Lady of Pleasure (34 page)

He leveled his shaven jaw against that perfectly knotted white linen cravat. His dark gaze searched hers. “Don’t lie to me.”

She snapped her gaze forward, refusing to acknowledge that she was. “Leave.”

Drawing his horse even closer to her own, until his polished boot was almost touching the side of her skirts, he leaned over the side of his saddle and said in a gruff, yet equally gentle tone, “I will leave because you want me to. But know, Caroline, that I intend to fight to be part of your life to the end.” Veering his horse away, he glanced back at her once last time, then with the hard kick of his stallion, galloped off down the path.

Caroline’s jaw tightened as she stared after him. She wasn’t too worried about what he meant by fighting. She was, after all, a Hawksford. And a Hawksford knew a thing or two about putting the opposite sex in their place.

This was war.

Two days later

Ronan knew he was going to die. It was simply a matter of
how
he was going to die. In the past two and a half weeks, he had done everything expected of him by Madame de Maitenon, which included molesting strawberries. He had also told so many, many lies to everyone in his circle in honor of Caroline, he knew the devil was tapping a hoof at the entrance of hell.

What if Hawksford didn’t come to the first day of class and changed his mind before the truth could be unveiled? Before Caroline could become his? Despite the fact that Hawksford and the female Conductor of Admissions, appeared to be beyond friendly with each other after a very, very rough dragging in of Hawksford, Ronan knew the man wasn’t particularly pleased about the school. Nor would Hawksford be pleased upon realizing Madame de Maitenon had formally announced that
today
was the day Hawksford was going to finally know about him and Caroline.

“Two other gentleman have already arrived, my lord.” Harold, a massive, heavyset man with a mop of curly brown hair, who was more the protector of Madame and the school, than a butler, stood in the corridor, gesturing with a thick hands toward the open door before them. “Please wait inside until Madame and Lord Hawksford have arrived.”

Hawksford wasn’t here yet. Damn it. What if the man didn’t come?

Hesitating just outside a room that Madame de Maitenon had fashioned and converted into a classroom, Ronan was relieved to know he wasn’t the
only
man in London to think himself below female standards.

There were others.

Striding into the room as casually as he could manage, he paused. Four leather wingbacked chairs had been set out and faced a small writing desk and its chair. Two men of about his age lingered before those chairs, quietly discussing something.

They paused from their conversation and turned toward him.

Ronan almost pulled in his chin. He knew them. He had seen them a few times before. They were of his circle and of the
ton
. Though he couldn’t remember their names. Knowing he ought to introduce himself lest this get any more awkward, Ronan strode toward them and extended a hand to the man closest to him. “The name is Lord Caldwell.”

The gentleman on his right swiped away a long strand of sun-tinted brown hair from the side of his face, forcing it into a very out-dated queue and leaning toward him, grabbed his hand and shook it firmly once. Brown eyes met his. “Lord Banfield. We met once or twice before.”

Banfield. Yes. He had also read in the announcement column sometime ago there had been a marriage. Ronan released that hand. “Yes. We have met before. Are not congratulations in order? I read in the paper somewhere you recently married.”

Banfield hissed out a breath and eyed him, stepping back. “Yes. That.” Clearing his throat, he adjusted his coat. “I’m certain you also heard my marriage isn’t going all that well.”

Ronan’s brows went up. “No. I didn’t hear.”
Banfield shifted his jaw. “I’m glad someone didn’t.”

That explained why the man was here. Damn. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Not more sorry than I,” Banfield grouched, gesturing to their surroundings. “Madame de Maitenon is capable of convincing a man he can walk on air if he tries. I’m still trying to understand how the devil I got here.”

Ronan smirked. It was good to know he wasn’t the only one who felt awkward about taking advice from a courtesan. “How? By recognizing that pride doesn’t mean shit to a man.”

Banfield snorted. “Pride is the least of my worries.”

