Mistress of Pleasure Page 8

  “Do you or do you not want grandchildren?” he drawled.

  She froze, wide eyed, and for the first time in a long time, actually did not have anything more to say.

  He nodded. “Have the invitation ready. I shall include it in my letter to Madame de Maitenon.”

  Lesson Eight

  The greatest test of one’s passion lies in the price one is willing to pay.—The School of Gallantry“How dare he!” Maybelle exclaimed, restraining herself from altogether stomping her foot against the floorboards like a child. “How dare he threaten us like this!”

  Her grandmother sighed, folded the letter the duke had sent, and set it neatly onto her lap atop the white linen gathered around her. “Despite his reputation, he is still a duke. If we do not enroll him, as he wishes, he will enlist Parliament and close the school. What is worse, he expects class to be in session next week. Rather serious, if you ask me.”

  That good-for-nothing bastard. He couldn’t get her to flip up her skirts in his parlor or be his pot-flesh of a wife, so he went and used the only thing he did have. His title. Well, she might not have a title, or a reputation for that matter, but she would ultimately win this battle. Not him.

  Her grandmother tilted her silver braided head and eyed her for a long moment. “You must have terribly wounded his sensibilities, chère. A duke would never offer lightly on women of our caliber.”

  Maybelle hurried toward her and leaned against the side of the four-poster bed. “The man is full of himself. Utterly full of himself. ‘I am not one for raising bastards,’ says he. Indeed. And I am?”

  Her grandmother laughed and sat back against her pile of pillows. “Oh, I would have loved to have been there!” She shook her head, lowered her gaze, and poked at the letters still on her lap. “It would seem, Maybelle, that my little school rests entirely in your hands. Whatever shall we do? Allow a man to govern us?”

  Maybelle narrowed her gaze. No man would ever govern her. Ever. Especially for his own gain. She pointed at the duke’s letter and the invitation he sent along. “You tell that bastard that school shall commence this Monday. If need be, I will personally oversee all classes and will even take up his silly little challenge of going to his mother’s ball. If the Duke of Rutherford ever thought he knew the meaning of scandal, I am about to redefine it not only for him, but for all of London.”

  Her grandmother’s silver brows rose, her eyes brightening. She excitedly clapped her hands in glee. “At long last! My granddaughter has officially arrived into the wonderful world of scandal.”

  Four days later, evening

  “Where is she?” Maybelle demanded, after peering into the parlor and finding it empty. “Where is Mrs. Williamson? She was supposed to arrive an hour ago.”

  Clive, who lingered before the staircase, blinked back at her, confused. “Madame ordered your chaperone away the moment she arrived.”

  Maybelle turned to him completely. “Ordered her away? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Madame intends to escort you herself to the Rutherford ball.”

  Her grandmother was bacon brained, to be sure. She marched up to Clive. “Escort me? The woman hasn’t been out of bed in weeks. I’ll not run the risk of her suffering another stroke.”

  Clive shrugged knowingly. “That is what I said, Miss. But as you know, a butler can only do so much.”

  “Yes, well, I intend to put an end to this nonsense. At once.” Maybelle gathered her emerald silk skirts to head up the staircase, but paused at discovering her grandmother at the top of the stairs, leaning against her gold and black ivory cane.

  Her grandmother stared her down with firm, blue eyes that clearly stated “I am going.” Dressed in a lilac satin gown which was cinched tightly at the waist with dozens of small diamond brooches, she was quite splendid to behold. Her thick, silver hair had been parted and arrayed with perfect ringlets, making her look unusually young and vibrant, considering her state of health. It would seem the woman had planned to attend all along.

  “You should be in bed,” Maybelle scolded up at her. “A crowded ballroom will be the death of you.”

  Her grandmother tapped her cane, sending an echo down the staircase and across the corridor. “If I am going to die it will be amongst people. Not alone in my room.”

  “But you cannot possibly be well enough to go.”

  “Tosh. It is only one night. You will need me, chère, and I refuse to be left out of all the excitement.”

  Maybelle shook her head, knowing the woman couldn’t possibly be prepared for a long night on her feet. The doctors agreed that she needed to remain bedridden for at least a few more weeks. “You suffered a stroke, Grand-mère. Be sensible.”

  Her grandmother tapped her cane again and set her chin, demonstrating she was not about to retreat. “If I do not go, you do not go. Comprenez-vous?”

  Maybelle sighed.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Allow me to survive this, Maybelle silently pleaded as she and her grandmother were formally announced. Side by side, they entered the large, ornate ballroom.

  An endless array of lit candles flickered from the solid gold sconces attached to the paneled walls. Gilded crystal chandeliers graced the high, arched ceilings. Every flame from every candle glittered and multiplied within the mirrors which decorated the ballroom.

