large circle of enemies.
Madame de Maitenon tilted her head slightly and puckered her lips as she perused the length of Charlotte’s body. “Let them recognize you. It will bring more men. And more men means more money.”
Charlotte bit back a smile. She had to admit, the idea was rather intriguing. It wasn’t as if she had a reputation to lose. Or anything else for that matter. Besides, she needed the money. And depending on how well the school did, perhaps she’d even be able to indulge in chocolate rolls again. And champagne.
Madame de Maitenon reached out and grasped Charlotte’s shoulders, delivering more of that heavenly scent of mint. “Understand, chérie , that I have not even told my own granddaughter, Maybelle, about the school. It is a concept even she would have trouble accepting. Which is why if I intend to be successful in this, I will need alliances. People I can trust to do my bidding. People like you.”
Charlotte glanced over at the giant, who now towered beside them. He sighed and wiped his dusty, massive hands against the expanse of his livery. She would certainly be better protected. And wouldn’t need to be at the mercy of male charity. What was even more promising was that the men of London would finally receive a good spanking of an education that each and every one of them deserved.
Charlotte stepped outside the woman’s grasp and stuck out her right hand, announcing in a business-minded tone, “The tunnel is at your service, Madame. As am I.”
The woman grabbed Charlotte’s bare hand with both of hers and shook it excitedly, a laugh bubbling from her lips. “Magnifique!”
Madame de Maitenon released her and swept a gloved hand toward the entrance of the tunnel. “Now allow me to show you what is on the other side. For that is where the réel adventure begins. Harold? Come. Lead the way.”
Lesson Four
S o you think you are a knight in bright, shining armor? Pray, humor me, and think again .
Has no one ever told you the reason why so many knights carry such large, wooden lances? Why, it’s because they’re all desperately trying to make up for all those lost female glances .
— The School of Gallantry
London
Early May 1830, morning
Alexander William Baxendale, the third Earl of Hawksford, had never once lost a wager. Not in all of his one and thirty years. And it had nothing to do with luck, really. Luck had never existed in his realm. Nor did he believe it existed in any realm, despite what some people—namely Caldwell—thought. It was simply a matter of having an innate understanding of what was possible and what was impossible. And anyone who thought differently ought to be shot. Preferably in the ass.
No, he was by no means a fool. But. If there was one wager he knew he could always win, it almost invariably involved a woman. For he understood them. A bit too well.
Though only those under the age of fifty.
And Caldwell, the damn son of a bitch, had had the temerity to take advantage of that. Which is why Alexander was now in the rot he was in, being led God knows where.
“Oh, come, Hawksford.” Caldwell, who sat on the opposite side of the carriage, tapped the side of Alexander’s leather boot with his own. “Lady Waverly may be two and seventy and oh so proper, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t interested in hitching up her skirts. Or pulling down your trousers. I told you that battle-ax has been trying to get her hands on you all these years.”
Alexander pinned Caldwell with a hard stare, trying not to think about what he’d endured in the name of their wager. “You still haven’t elaborated as to how she got into my house. Or into my bedchamber.”
Caldwell slowly grinned, his dark brown eyes practically sparkling. “Women always find a way to get what they want. The fact that Lady Waverly not only entered your house but wanted to ride you all night long proves that your viewpoint about respectable women closing their gates after fifty is
Madame de Maitenon tilted her head slightly and puckered her lips as she perused the length of Charlotte’s body. “Let them recognize you. It will bring more men. And more men means more money.”
Charlotte bit back a smile. She had to admit, the idea was rather intriguing. It wasn’t as if she had a reputation to lose. Or anything else for that matter. Besides, she needed the money. And depending on how well the school did, perhaps she’d even be able to indulge in chocolate rolls again. And champagne.
Madame de Maitenon reached out and grasped Charlotte’s shoulders, delivering more of that heavenly scent of mint. “Understand, chérie , that I have not even told my own granddaughter, Maybelle, about the school. It is a concept even she would have trouble accepting. Which is why if I intend to be successful in this, I will need alliances. People I can trust to do my bidding. People like you.”
Charlotte glanced over at the giant, who now towered beside them. He sighed and wiped his dusty, massive hands against the expanse of his livery. She would certainly be better protected. And wouldn’t need to be at the mercy of male charity. What was even more promising was that the men of London would finally receive a good spanking of an education that each and every one of them deserved.
Charlotte stepped outside the woman’s grasp and stuck out her right hand, announcing in a business-minded tone, “The tunnel is at your service, Madame. As am I.”
The woman grabbed Charlotte’s bare hand with both of hers and shook it excitedly, a laugh bubbling from her lips. “Magnifique!”
Madame de Maitenon released her and swept a gloved hand toward the entrance of the tunnel. “Now allow me to show you what is on the other side. For that is where the réel adventure begins. Harold? Come. Lead the way.”
Lesson Four
S o you think you are a knight in bright, shining armor? Pray, humor me, and think again .
Has no one ever told you the reason why so many knights carry such large, wooden lances? Why, it’s because they’re all desperately trying to make up for all those lost female glances .
— The School of Gallantry
London
Early May 1830, morning
Alexander William Baxendale, the third Earl of Hawksford, had never once lost a wager. Not in all of his one and thirty years. And it had nothing to do with luck, really. Luck had never existed in his realm. Nor did he believe it existed in any realm, despite what some people—namely Caldwell—thought. It was simply a matter of having an innate understanding of what was possible and what was impossible. And anyone who thought differently ought to be shot. Preferably in the ass.
No, he was by no means a fool. But. If there was one wager he knew he could always win, it almost invariably involved a woman. For he understood them. A bit too well.
Though only those under the age of fifty.
And Caldwell, the damn son of a bitch, had had the temerity to take advantage of that. Which is why Alexander was now in the rot he was in, being led God knows where.
“Oh, come, Hawksford.” Caldwell, who sat on the opposite side of the carriage, tapped the side of Alexander’s leather boot with his own. “Lady Waverly may be two and seventy and oh so proper, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t interested in hitching up her skirts. Or pulling down your trousers. I told you that battle-ax has been trying to get her hands on you all these years.”
Alexander pinned Caldwell with a hard stare, trying not to think about what he’d endured in the name of their wager. “You still haven’t elaborated as to how she got into my house. Or into my bedchamber.”
Caldwell slowly grinned, his dark brown eyes practically sparkling. “Women always find a way to get what they want. The fact that Lady Waverly not only entered your house but wanted to ride you all night long proves that your viewpoint about respectable women closing their gates after fifty is
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