A heavily scarred hand belonging to the other gentleman snapped out toward Ronan. “The name is Lord Brayton.”

Banfield and Brayton. This could get confusing.

Ronan took that large hand and enthusiastically shook it, meeting the cool, blue eyes of a distinct looking man with a jagged scar that ran from the left side of his ear to the bottom front of his square jaw. It was a wicked looking thing didn’t look accidental. He tried not to stare or ask about it. “An honor.”

Brayton released his hand and widened his stance to observe him.

It was obvious the man was one of few words.

Ronan eyed Banfield, the friendlier and less intimidating of the two, who had just settled into one of the chairs. Ronan tried to come up with something to say. “I will admit I have been surprisingly impressed with Madame.”

Banfield eyed him. “The woman is devilishly good at unraveling situations. Which is why I’m here. I feel less anxious.”

“Me, too,” Ronan added. “Apparently, these classes last into June.”

Banfield swiped his face. “The question is, will I last? I got heckled on the way in. It’s like the people in this neighborhood know about the school.”

Ronan smirked and leaned a hand against one of the empty chairs. “You don’t know how relieved I am to know I wasn’t the only one getting heckled on the way in.”

Lord Brayton seated himself right beside Banfield, thudding out a large boot that vibrated the wood floor beneath their feet with a notable tremor. “They don’t heckle me,” he rumbled out.

Banfield eyed that large boot and then glanced up at Ronan with the twitch of his mouth. “Who would dare?” Banfield drawled. “Hell, I’m scared to even blink sitting next to you and that boot.”

Ronan let out a laugh. Brayton was a touch intimidating. “So uh…Brayton. I have to ask, because you certainly don’t appear to be the sort in need of assistance, but what are you here for?”

The scarred side of that shaven face glanced toward him. After a long moment, he dryly chided, “Women don’t like me. But then again, I could be wrong. It could be I don’t like them.”

Banfield’s mouth twitched. “Maybe you’re in the wrong school.”

Ronan knew in that moment that he and these men would get along just fine. Sensing someone lingered in the doorway behind them, Ronan turned. Hawksford wordlessly stood in the doorway in what appeared to be riding clothes, his bronzed hair scattered and falling into sharp green eyes.

The man had come. Despite everything.

Ronan slowly grinned, damn relieved knowing it. “Hawksford! There you are! Hell, I thought you weren’t coming.”

Hawksford slid in through the doorway and adjusted his morning coat. He slowly strode toward them.

Everyone rose to their booted feet to acknowledge Hawksford as he approached.

Ronan gestured toward Lord Banfield. “This here is Banfield. He and I have become rather quick friends.”

Banfield once again swiped away a long strand of hair from the side of his face, forcing it back into its place and smiled, extending a prompt hand by stepping around his chair and toward him.

Hawksford shook the man’s hand. “Hawksford. How do you do?”

Banfield retrieved his hand and stepped back, amused. “With you here, I suppose I shouldn’t feel quite the dolt.”

Ronan bit back a ruffled smile. It appeared Hawksford’s reputation was well known amongst women
and
men.

Hawksford let out a less than enthused laugh and turned his attention to Brayton.

Brayton solemnly held out a scarred hand to Hawksford. “Brayton. How do you do?”

Hawksford accepted that grip. “Well enough. Thank you.” Hawksford searched Brayton’s facial scar. “If you don’t mind my saying, that’s a rather wicked scar you have there.”

Ronan cringed in disbelief that Hawksford would be rude enough to mention it.

Brayton gave a curt nod, averting his gaze, and took back his hand. “I’ve learned to never trust a woman with my knife.”

Ronan’s brows shot up. A woman did that to his face? With a knife? Jesus. He glanced toward Banfield who glanced at him.

Hawksford let out a well-amused laugh.

Ronan glared at Hawksford. Why the hell was he laughing? That wasn’t funny.

