The following afternoon
11 Berwick Street
The clattering of carriages and the occasional shouts of various vendors selling wares in the far distance floated in the late spring air that smelled, not of countless flowers in bloom, but rather, of acrid coal smoke from surrounding chimneys.
It was a quaint but respectable neighborhood.
Using the tips of his gloved fingers, Ronan angled his top hat forward by the curved rim to shield his eyes from the bright sun. Letting his hand fall heavily to his side, he lingered outside the black iron fence of a pristine, whitewashed townhouse with shutters framing all of the large windows. It looked like any other normal townhouse in London. In fact, it looked like a bundle of respectability.
One would have never known there was a courtesan’s school inside.
He dragged in a breath and puffed it out. Caroline was worth it. She was damn worth this and more. Opening the small iron gate, he closed it behind him and jogged up the stone steps. The polished brass numbers ‘11’ beside the door glinted in the afternoon sunlight as he reached over beneath it and twisted the bell.
He glanced behind him toward the narrow cobbled street, waiting.
A small group of elderly women bundled in shawls strolled by with parasols, the ribbons on their bonnets floating on the warming breeze. They all slowed in unison as they passed the gate and paused. Several pinched faces eyed him and the townhouse. Quiet whispers were delivered behind gloved hands amongst them as they kept walking.
Goddamn it. Was there a placard for the school that he didn’t see earlier? Leaning back, Ronan scanned the gate and the door and the building itself. He blinked. There was none. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
More people passed behind him on the pavement, also slowing by the gate. A well-dressed gent with large, waxed whiskers, and a folded newspaper tucked beneath his hefty arm, paused altogether and stared, his thin lips drawn.
It was like the people in the neighborhood
knew
despite there being no placard.
It was like they were all holding
him
accountable for the school’s existence.
Jesus. Shifting his jaw, Ronan turned back to the door, twisted the bell again and chanted for the damn door to open. It didn’t.
More people walked by and a gentleman from across the street gruffly hollered out, “
Be a real man and cease supporting whores of the devil, you bloody side-slip
!”
Side-slip? Ronan swung toward whoever had said it and, pointing rigidly to his own face, yelled back at whoever it was, “How about you cross the street and say it to my face! I’m not here for my own
fucking
entertainment. Where
are
you? Come on up. I have no trouble showing you what a
real
man can do!” He thudded his chest with a fist, ready to prove it.
Startled women scurried out of sight.
Ronan lowered his gloved hand awkwardly, winced and muttered, “Damn it,” and swung back to the door. This was far from turning him into a romantic. His hand jumped to the bell and twisted it several times.
The door finally edged open.
He was so damn grateful.
A portly, gray-haired gentleman in well-ironed, dark blue livery observed him from beneath the thick, fuzzy tufts of his brows. “Do you have an appointment, sir?”
Ronan cleared his throat, fully aware that this man probably thought he was a major disappointment to all women. When the reality was, he was only a disappointment to one. Which made it all the
more
pathetic. “I do. Yes.”
“Excellent. We require a card at the door, sir. Regardless of whether or not you have called on us before.”
“Of course. Yes.” Reaching into the right side of his coat in his breast pocket, he withdrew a calling card from the small stack he always kept on him whenever he was out and about. He held it out. “My card. I was told Madame de Maitenon would be expecting me.”
The butler slipped it from his fingers and, holding it away, read it by lowering his round chin onto his stiff collar. “Ah, yes. Lord Caldwell.” He glanced up. “I am Mr. Hudson.” He stepped back, widened the door and extended a gray-gloved hand. “Welcome.”
Dread seized him, for he knew the moment he walked in, there was no walking out of this situation. With several quick strides, he entered, if only to keep more people on the street from looking at him. Seeing people glancing over, he quickly said, “Thank you, Mr. Hudson. I believe I have received more attention than I am used to. I ask that you please close the door.”
The man sniffed. “I certainly planned on it, my lord.” The door closed, darkening the quiet foyer.
Cheeky bastard.
