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He did not need to speak to her in such a crude manner. ‘It is what I do best, if you recall.’
‘Deuce,’ he said. ‘And where shall you perform this lucrative act? In this house? With Linette in the room?’
‘Of course not!’ How dare he suggest such a thing. ‘I have always kept Linette out of the way. Sophie would take her.’
‘Much more proper,’ he said, the corner of his mouth turning down in contempt.
‘I have told you, I am not proper.’
‘And where would Bart and I be? Collecting the money at the door?’
‘Do not be absurd. I cannot talk to you. You do not see reason.’ She stalked off.
How could he not see she must resolve the difficulties she had placed him in? She owed him that much. It was not that she wished to bed anyone, except…except… No, he must recognise how much she was indebted to him. He had rescued her from Farley. For that she would do anything for him. Anything.
She ran up the stairs, but he came right behind. At the top of the stairs, he caught her by the shoulders and spun her around.
‘We will finish this, Madeleine. We will not solve our financial woes in this way, do you hear? You will not speak of this again.’ He dug his fingers into her shoulders.
‘How is it that you could object, Devlin? You know what I am.’ She lowered her voice.
He made a strangled sound. ‘Do you think I wish to think of another man’s hands all over you?’
She stared at him. The hands of many men had touched her.
His fingers slid down her arms. ‘Do you think I could accept money for another man to bed you?’
She swallowed. ‘Farley did.’
‘I am not Farley, Madeleine. I thought you understood that.’
He stood so close, all she needed was to stand on tiptoe and touch her lips to his. She could smell the port on his breath and the taste of it resonated in her mouth. The wish to taste it on him was almost too difficult to bear. He made no move to close the gap between them. It was clearly her choice.
His hands rested gently on her arms. Those hands had once caressed her bare skin. She craved the joy and terror of his body joined to hers. Her feet arched and raised her higher. He uttered a guttural sound and closed the gap between them, his mouth plundering as if he were a man starved. Her own hunger surged as she pressed herself against him and wound her arms around his neck. His lips travelled to her neck, sending sensations straight to her soul.
She wanted him again with all the wantonness of her wretched body. The body that had betrayed her and led to her deserved ruin. She had learned to erase all thought and all feeling in order to play the role Farley bid her play, but Devlin made her tremble with longing. He tore away the safety of her detachment.
She struggled to speak. ‘Do you want me, Devlin?’ Her voice sounded more controlled than she felt. ‘Do you wish to bed me?’
He stilled. Straightening, his eyes narrowed. Her knees began to shake as his silence grew longer.
Finally, he spoke, his tone cold. ‘Am I able to afford you, Miss M?’
He turned and hurried down the stairs and out the front door.
At the town house in Grosvenor Square, the Marquess of Heronvale pushed food around his plate. The cavernous dining room echoed with the clink of his silver fork against the china.
He glanced at his wife. She looked absorbed in her own thoughts, the corners of her eyes pinched with unhappiness. A ball of misery sat in his stomach where food should have been.
He had disappointed her once again, more inventively this time. Indeed, rolling on the floor, trading punches with his youngest brother could hardly have lowered him further in her estimation. Especially since he had lost the fight.
Humiliating.
She had probably championed Devlin, in any event. He could not blame her. She was at ease with his brother in a way she was not with him. There was so little emotion between Serena and himself he would have been surprised if she had taken his side. Serena undoubtedly would think him too severe with Devlin, that a marquess should wield his power with more compassion.
But Devlin had infuriated him with those comments about his wife. Success with women came as easy to Devlin as riding, shooting, gaming. His youngest brother did everything without effort, as well as without thought, while he, the bearer of the title, had laboured for every accomplishment.
How well he remembered Devlin’s birth. He had been home on school holiday, old enough at ten years to take charge of Percy, Helen, Julia, and Lavinia during his mother’s confinement. He smiled inwardly at his less-than-learned explanation to his sisters and brother of exactly what would transpire during the birth. From the moment he’d held the newborn baby in his arms, Ned had been full of pride in this littlest brother. He made a solemn oath, that day, to always protect and defend him.
