. Still nothing. He was no doubt in about as much shock as she was. Dread pooled in her stomach, and slowly she opened her eyes wondering if she could face Edmund’s reaction.

  Only Edmund wasn’t in the crowd anymore.

  He was…gone.

  Tightness clenched her throat and she fought the burning sting that overwhelmed her eyes. She searched all the unfamiliar faces. Didn’t he hear? Or had he decided to finally walk away? Decided he had finally had enough of her indecision and uncertainty?

  “I think he missed all that,” Brayton offered, coming up beside her. He crossed his arms over his chest, blew out a breath, and peered down at her. “But then again, the man was so far in his cups, I doubt it would have mattered. Give him a day or two. Until his head comes out from between his knees.”

  Indeed. Well, as grandmother always liked to say, “Where there is a will to conquer a man, there is most certainly a way to conquer a man.” The trouble was, her grandmother had never really elaborated much further on the matter. And so, she would have to elaborate on her own.

  Lesson Twenty-One

  Considering the amount of suffering love bestows upon the minions, it never ceases to astound me why love is still permitted to exist.—The School of Gallantry

  Morning

  Edmund knew not where he was. All he knew is that he was in a parlor that wasn’t his sprawled on a chair that wasn’t his either.

  He blinked, bringing on a relentless stabbing pain to the left side of his skull. He hissed out a breath. That’s when a horrid, gut-wrenching nausea threatened to turn his insides out. He tensed, his sore fingers digging into the leather armrests, and waited for it all to come out. Only nothing did.

  “Oh look.” His mother swept into the room still wearing her green robe. Her hair was bundled up beneath a white silk nightcap, indicating that it was in fact quite early. “The savage has emerged from his deep slumber.”

  “Mother?” he hoarsely whispered through parched lips. “What am I doing here?”

  She rolled her eyes and stopped before him, setting her hands on her hips. “You were pounding on the door last night and nearly woke up all the neighbors. I had to take you in before Scotland Yard did.”

  There went the last bit of whatever respectability he thought he ever had. And what was worse, he had nothing to show for it. Nothing but a vise-wrenching headache.

  His mother pointed toward the center of the room. The chairs, side tables, and the settee had all been pushed aside, showing the expanse of the barren wood floor beneath. “You ruined my Persian carpet last night. Utterly ruined it. Soaked it to the floor with a week’s worth of supper, I’d say. Which is why I am demanding a new one. And it will cost you twice as much as the first.”

  Edmund winced, wishing he didn’t have to listen to her nag so early in the morning and in his condition. “I will buy twenty if it’ll so please you,” he groaned. “All I ask in return is that you not speak. I am in desperate need of silence.”

  “Really, dear.” She dropped her hand back to her side and paused. Leaning toward him, she cocked her head and reached out, fingering his chin. “What happened to you? I never noticed these bruises on your face last night.”

  Edmund felt like a thousand needles were pushing at the skin she was touching. He winced and moved away from her hand. “Must you poke?”

  She glared at him and straightened. “I am your mother and it is my right to poke. This is your fault, you realize. Thinking you could claim a woman in public, instead of simply knocking on her door and paying a respectable visit like a gentleman. I take it you were brawling in the girl’s name?”

  Edmund didn’t feel like responding. Hell, he wished he could admit that he regretted brawling with Hawksford, but knew he’d be lying to himself. He wanted to damn well kill the son of a bitch for publicly slandering and claiming the one person he wanted most—Maybelle de Maitenon. Why was it everyone always claimed what was rightfully his?

  His mother sighed and shook her head, causing her silk nightcap to quiver. “Wait here, dear.” She turned and hurried out of the parlor, her green robe rustling along with her.

  At long last. Silence.

  Edmund shifted, his body feeling heavier with each passing moment. He needed to sleep. Needed to sleep and regain his goddamn sense. Not to mention whatever was left of his gut.