The sweet smell of mulled wine floated in the air and a clock chimed twice in the distance, somewhere upstairs, before clicking back into silence.
The butler set the card on a silver calling tray with the flick of a gloved thumb, then turned and expectantly held out a hand, waiting to receive a hat.
Ronan quickly stripped it and handed it off by its rim. “Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Hudson whirled it once, ensuring it was properly positioned top down and rounded him. With the jut of a chin that turned into several round chins against his high starched collar, the butler carefully positioned the hat atop one of four, red velvet cushions lining the walnut hall table against the entrance wall.
It was like his hat had just been escorted into a harem.
Mr. Hudson glanced toward the stairwell beyond, as if to ensure no one was coming, then sidled up to him. The man lowered his voice to respectfully impart, “A donation would be much appreciated, my lord.”
Ronan pulled in his chin. Since when did butlers ask for donations? He paused. Unless the man wasn’t being paid. Jesus. Ronan glanced up the stairwell, then leaned in and lowered his own voice in turn. “Not to pry, sir, but are you not being paid by the woman?”
Mr. Hudson set both hands behind a stiff back. “I am. But it is my hope that a well-to-do gentleman such as yourself would understand the extraneous work involved in answering the door, taking your card and your hat.”
Ronan snorted and almost clapped the man on the back for being the first butler to have a sense of humor.
Mr. Hudson blinked, still observing him with lethal calmness.
Ronan cleared his throat. Apparently, the plea was genuine. He sighed. If there was anyone who understood what a man resorted to in the name of financial desperation, it was him. Ronan removed both gloves by tugging on the fingers of the leather, draped them atop the side rim of his hat and turned back to the portly man. He smiled, trying to remove any awkwardness that an exchange of money might bring to the man, reached into his inner coat pocket and withdrew his leather satchel.
Mr. Hudson inclined his head in vast appreciation and then set both hands behind his back and watched with expectant raised brows and set lips to see what he would get.
Ronan smirked at the audacity of the man and withdrew five shillings, from the ten pounds he had, which in his opinion was rather generous. He held it out.
Mr. Hudson hesitated. “I have seventeen grandchildren, my lord.”
Ronan coughed. And he thought his aunt had a brood. “
Seventeen
?” he echoed. “Do you really?”
“Hence my asking for donations. My daughter was widowed a few months ago.”
Ronan’s brows flickered. “I am very sorry to hear it.” While Ronan wanted to counter that he himself had too many nieces and nephews to support, he felt achingly bad for the man. Seventeen grandchildren? Shit. He sighed and counted out twelve more shillings from his satchel and held it out.
Mr. Hudson accepted the seventeen shillings and offered a deep incline of his grey head. “Your kindness is much appreciated, my lord.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Slipping all seventeen coins into his livery that tinkered from the deposit, Mr. Hudson smiled and sweepingly gestured toward the adjoining room. “If you would please seat yourself, Madame will be joining you shortly. She is visiting with Lady Chartwell upstairs.” He stoically departed.
Lady Chartwell. Where did he know that name? The newspaper? He couldn’t remember. Ronan slowly shook his head from side to side, wondering what he was about to encounter next and tucked away his leather satchel.
Striding into the adjoining room, across the wooden inlaid floors, Ronan jerked to a halt and leveled his chin at seeing only a single gilded chair set in the middle of the receiving room. And nothing else. There were no carpets or side tables or vases.
No wonder the butler was asking for donations.
Although afternoon sunlight poured in from the windows, various candles in their sconces had been lit, as if awaiting a guest. Him being that guest, of course. Moving further into the large room, he swiveled on his booted heel, scanning the expanse of the brocaded, coral silk walls. Large gold-framed paintings of Greece, the Parthenon, various Greek temples, as well as an array of naked Greek goddesses, ranging from Aphrodite to Athena, graced almost every wall.
Someone apparently wanted to go to Greece.