Devlin had made keeping that vow a challenge. A more reckless individual had never been born. It had been no surprise to Ned that Devlin joined the cavalry. Had Ned not been heir, he might have served his country as well, fighting at his brother’s side, but all he could do was bring a near-dying Devlin back home.
‘Ned? Is something troubling you?’ Serena’s sweet voice broke through his reverie.
‘What?’
‘I thought you might be troubled.’ She averted her eyes.
‘No, I am not.’ She would think him weak, for certain, if she knew his thoughts.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she murmured.
He wished more to beg pardon of her, for his abominable behaviour, but did not know quite how. It seemed to him the silence between them was a condemnation.
‘You disapprove of my dealings with my brother,’ he blurted out.
Her eyebrows flew up in surprise. ‘I would not question your judgement.’
‘You think me too harsh.’
‘I would not presume…’
He dismissed her words with a shake of his head. With trembling fingers, she picked daintily at her food.
After eight years of marriage, his wife remained a stunningly beautiful woman, her restraint the epitome of what became a lady. He could not complain. She was biddable, even when he pressed his carnal urges upon her, something he did as rarely as he could tolerate. The marital act was too painful for her sensibilities, but she craved children and he wished to give them to her.
Another failure on his part.
Ned drained the wine from his glass for the third time. ‘Do you go out tonight, Serena?’
She jumped at the sound of his voice and barely glanced at him. ‘No.’
It was his turn to be surprised. She had lately developed the habit of accompanying friends to the evening entertainments, the ones from which he begged off with increasing frequency.
She pressed her fingertips against her temple. ‘I shall retire early. I…I have the headache.’
He had made her ill. He poured another glass of wine, wanting to express his concern, to offer to get her headache powders, to escort her up to her room and help her into bed.
He did none of those things.
‘If you will excuse me…’ She rose and, without waiting for a reply and probably not expecting one, left him alone in the room.
A footman entered and moved quickly to clear the table. Ned gestured for him to take away the plate from which he had barely eaten. When the man set the brandy in front of him, Ned began to see how much of that bottle he could finish.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_6862001b-3389-52eb-a755-e8255061d162)
D evlin picked a secluded chair at White’s far from the bow window. He intended to sip his brandy in peace, away from the curious passers-by in the street. He wished to steel himself before circulating among the gentlemen of the ton in another attempt to procure employment. But what reason was there to expect this afternoon to differ from the last two weeks? He had made inquiries with the few of his senior officers still alive and exploited every imaginable family connection.
He might as well have bivouacked in a field. In fact, he would have preferred it, sharing cold, damp nights and bawdy soldier’s tales with men who knew life could end with a musket ball the next day.
‘May I join you?’
Devlin glanced up. The elegant figure of the Marquess stood before him. He shrugged his assent.
His brother signalled for a drink and settled in the comfortable chair across from him. ‘How do you go on, Devlin?’
How did Ned think he went on? He and Bart had counted every coin that morning. They had a few days’ escape from the River Tick, no more.
‘Tolerably well,’ he said.
Ned regarded him with a bland expression. What lay beyond that inscrutable countenance was a mystery. Devlin could wait out the silence, even if his brother never spoke.
Ned did not betray a thought, let alone a feeling. ‘I understand you have inquired about employment around town.’
Devlin cocked his head, ever so slightly.
The waiter placed a glass before Ned. ‘Without success, I recollect.’
Devlin favoured him with an ironic grin. ‘I am pleased you are so well informed. Unfortunately, there seems to be a surplus of men such as myself. Soldiers needing work.’
‘A pity.’ Ned raised his glass to his lips.
‘It does not help that the men from whom I seek employment instead contrive to introduce me to their daughters.’
‘Indeed?’