  Despite her rising nervousness, Maybelle managed to appear aloof. She held her coiffed head steady as she walked past an endless parade of wide-eyed staring faces and overdressed, stiff postures.

  And although the merry strings of violins fluttered in the background, there might as well have been a world hush. For everyone looked utterly abashed at seeing her and her grandmother whisk into the ballroom. Several chaperones outright scrambled to usher their girls back and away, scolding them for even peering in their direction.

  Ah, yes. The ton. They all appeared the same—arbiters passing death sentences. Instead of the women having judgment mallets, they held colorful, delicate fans, which they incessantly waved before their rouged faces, hiding what it was they thought. While the men? Well. The men did not have mallets. They had their cocks to judge by. And so theirs was always a very different verdict.

  Moving farther into the ballroom, Maybelle glanced toward her grandmother for reassurance, only to find the woman grinning and nodding to the people gawking at them. It was as if she was thrilled to be out among the living again and causing the latest scandal.

  “We are finally done with appearances, chère.” Her grandmother pointed her black ivory cane toward an adjourning room serving refreshments. “That is where you will find me.”

  “Do try to rest.”

  “Oui. Oui. Go. Play.”

  Maybelle smiled as her grandmother sashayed away, her cane more of an ornament than an instrument to walk with. At least she didn’t have to worry too much about her grandmother. The woman appeared to be getting around quite well. Too well, actually.

  Alone for this first time since her arrival, Maybelle snapped open her fan and eyed the crowd, knowing it was only a matter of time before the duke found her. Strangely, a part of her couldn’t wait to see if he still had the ability to send her pulse flying, while another part of her simply couldn’t wait to make the bastard miserable.

  “Madam. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  Ah. The devil was officially at hand.

  Maybelle dropped her fan, letting it dangle from her wrist, and turned sweepingly to the Duke of Rutherford. And damn it all, her heart almost leaped out of her rib cage at seeing him. As always.

  His black hair was fashionably swept back, and he looked very much the picture of when she first saw him, dressed in a black formal suit and a high, white starched collar and cravat, which framed his shaven square jaw.

  He grinned down at her. The most perfect godlike grin. The damn bastard. He knew full well how alluring he was. And was using it to his advantage.

  “Why, if it
isn’t His Grace,” she retorted, turning away slightly to keep him from witnessing the color in her cheeks heightening. She fanned herself to keep the flush down.

  He glanced around and lowered his voice. “And where is your chaperone, Miss Maitenon? A lady of quality should never be left unescorted.”

  Lady of quality, indeed. “You and I both know that appearances are of little consequence to a person who has no reputation to uphold.”

  “Ah, but I have the ability to change that for you.” His eyes traveled down the length of her emerald silk gown, which she had the modiste pucker at the waist with a veil of thin gauze for more allure. He paused and lingered at the top rounds of her exposed breasts. As if they were his to admire.

  After a few lingering moments, he decided her face was worth looking at again. “Honor me by putting my name on your dance card.”

  The way the man continued to stare at her made her realize that dancing wasn’t at all what he had in mind. His eyes still clung to her body and seemed to slowly strip her naked, casting aside every bit of clothing she had on, including her stockings.

  The man really had no shame.

  Yes, well, neither did she.

  She lifted her left hand, drawing up the white card that dangled from a piece of red ribbon. Holding it before her, she read the dances listed for the night as if they were the names of dance partners. Her card was empty, of course, but she wasn’t about to inform him of that.

  “I do apologize,” she casually flitted. “It seems my dance card is already quite full. Perhaps another time?”

  A baffled expression passed over his face and before Maybelle could decipher his intentions, he leaned in and whisked the card from her, jerking her wrist toward him. “Your Grace!”

  “There isn’t a single name written here.” He continued to look at the empty dance card, then cocked his head. “I suppose I can write myself in for the quadrille.”

  “How utterly rude!” She snatched back her wrist and card. “You take too many liberties and seeing you will soon be a student of mine, I shall gladly issue your first lesson. Never touch a woman without her permission.”

  He coughed, although she could have sworn it was more of a laugh. “But you gave me permission that one night. Remember?”

  “Yes. Once. I was deeply disappointed and shall not give it again.”

  He winced playfully. “We’d best work on your manners first.”

  “Despite what you and the rest of the ton may think, I am rather pleased with my position in life. I am permitted to go and do as I please without male rule.”

  “Yet you and your grandmother are still financially dependent on all of us men to survive. The school being a good example of that.”

  Maybelle smiled even though she felt like smacking him. “Which leads me to the point of why I am really here, Your Grace. I am trying to encourage more business. For the school.”

  He paused.

  “As you know, I am not at all interested in marriage, but I am interested in finishing what was started between us. It would certainly make me and the school all the more popular knowing that I have entertained the scandalous Duke of Rutherford. Which is why I have decided to offer you one night.”

