Master of Pleasure (30 page)

And she honestly wasn’t ready to do either.

11 Berwick Street

A man knew he was outdone when for the sixth week in a row, he was sitting in a one-room school house setting with four other grown men seated side by side awaiting instruction on women, love and seduction. All that was missing was a slate and some chalk.

He knew why he kept staggering through the cramped, underground tunnel leading into the adjoining building where ‘lessons’ were being held. He was doing it to hold on to a glimmer of hope that Leona would kneel to him as he knelt to her.

After the ever brilliant Madame de Maitenon suffered an unfortunate physical collapse that led to her being bedridden for at least a few weeks, her granddaughter had taken over the school with equal flare. The petite Miss Maybelle Maitenon, who appeared to avoid men, knew far more about intimate relationships than he knew about his own left hand.

Sometimes, while in class, he silently prayed without anyone knowing. After all, God had a lot to be angry about, given he, Malcolm Gregory Thayer, the Earl of Brayton and Admiral of the Persian navy, had fornicated with an incredible, beautiful woman who wasn’t his wife. An incredible woman who still had
no
idea whether she wanted to love a pain-obsessed freak or not.

Not knowing her decision was killing him.

So he…kept coming to each and every class in the hope he was preparing himself for their union. He kept waiting for there to be a topic about the art of seduction by pain (not pleasure), but annoyingly, it never came up. How was he supposed to learn anything? His time in London was running out. His time with Leona was running out.

When erotic texts were plopped into their laps one by one by Miss Maitenon, asking them to dissect what was wrong with the eroticism portrayed (other than the fact they were all written by males), Malcolm knew he had to forget about the other four men, that included Holbrook’s own brother, and just ask. What did he care? They were about as pathetic as he was.

He raised his hand high above his head. As a good student would.

Miss Maitenon paused from paging through the erotic text she held. Her brows went up as her blue eyes brightened. “Yes, Lord Brayton? Did you have a question?”

He sure the hell did. “Yes.” He lowered his hand.

The Duke of Rutherford, Lord Hawksford, Lord Caldwell and Lord Banfield all leaned far forward in their seats to look at him like men about to watch a horse race.

Malcolm ignored them. Unlike them, he was here to learn. “Are there any pain focused techniques a man and a woman can share in that won’t involve bruising, marks, scabs, blood or any other visible signs of damage to the skin? Because I need to learn them.”

There was a pulsing silence.

Miss Maitenon lowered her chin. “Pain focused techniques?”

Why was she looking at him like that? “Yes.”

“Explain,” she prodded.

He sighed. “I’m looking for techniques that won’t leave marks on my body. Why? Because I’m in love with a woman who doesn’t share my vast appreciation for pain. Which is a problem. After thinking and thinking on how to introduce her to it, I’ve come to realize the only way to approach this is as softly as humanly possible. That means no whips, no chains, no birch, and no blades. But I still want the pain. It’s what I enjoy.”

Hawksford snorted. “That explains
everything
.”

Malcolm narrowed his gaze.

Caldwell kicked out a foot to Hawksford. “Are you looking to die?”

“
Lord Hawksford
,” Miss Maitenon snapped, pointing the erotic book at him. “Do you need a dildo for that mouth?”

Hawskford puffed out a breath and sat back. “No. I’m capable of keeping this mouth shut.”

“I thought so.” Miss Maitenon brought the book back to her corseted waist, returning once again to her cheerful self. She pertly smiled. “Now what was the question again, Lord Brayton?”

What, indeed. “Your grandmother knows quite a bit about my penchant. She and I talked about it. She was incredibly helpful to me and is the only reason why I’m here. Since you’ve taken over the class, I’ve been patiently waiting for the topic of pain to come up, but it’s like I’m surrounded by sugar cookies and marzipan. None of which I need. Pain, please.
That
is what I need. Because I have plans that depend on me having a technique that won’t break skin or leave marks. And pinching doesn’t count. It does
nothing
for me. Is there such a thing? My brother mentioned there was.”

Every last male gaze veered from Malcolm to the teacher.

She let out a breath and slapped the book she was holding shut, setting it on the small desk behind her. “My grandmother never mentioned your penchant for pain.”

At least his privacy was being respected. “Thank her for that. Now are there any…

techniques? Something?
Anything
? Because I’ve been strangling myself with this damn situation long enough.”

A small smile touched her lips. “While I will admit, I’m not at all versed in the art of pain, my grandmother did bring a Chinese gentleman once to the house to teach me something that might be helpful to you. She was worried about my travelling abroad to Egypt with only a chaperone and therefore had this gentleman introduced me to a very effective measure of defense.”

Oh, hell. “The Chinese idea of defense includes combing the flesh off of their enemies with metal picks that expose the bone. I’ve seen it. I’m looking for something more—”

“I know. Techniques for pain that won’t bruise or break the skin.” She swept toward him and paused before his chair. “Stand, please.”