With a lopsided grin, Hawksford leaned in and quipped to Brayton, “Fortunately for you, she stayed above the waist.”

Ronan almost smacked a hand against his own head. Hawksford needed more than basic etiquette lessons. The man needed a better sense of humor.

Brayton fixedly stared Hawksford down for a weighty moment, clearly not amused, before turning away and taking his seat, extending his legs.

Hawksford’s grin faded. Clearing his throat, he eyed Ronan as if to silently ask what the man was about.

Caldwell grudgingly shrugged, not knowing what to say in response to Hawksford’s stupidity.

“
Bonjour
, everyone!” a familiar female voice chimed in a sultry French-accented voice. “Might we begin?”

It was happening. It was time. Ronan turned to Madame de Maitenon and paused.

Primly dressed, she wore a pale pink printed muslin gown with puffed sleeves. Despite her elegant and matron-like appearance, her pale hand held a tightly coiled, black leather horsewhip.

Ronan sure as hell didn’t want to know
why
she was holding it. But given how well he had come to know the woman through their private sessions, he knew that whip was going to be part of their lesson.

Madame breezed across the room, wafting a soft scent of mint in their direction, and paused beside the red velvet chair set before the small writing desk. Her blue eyes scanned all of their faces as her full lips curved into a playful smile. She set the whip onto the desk and gracefully seated herself with a self-assured sigh.

She gestured toward their chairs. “Be seated. I am very pleased you are all here.”

Ronan sat in the chair and shifted in his seat, wondering if he was the only male in the room uncomfortable with the idea of an older woman toting a horsewhip.

“I am Madame de Maitenon,” she announced regally, scanning their faces. “By the end of this Season, I expect to see notable results from all of you. Results that will be evident in the lives you are leading. And though I would be most honored to have all of you reenroll with each Season, I have organized the lesson plans in a way that requires you to attend only one Season’s worth of classes.”

She laced her fingers on the desk before her, her hands unnervingly close to the whip as if she meant to snatch it up at any moment. “Though you are all here due to various reasons that shall for the most part remain undisclosed, in accordance to some of your wishes, I can assure you, each will equally benefit.” Madame de Maitenon stood, pushing back her chair and snatched up the whip. With a snap of her wrist, the braided leather horsewhip uncoiled and thudded against the wooden floorboards.

Ronan inwardly withered to a prune watching her slender fingers tighten around the handle of that whip. He had tried the art of flagellation once. Once. When he was twenty. It hadn’t gone well.

“For some—” Madame de Maitenon strolled around her desk, the whip dragging behind her morning gown. She headed toward them. “Pleasure knows no bounds. It is a way of life they weave not only into their own daily lives, but the lives of others. They are what I would call, the gifted few.” She paused directly before Hawksford and intently stared the man down. “You are all here because you have come to the profound realization that you are not those men. Your pleasures have turned into a form of punishment. And it has caused you to do things you normally would not do.”

Hawksford leaned forward in his seat and pompously drawled, “Such as?”

She swung the whip aggressively toward his leg, missing it by a mere inch in reprimand for his pompous nonchalance. “Such as enrolling in my school.”

Ronan almost bit his hand.

Hawksford glanced down at the tasseled edge of the braided whip that now tamely rested beside his boot and smirked. “I assure you, Madame, it will take more than the crack of a whip to educate a man on the topic of pleasure.”

That was the wrong thing to say to a woman with a whip.

Madame tugged the end of the whip back toward her and wound the whip into a circular coil around her hand, her gaze never once leaving Hawksford’s. “So true. So true.” With that, she held out the whip. “Take it, Lord Hawksford. You have earned the lead in my first lesson.”

Oh, God. This was it.

Hawksford grinned as if he were back at Eton ready to recite poetry and rose, taking the whip into his right hand. Theatrically stepping back, Hawksford released its length, allowing the end to thud to the floor and gestured tauntingly toward the whip. “So I take it length
does
matter?”