Damn his brother’s implacability. ‘It was not you who spread the tale of our father’s peculiar arrangement for me?’
Ned’s eyes flickered with surprise, not guilt.
Devlin laughed. ‘Not you, I collect. A sister, perhaps?’
Ned’s control returned. ‘Helen is a likely suspect.’
‘Likely,’ Devlin agreed. ‘She has a crony in town, I believe.’
‘And meddling proclivities.’
For a moment the ease between them returned and Devlin could almost forget that his revered brother had unwittingly placed a young woman and her innocent daughter in jeopardy. Ned would disapprove if he knew of Madeleine, but would he be less tight-fisted? Pride prevented Devlin from revisiting his monetary request on his brother. He was less sure why he did not confide about Madeleine.
‘How is Serena?’ he asked instead, seeking neutral ground.
The Marquess’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well.’
Serena was not neutral ground, then. Had Ned’s anger something to do with Serena? Devlin studied him. The Marquess’s bland expression had a hard edge.
‘Good God, Ned. Is there some trouble between you and Serena?’ The sudden thought burst into words.
Ned’s face turned to chiselled granite. ‘Mind your loose tongue. Your voice will carry.’
‘I am sorry,’ Devlin mumbled. Deuce, he had managed to blunder into more disfavour. If others had heard his ill-conceived words, the rumour-mill would carry the tale throughout the ton. He glanced around the room, but no one seemed to have given them the least heed. He hoped.
Ned had not looked around, but maintained his damnable composure. What a soldier he would have made, thought Devlin. He would bet Ned could face down a battalion single-handed without flinching. But would he be able to muster enough emotion to strike? A soldier eventually had to tap into rage. Until their fisticuffs of a fortnight ago, Devlin would not have believed Ned capable of rage.
Devlin felt light-headed. He ought not to have imagined battle. Images, sounds, and smells enveloped him. The thud of horses’ hooves, the cry of battle, the smoke and smell of musket fire. Men screamed. Horses squealed. Metal clanged against metal before thrusting into flesh. Blood sprayed and the stench of death grew stronger.
Devlin pressed his fingers to his temple.
‘Are you unwell?’ Ned’s voice held genuine concern.
Beads of perspiration dampened his forehead, as if the day had not been cool. The incessant thunder of French cannon echoed through his brain and his vision blurred into smoke-filled chaos. He could see the men, the shapes of their noses, the yellowed colour of their teeth, the stunned expressions as his own sabre sliced their throats.
‘Dev, you are white as death. Let me summon a doctor.’
At his brother’s voice, the images dissolved as suddenly as they had come, leaving his emotions in tattered pieces. Devlin suppressed an urge to laugh. As in childhood, his brother had rescued him, this time from his own personal demons.
‘No doctor.’ Devlin’s voice was not quite steady. ‘I was woolgathering for a moment.’ He stood. All notions of grovelling for employment fled. ‘Would you excuse me, Ned? I must leave.’
The brow of the Marquess wrinkled slightly. ‘Are you sure you are not ill?’
Devlin’s mouth lifted at the corner. ‘Poor, perhaps, but not ill. You needn’t worry.’
‘I have my barouche. I will take you home.’
‘Not necessary, brother. The walk will do me good.’ His heart still pounded and his hands trembled. All Devlin wished to do was flee. He touched Ned on the shoulder and hurried away.
A light rainfall greeted him on the street and he closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the cool droplets pattering on his upturned face.
‘Good day, Steele. Been at White’s, I see.’
Devlin opened his eyes and met the affable grin of Lord Farley. He merely nodded and made to continue on his way.
Farley put a hand on his arm. ‘Pray, what is your hurry? Come with me to my establishment. I shall buy you a drink.’
‘I think not.’ Again Devlin tried to leave.
‘Come. You may give me news of Madeleine,’ he persisted.
Devlin shrugged off the man’s hand. ‘I think not.’