  He slowly set his head back against the wing-backed chair and stared blankly up at the boxed ceiling. If only his head would stop pounding. And if only his mind would stop reliving the moments of last night over and over and over.

  He’d made a dolt of himself. Confessing to Maybelle and all of London that he was in love with her. Only then to discover tha
t she and Hawksford were well involved. If he could bloody stoop so low, he had no doubt many a good man had outright killed himself trying to—

  Edmund froze and momentarily closed his eyes. Even with the effects of last night still lingering heavily, he realized something. Something he hadn’t been able to face or understand in years. Edmund opened his eyes and knew it was time to accept what it was his father had actually done. Shortly before the man’s suicide, his father had confessed to him that he was in love with Lady Anne. So in love that nothing mattered. Edmund had never really understood what it was like to be on the verge of emotional insanity. Until now.

  “Here we are,” the duchess announced, coming back into the drawing room with a jar of ointment. “How are you? Better?”

  “Better?” He tried to focus. “You’ve only been gone a few moments.”

  “You look terrible, dear. Absolutely terrible.” She paused before him and twisted open the lid of the glass jar. With her finger, she scooped up a large glop of the yellowish green substance. “This will help with the swelling. Then I suggest you rest. You won’t last another hour sitting about like this.”

  He wasn’t worried about lasting through another hour. It was lasting through the rest of his goddamn life he was more concerned about.

  She leaned toward him with the ointment.

  The stench of fish and rotting fruit overwhelmed his already queasy senses. He snapped up a hand and leaned forward in the chair, trying to get around her and the smell. “Whatever that is, you are not smearing it on me. I am leaving. I have something to tend to.”

  She blinked at him and straightened, her finger still covered in ointment and her other hand gripping the glass jar. “And what on earth can you possibly be tending to at an hour like this? You’re not heading over to her house, are you?”

  “No. That business is done.” Edmund paused, knowing he had to move slow, and eased farther toward the edge of the chair. “I am off to the cemetery.”

  She scrambled back, looking startled and alarmed. “The cemetery? What for?”

  “To visit father.”

  Her eyes widened and the glass jar dropped from her shaky hands, shattering into clumps at her feet. She scrambled back, away from the mess, and after a few moments whispered, “But you never visit his grave. You swore to me after what he did to us that you never would.”

  “I was a different man when I made that promise.” Edmund rose and disregarded the dizziness he felt. “Visiting him will do me good.”

  “Do you good?” she demanded. “Are you still inebriated?”

  “No. I am about as sober as I am ever going to get.” With that, he headed toward the doorway of the parlor, wanting to simply bring an end to a matter he hadn’t been able to face in over six years.

  The morning fog had long lifted, and the afternoon sun slowly peered through the clouds when Edmund arrived at the cemetery just outside of London.

  The air smelled refreshingly crisp and earthy, unlike the stifling air of the city. He slowly walked the quiet, treed grounds until he finally came to the family crypt.

  “So here I am,” he announced, pausing. He leaned into the side of the oversized cool stone that housed several generations of Rutherfords and closed his eyes, realizing now more than ever why he never came to visit his father. It was because he couldn’t stand the pain of knowing that his father had tossed so much away.

  “I suppose you know why I am here,” he murmured, digging his fingers into the side wall of the stone crypt. “I have decided to accept your apology. The one you gave before you dashed away to the other side.”

  He swallowed hard and nodded, remembering his father’s aging, pain-stricken, and tear-streaked face that begged both him and his mother for forgiveness. It was the last Edmund had ever seen of him alive.

  Edmund squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to give in to his emotions, but one lone tear slipped down his cheek. The one tear he’d never let slip even with the death of his father. Perhaps if he’d been more lenient and understanding, the man would have set off on a different path. One that he could actually return from.

  Edmund opened his eyes, swiped at the tear, and cleared his throat. “It has taken me some time, I know, but you might say I finally understand what loving a woman can do to a man’s soul.” He smirked. “Not very pleasant, is it? You simply chose a better strategy, you bastard.”

