Master of Pleasure (8 page)

“Do you have a bit more time today than you did on Monday?” she ventured.

His blue eyes pierced what little distance was between them. “Maybe. Why?”

It wasn’t a no. But it wasn’t a yes, either. Perhaps a small nudge would make it happen. “I just finished sweeping, so I’m done here. There are still a few scones left from Monday. You’re more than welcome to come upstairs.”

He swiped his face, then shifted from boot to boot and gave her a pointed, agitated look.

She lowered her chin. “You don’t have to come up.”

The line of his mouth tightened a fraction. He looked around. “I have ten minutes. But nothing beyond that. So don’t insist.”

She bit back a smile. It was as if he didn’t want the world to know he was interested. “Don’t you worry. I’ll ensure you’re out the door in less than ten minutes.”

A window swung open on its creaking hinges from high above, making them both look up.

Mrs. Henderson, who clutched her prayer book against her shawl-covered bosom, peered down at them with a perusing squint. Her eyes widened. “Leona.” Her white ruffled cap fluttered with the movement of her gray head. “You know full well you aren’t allowed to associate with any men. Are you wanting me to put this in a letter to your aunt?
Are you
?”

Leona sometimes felt she was being held hostage by a seventy-two-year-old canoness. Trying to be polite, she set the broom against the railing of the tenement and called back, “This here is the gentlemen who is hiring me!”

Mrs. Henderson paused and squinted again. “He doesn’t look an earl. He doesn’t look respectable.”

Leona sighed. “I assure you, he is both.”

“Prove it,” Mrs. Henderson prodded. “Have the man prove it.”

Oy. This had to stop. “The poor man is already proving it. Do you see him trying to touch or kiss me right here on the street?”

Mrs. Henderson gasped. “The Virgin Mary wasn’t touched or kissed, and look how she ended up! Do you want another child out of this? Hell awaits you if you keep at it!”

Leona winced. Eyeing Lord Brayton, she let out an awkward laugh and thumbed toward the direction of the entrance. “Don’t mind all the barking. Much like my aunt, she thinks men are a menace. She may ask you more questions than a jury at trial, but she nobly held my hand through the worst of it. And when I mean the worst, I mean…childbirth. For that alone, I forgive that woman anything. Shall we go in? Do you mind her?”

Lord Brayton held her gaze. “Why would I mind? I’m going in for your company, not hers.”

Those husky words warmed the pit of her stomach. What was it about this man that made her very breath jangle? He wasn’t dashing or beautiful. Not at all. He was overly large, rugged and his features were unpolished, especially with that scar fingering its way from his ear to his jaw. But his presence and those ice blue eyes dominated the space between them as if he were demanding she and every breath she dragged in be his and only his.

It was a bit overwhelming.

Frantically brushing off her apron from clinging flour in an effort to distract herself, Leona gathered her skirts. “It’s been a while since Mrs. Henderson and I have had any guests. Please. Follow me. And mind each step. Some of the boards are warped.”

She turned and hurried up the outside stairs of the three-level tenement through the open door propped open by a brick. Everything grew quiet. Trailing a hand against the uneven yellow wallpaper, she paused halfway up the narrow stairwell, turned and waited. As she stood waiting, it occurred to her that he was the first male she had willingly invited into her home since giving birth to her son.

She bit her lip knowing it.

Lord Brayton hulked his way up, using massive strides to take three stairs at a time. Coming upon her, he came to a quick halt, his large hand grabbing the wooden railing beside them. His firm hold on the banister was enough to make the black leather of his glove creak. He eyed the stairwell. “What? Are we eating the scones right here?”

A choked laugh escaped her knowing he hadn’t even meant to be funny. “No. I was waiting for you.”

“Were you?” He lifted himself a step closer. “How nice.”

In the mugginess of the narrow stairwell, she could smell the crisp tonic that had been brushed into his dark brown hair. There was also another more distinctive scent that lingered. It wasn’t cologne or anything a man would usually wear. Whatever it was, it reminded her of an orchard. He smelled like…apples. It clung to her very breath.

With him being only two steps below, the jagged scar that traced his face from ear to jaw had become distinctively visible. She could make out the small dotted white scars that originally had threaded the wound together. Her chest tightened. “Did it hurt?”

“What?”

“The scar on your face.”

He shrugged. “I don’t remember. I was a babe when it happened. The forceps sliced it open.”

She swallowed. His mother must have cried. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry.”

His hand trailed up higher on the banister, his muscled arm edging closer. “And yet you did pry.” His gaze never left hers. “Why is that, Miss Webster? Are you curious about me?”

He had to be flirting. And yet that aloof expression said otherwise. She honestly couldn’t tap a finger on the sort of man he was. “Don’t mind me. I’m curious about everyone. And it always gets me into trouble. Which I don’t need. Shall we go up?”

He stared. “Why? Am I boring you?”

His level of seriousness was a touch rattling. Men usually conveyed
some
sort of emotion during a conversation. But this one— It was a wall. “No, of course not. I was merely…”

He leaned in close, blocking all view of the stairwell. He sniffed.

Her heart skipped. She leaned back. He’d sniffed her. Much like a dog would sniff another dog’s rear. “What are you doing?”

“I was noting your perfume.”

She paused. “I’m not wearing any.”

“You naturally smell like that?”

“Like what?” she echoed, trying not to be offended.

“Like sex and cookies.”

Not expecting that answer at all, she almost fell against him.

He steadied her, his large hands gripping her hard.

She froze, noting both her hands were set on each substantial pectoral buried beneath his waistcoat. By gad, the man was a solid brick wall. Her fingers instinctively curled against the rough fabric of his tweed waistcoat.

His jaw tensed. “I would rather you not grope me.”