Ronan paused, his brows going up and up. Correction. Someone
had
gone to Greece. Four life-size, six-foot tall, white marble statues of well-muscled, nude men – without fig leaves – lined a section of the empty receiving room. One of the statues wore a beaver hat angled over his left eye. Another wore a red silk cravat tied mail-coach style about his neck. One had an unbuttoned evening waistcoat, displaying the well-defined muscles on his chest and stomach. And draped on the outstretched muscled arm of the last male statue was an unlaced rose-colored satin corset.
Someone had a sense of humor.
He edged toward the gilded chair, in the opposite direction of said nude men and slowly sat, gripping the gilded arms. Leaning back and thudding out a leg in an effort to get comfortable, he realized that having been seated, he now had a direct level eye view of one statue’s oversized marble cock barely a few feet away.
This was planned.
He winced and shifted sideways in the chair, directing his gaze toward the corset that hung from one of the outstretched arms of the statues.
Silence drummed.
The clicking of self-assured heels echoed down, down, down the stairwell, drifting toward him through the open double doors. Ronan stood and set both hands behind his back, facing the entryway.
Caroline was damn well worth of all this and more.
Ronan let out a breath.
Within moments, a familiar, elderly woman appeared in the doorway of the receiving room. Her thick, silver hair was meticulously arranged in fashionable curls around her pale, aged face. Silk, bright yellow flowers had been woven through its tresses, fashionably matching the shade of her elegant lace gown that showcased a slim, well-corseted frame. A long, expensive-looking string of pearls had been draped from her slender throat to her waist as if to emphasize and draw attention to the sizeable breasts surrounding them.
His uncle
loved
fashionable women with large breasts. Seeing her again reminded Ronan of exactly why his uncle was so intent on marking the territory.
Playful, pretty bright blue eyes met his gaze and in a sultry French-accented voice, she announced, “We meet again, Lord Caldwell.”
He inclined his head. “
Bonjour, Madame de Maitenon. C’est un honneur.
”
She inclined her silvery head, in turn. “The honor is mine, I assure you. But I ask that we speak English. After all, I do not need to practice my French. I
am
French.”
He smiled. “Of course.”
She eyed him. “I received your uncle’s correspondence late yesterday evening. It took me some time to read. It was ten pages long and every inch of parchment covered with ink that had writing
trés
petit
.” She pinched slim fingers together.
Ronan cringed.
“Hughes explained everything in a manner that was most helpful. It will allow me to ask the right questions. I wish to announce that I usually send men to the application process through Lady Chartwell first, before I consider seeing them. For I do not have that many breaths to entertain them all and more importantly, I have a granddaughter whom I am trying to convince to stay in London lest she prance off to Egypt. But you and this unique situation requires attention. Your
incapacité à embrasser
fascinates me. I have never heard of a man with an inability to kiss.”
When a courtesan pointed out to a man he was a freak, it meant he was. He sighed knowing it. “Yes, well…more than that, madame, I am here, not so much to learn how to kiss, for that is all merely physical, but because I wish to learn how to be more…
romantic
.”
Her delicate, older features mischievously brightened. “Ah. I am most pleased to hear you wish to pursue the nuisances of
romance
. Few men do. Romance, after all, is the epitome of showcasing one’s feelings and desires in a manner most men are incapable of naturally exploring.” She lifted a prim forefinger into the air and shook it. “
But
…there is far more to romance than ideology, my lord. Romance is a balance between all things made of not only the heart but also all things made of the flesh. Do not mislead yourself into thinking the two can be separated. The art of kissing cannot be flicked aside, merely to be replaced with words or flowers. It cannot. For it is unique to who we are as humans. Whilst animals nudge, nestle, nibble, rub and lick to show their affections, we, my lord,
kiss
, to show affection.” She paused. “Kissing is a fundamental language
every
man must know. Especially if he is to capture the true essence of romance.”
Which meant, he had to learn how to kiss. Shit. “I see. And uh…in your vast, experienced opinion, madame, do you think I am capable of overcoming my…
incapacité?
”
A breathy sigh escaped her. “I would need to know more. Inform me of a few things. What happens when you attempt to kiss a woman? Describe it.”
“I panic.” That was an understatement.