  Edmund pulled his hand away from the stone and glanced around, listening for a long moment to the morning silence around him. “I have no doubt that if I were to stay here long enough, you would answer me. Which is probably why I should leave. Because there is no more to be said. All is well with me. Or at least it will be. And that is all you need know.”

  He sighed, patted the side of the smooth stone, and then pushed himself away from the crypt. “Don’t know if Mother will ever come around. Don’t count on it. But hell, if I can come around, who knows.”

  Turning, Edmund walked away and felt as if a small weight had been lifted. Now he had to simply decipher a way to move on with his life knowing that he not only still loved Maybelle but that he had to live without her.

  When Edmund climbed out of his brougham after his journey back from the cemetery he paused, surprised to find the gate and the front door of his townhouse wide open. A huge wooden cart filled with four small baskets of flowers had been set just outside the length of the black iron fence that bordered his townhouse. Two men, dressed in dirty, wool clothing and wool caps, gathered the remaining flowers from the cart, then made their way up his stairs and disappeared through the open door.

  What the hell was going on?

  Knowing he probably shouldn’t move too fast lest his head explode, Edmund made his way up and eyed the now-empty cart. The wood plank bottom was sprinkled with colorful crushed remnants of flowers.

  The two men reappeared, and paying him no heed, reached around and started pushing the cart out of the way.

  Edmund eyed one of the bearded men and pointed at the empty cart. “What is this? I did not buy any of this. Take it away.”

  The bearded man shrugged. “Not allowed to answer questions. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll be needin’ our cart back.”

  Edmund stepped back and eyed the open door of his house. Yes, why not announce to all of London that everything in his house was free? Where was the goddamn butler?

  With whatever strength he had left in his sleep-deprived body, Edmund jogged up the stairs of his townhouse and entered the foyer. He slammed the door shut and bolted it. He stormed farther into the house and froze when he came to the entrance of his parlor. Or rather, what used to be his parlor.

  Every bit of furniture, not to mention every bit of space on the floor, had been completely covered with roses, orchids, and daffodils. He swallowed and realized that they all had to be from Maybelle.

  Although her words from last night were still a haze, he remembered her pleading to him about wanting to be with him. About wanting to be his mistress. After everything she’d put him through. But he refused to settle. Refused to settle for a woman who could easily turn from one man to the next.

  “I tried to stop them, Your Grace,” the butler frantically announced, coming up from behind. “But they threatened to leave everything, including the entire cart, at the gate.”

  There was no doubt this was Maybelle’s doing. “Was there a note?”

  “Nothing, Your Grace. Only these flowers.”

  Damn her. What? Did she expect him to call on her and say all was forgiven? Never. He had his bloody pride and there was no place for her in his life anymore.

  Edmund stepped farther into the room, to assess how many flowers there really were. The perfumed scent, however, overwhelmed his stomach. He froze as nausea rolled over him and forcefully pushed its way up his throat. Shit!

  Edmund clamped a hand over his mouth, turned, and dashed out of the room and up the stairs. Damn her. Damn Maybelle de Maitenon for the rest of her days!<
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  Lesson Twenty-Two

  When love is on the line, that is when we all learn to shine.—The School of Gallantry

  Early evening, 11 Berwick Street

  When the clock chimed nine times and clicked back into place, Maybelle seated herself once again in her red velvet upholstered chair. She eyed her grandmother, Caldwell, Brayton, Banfield, and the very battered Hawksford as they all sat in silence. And they looked about as miserable as she felt. Thanks to her grandmother, everyone had no choice but to participate in her plan. As part of their schooling. Who knew that she herself would become a lesson.

  There was still one empty chair and she had a sinking feeling it wasn’t going to be filled. The half hour from the set time had long passed and the duchess still hadn’t arrived.