She snapped her hands back toward herself. “I’m sorry. I…I didn’t mean to—” Her heart raced. If she had known men could produce muscles like his, she would have never bothered with Ryder.

Lord Brayton edged down several steps back, putting more distance between them. He swiped his face and paused, his gloved fingers grazing the scar on his face. He dropped his hand, dug into his pocket and pulled out a watch. Glancing at it, he tucked it away again. “I actually have fifteen minutes to spare. Not ten.”

She paused. What was that supposed to mean? Was she imaging it or was this getting serious?

“I could make it twenty,” he rumbled out. “It depends on you.”

She swallowed. Something told her he had just announced his interest. After he had just chastised her about groping him. “Twenty would be lovely.”

“Good.” He stared. “Did you know chess originated out of India?”

Where did that come from? And why was he staring? “No. I did not know that.”

“Do you play?”

She shook her head. “No. I never learned.”

He searched her face. “I’ll teach you. I have a chess set I travel with. We can play at night after you tend to the house. I don’t usually get much sleep. I’m incredibly restless whenever I’m not at sea. Are you interested in…oh, I don’t know…playing?” A raw huskiness lingered in his tone.

He wasn’t talking about chess anymore. He was advancing.

Her skin prickled at the thought of having so much muscle wrapped around her. And while, yes, she was genuinely intrigued by the thought of having sex with a man who physically filled up an entire stairwell, she wasn’t
that
intrigued. She needed a father for her son first. A bed mate for herself second. Not last, mind you, but second.

She moved up a stair. Then two. “Whilst flattered, Lord Brayton, I ask that you keep all of your chess pieces to yourself. You and I both know your level of standing would never find its way down to mine. You’re an earl, and I’m nothing more than the daughter of a deceased plantation owner whose finances went bankrupt. I also have a six-year-old. I’m not exactly a good investment for a man like you.”

An inexplicable look of withdrawal overtook his gruff features. “I wish to assure you, Miss Webster, that I’m not in a position to make those sort of advances. Not that you aren’t attractive. You are. I simply will have to return to my regular way of life at sea. I hope you aren’t disappointed.”

Annoyingly, her cheeks grew hot. “I’m not disappointed.”

“Good.” He tapped the banister with a fist, no longer meeting her gaze. “So who lives on King Street?”

She stiffened. He was referring to their conversation from two days earlier. When they first met. “Why do you ask?”

He kept tapping. “Why did you think this gentleman sent me to pay your debts? Who is he to you? Your brother?”

Heaven forbid. “No. I never had any brothers. Or sisters, for that matter. My father never remarried after my mother died. He was very devoted to her memory. Which, of course, my aunt always scolded him for, claiming such sentimentally only perpetuated pain. She was very bitter about relationships. She had been abandoned at the altar twice. By the same man, no less.”

His brows came together. “You answered every question but the one I wanted to know.”

Oh, for heaven’s— Her mind these days. “Forgive me. I
always
say more than I should.” She sighed. “Annoyingly, I’ve known him for a long time. His name is Ryder William Blake.”

“And who is he to you?” he pressed. “Why do you associate with him? Any particular reason?”

For someone who wasn’t interested, he was interested. “Yes. He is the father of my…son.”

“I see.” He hesitated. “Are you and he still together?”

“No.” Thank God.

“Why aren’t you and he together?”

This one just got curious. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

He gave her a withering look. “I’m not.”

“Clearly you are. You’re asking about my life
and
former lover. Why?”

He shifted his jaw, pulled out his watch again and glanced at it. “I have to go.”

“Have to or want to?”

He tucked the watch away. “Both.”

“And I thought I was wary of the opposite sex.” She eyed him. “Who was she?”

His features tightened. “Pardon?”

She softened her voice. “Don’t deny it. I know a broken heart when I see it.”

He set a large boot on the stair between them with a glorified thud. “I appreciate your concern, Miss Webster, but I haven’t associated with enough women to let them break anything. I’m too smart for that.”

“Really? Then why are you so skittish?”

He lowered his chin. “I’m not skittish. I’m simply a touch confused as to how an attractive, self-assured woman like yourself would have permitted any man to seduce her. You don’t appear to be the sort. You seem more intelligent than that.”

He was accusing her of being stupid. “If you’re interested in specifics, Lord Brayton,
which you clearly are
, you may be astounded to find that he and I were engaged at the time. So I don’t appreciate you—”

She gripped the banister harder in a riled effort to remain calm. There were times when she surprised herself into not even thinking about what happened. And then there were times when she disappointed herself and thought about nothing at all. “If you’ve never suffered from a broken heart, my lord, consider yourself lucky. It’s like watching yourself bleed to death, but for some reason, you keep breathing.”

His harsh features softened just enough to reveal the real man beneath the jagged scar: one capable of genuine understanding. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Forgive me.”

Leona picked at the seam of her apron, shrugged and admitted, “There is no need to apologize. Because you’re right. I was stupid. I was stupid to think his growing popularity as a pianist would have allowed us to ever marry. He and I were friends for a long time. Which was the problem. Friends first and lovers last. We used to get along very well. But the more popular he got, the more distance came between us. I wasn’t as refined as he needed me to be, and soon, I wasn’t even allowed to attend his concerts. I had cost him an audience with the duke of Clarence after I showed up in a shabby morning gown for an evening event. I simply wasn’t raised entertaining the aristocracy and didn’t realize everything about them was so petty and superficial. Which is what Ryder turned out to be.

“Because when he had an opportunity to play music for a wealthy, widowed and oh-so-stunning baroness in Bath, he called off our engagement as if it were a dinner party he couldn’t attend. Three months later, I found out I was not only pregnant, but that he had already married his baroness in the name of progressing his career. And there you have it. My entire life laid out in forty-five seconds.”