  Edmund’s face clouded and a muscle flicked in his jaw. He glanced around, as if only now noticing there were people around them, and then grabbed hold of her arm with his gloved hand. The next thing she knew he was rudely leading her toward the back wall and into the farthest and darkest corner, away from everyone around them.

  He paused but didn’t relinquish his firm grip. “Never offer a Rutherford something you cannot afford to give,” he growled down at her. “You might find yourself at a loss when he chooses to collect.”

  She yanked her arm away and took several steps back, toward the wall. “I assure you my offer is quite sincere, Your Grace. Although I highly doubt you can afford it.”

  His expression grew taut and derisive. “How much?”

  He said it as if there wasn’t a price he couldn’t pay. Which sent her pulse galloping. She cleared her throat knowing she was about to slam the door on his face. Once and for all. “One hundred thousand pounds. For one night.”

  He paused, and if he was in any way astonished by the sum, he most certainly did not show it. Instead, he narrowed his dark gaze and leaned in close. So close he broke every social rule that was supposed to exist in public. And clearly, he did not seem to care.

  Her chest tightened as she continued to boldly hold his gaze. For all that mattered was the end result. Getting rid of him. Once and for all.

  After a few moments of hovering silence, he finally retorted, “Permit me three days to produce the sum. I do hope that banknotes will be acceptable.”

  Although Maybelle tried to hide her shock, her lips parted and she couldn’t help but gawk at him. Was the Duke of Rutherford truly worth that much? Impossible.

  Edmund stepped back and bowed, his haunting dark eyes never once leaving hers. He then straightened and drew out his large white, gloved hand. “Now. To seal our agreement, I ask for this dance.”

  Maybelle struggled to keep her thundering pulse in check as she unwittingly extended her hand and allowed his warmth to surround her gloved fingers. What on earth was her grandmother going to say? The woman had insisted that no man would be willing to pay such an outrageous sum. Not even for the most exquisite of demimondaines.

  “At such a lofty price, Madam,” the duke drawled as they made their way to the dance floor, “I expect every breathing moment to be well spoken for.”

  As they arrived onto the dance floor, Maybelle struggled to throttle the dizzying current that assaulted her body in response to his words. She could only fathom what a night with him would entail.

  He gripped her gloved hand tighter, quite possessively, and together they moved in time to the music down the line. As they passed each couple, Maybelle was painfully aware that all eyes were on her and Edmund.

  For the first time in her life she was truly mesmerized. By a man. Something she never thought possible. Each time his dark eyes met hers from across the line and the short distance they stood apart, she wondered why she felt so light and giddy when only a moment ago she wanted to beat him at his own game.

  Each time he bowed during their dance and took her hand to whisk her down the line, she seriously wondered why he would agree to such an outrageously expensive night. If it was sex he was looking for, he could have damn well gotten it anywhere. For free, no doubt.

  After a single dance, she was surprised to find the duke already escorting her off the floor. “You will now take leave of me, Madam.”

  He brought them both to a halt, released her hand, and bowed. “Despite our unconventional agreement, I am taking it upon myself to ensure that you publicly adhere to the rules of the ton. Now find your chaperone, Miss Maitenon, and enjoy the rest of your evening. It was a pleasure.”

  With that, he turned and strode away.

  Maybelle blinked. That was it? She frowned and couldn’t help but feel…utterly disappointed. This had to be some sort of game. She was certain of it. And she didn’t even want to think about what that could possibly mean.

  She quickly turned and whisked herself off in the opposite direction, keeping her chin set high should anyone be watching. When she was far away enough, she paused and drew in a shaky breath. Then several more. Heaven help her. She’d actually sold herself off to the duke for one hundred thousand pounds. Without meaning to.

  “My, my,” a man drawled, grabbing her waist and drawing her toward him. “If it isn’t the delectable granddaughter of Madame de Maitenon. How are you?”

  Maybelle gasped at finding herself tightly bound against a young blond male who was apparently drunk out of his trousers. “Sir! I ask that you release me! At once!”

  “Oh, come now. I hear you’re good for a dance…or two…or three.” He guffawed and leaned toward her, trying to yank her closer. The stench of
stale sweat and cognac overwhelmed her. “Are you in the market? I’d rather fancy knowing what my money can buy.”

  Maybelle swallowed back the sensation of spiders crawling into her throat, knowing exactly what the man wanted. She shoved hard at him, but his drunk arms weighed too heavily on her and her body was once again pressed against his. “Release me,” she growled out. “Or I’ll bloody—”

  “One dance is all,” the man continued to blubber. “I’m certain you’ve given more than that.”

  The bastard! Gritting her teeth, Maybelle forcefully freed her right hand, fisted it, and bopped him in the nose. Hard. So hard, her hand actually stung.