The duke sat up, clearly worried.

Malcolm rolled his eyes and stood, towering over the petite blonde like a gorilla over a banana. He widened his stance and dubiously met her gaze from above. “Now what?”

She patted his arm. “Am I allowed to demonstrate the technique?”

He spread his arms. “By all means. Have at it, Miss Maitenon.”

She politely reached up and under his arm, toward his back. Setting her fingers against a group of muscles, she clamped her thumb and forefinger together through his morning coat, pinching what felt like a bundle of too many nerves.

Amplified pain seared straight up the length of his legs and up his back, causing him to suck in a breath. He staggered in disbelief, his chest tightening.

She released him and stepped back, primly folding her hands. “How was that?”

If Leona did that to him, he’d never leave the house. He hissed out a breath, trying to regain composure and a sense of calm as the tendrils of pinching already subsided. It had seized him as quickly as it had left. “That was…unexpected.” He swallowed and reached under the area she had accessed.

Miss Maitenon set her chin. “According to this Chinese gentleman, there are bundled nerves all over the body. Given pain is your penchant, I suggest you play with the idea of finding them.”

Damn. Now he wanted to go take Leona to China. “Thank you. I’ll do exactly that. I…can you show me other areas on my body I might be able to use?”

The Duke of Rutherford stared him down lethally. “No. She can’t.”

Malcolm paused. Maybe he was taking this school a little too seriously.

Four days before Persia

A flash and the sharp crack of thunder startled Leona from deep sleep.

Sitting straight up, she paused.

Rain drummed against the small, lattice window, echoing in the quiet darkness of the room. Looking around, she slowly recognized the shapes of the house and the small hearth across from the foot of the bed that barely glowed. She was still in the rickety bed she and her son had snuggled into. She blew out a slow breath and yanked up the thick coverlet around her, the one that smelled like Malcolm and made her stupidly yearn for him.

The man always tucked them both into bed at night.

Or rather…Malcolm tucked
Jacob
into bed at night, and she was merely there to see it. The man was barely around. He always left early in the morning, propping his collar up high as if to hide his face from the world, and only returned shortly before the sky turned dark.

While he did speak to her, and sometimes lingered in her presence, it was always with a removed distance that was very visible not only on his face but also in the tension of his shoulders he always set whenever she walked into the room.

She missed him. She missed being the center of his regard.

It made her want to pick up a damn crop in his name and just—

Lightning streaked the sky again, illuminating the dark room. Leona sunk into the warm coverlet and scooted closer toward Jacob’s side of the bed.

She paused and patted the empty space beside her.

“Jacob?” She sat up and threw aside the comforter. He was gone.

Thunder rumbled, punctuating the realization.

“Jacob?” She scooted off the bed and noticed the door to the room was slightly open, the dim light of flickering candles from the corridor illuminating the open crevice. She groaned. Not again. The boy was now
always
playing chess with Andrew or Malcolm.

Did the male species never sleep? Damn them.

She puffed out a breath, her bare feet padding across the room as her wool nightdress tangled around her. Throwing open the door, she peered out into the dimly lit corridor, looking left, then right.

“Jacob?” she called out. “Jacob, it’s late. I think it time you come back to bed.”

No answer. Huh. Maybe they were downstairs.

Her bare feet tapped the wood boards as she meandered down the flickering candle-lit corridor, toward the stairs that led down into the narrow entrance of the townhouse.

Just as she came to the end of the corridor, at the top of the stairs, a large shadowy figure loomed before her, blocking her path. She yelped, skidding into the massive body.

Large hands grabbed her, keeping her in place. The crisp scent of
davana ittar
surrounded her. “Don’t tell me thunder scares you more than I do,” someone rumbled out.

Her heart skipped, knowing it was Malcolm. Leona gripped those muscular arms, finding enough strength in them to breathe again. She looked up. His rugged face was strained and ready for whatever it was she had to say.

“No, I…I’m actually trying to be a good mother and put my child back to sleep. Jacob needs rest and can’t keep going to bed this late every night. I appreciate the time you’re giving him, especially given you and I don’t…” She sighed. “Are you and he done playing chess? Because it’s late and—”

Thunder shook the house.

Leona jumped and instinctively gripped Malcolm’s arms harder.

He paused, leaning into her. “Jacob and I weren’t playing chess. I was actually sleeping but got woken by the thunder.” He stared. “Are you saying Jacob isn’t with you?”

Dread suddenly scraped its way through Leona. “No. I thought he was with you.”

“No. He isn’t.”

Oh, dear God. “Is he with Andrew?” she demanded.

Malcolm released her arms, jerking toward the closed door a few feet away. “Andrew retired hours ago.”

Her eyes widened. “Then where is Jacob?”