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He cocked his head sceptically. ‘You are frightened. I do not understand. What frightened you? Did I hurt you?’ He shifted to lie beside her.
She avoided the puzzled look in his eye. ‘No, you did not hurt me, my lord. I am not frightened. You may proceed.’
His hand grasped her chin and brought her face closer. ‘I’ll not proceed, as you say, until you explain.’
She could not explain what she did not understand. Even when Farley had seduced her and her body responded so wantonly, she had not felt like this. So…so excited and breathless.
Was this what young women felt when they loved the man they bedded? Was this a feeling she could never have or deserve?
A tear trickled down her cheek. As it appeared from beneath her mask, he wiped it away with his finger. ‘There now,’ he murmured, stroking her cheek. ‘No need to cry.’
‘It is of no consequence,’ she said, stifling a sob, furious at her tears. Farley would be even angrier, if he knew. Weeping was not in the carefully fashioned script. ‘Please don’t tell Lord Farley about this.’
‘Now, now.’ He sat up and settled her in front of him, wrapping his arms around her. ‘Why would I ever do that? Come. Tell Devlin what troubles you.’
‘Devlin?’ His arms felt like a warm blanket around her. She wished she could remain cosseted within them and never, ever leave.
‘That’s my name. Lieutenant Devlin Steele of the First Royal Dragoons. Youngest brother of the very honourable Marquess of Heronvale. At your service, Miss England.’ He cuddled her closer to him. ‘Tell me what is wrong.’
She released a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Sometimes…sometimes I wish to be what I appear, not what I am.’ The tears came in earnest now, soaking the feathers of her mask.
If only she had not gone riding that fateful day. If only Farley had not seen her scandalous attire, her brother’s old clothes already too small for her. If only she had known that kissing a man could lead to so much more.
She fingered the damp feathers of her mask, hoping they would dry without losing shape or she would be punished.
‘Shh, now, it will be all right,’ he whispered.
No, nothing would ever be all right again.
The lieutenant held her and rocked her and murmured comforting words into her ear. It was a long cry, longer than any she had allowed herself since the night she’d learned Farley had other plans for her besides marriage.
Soon enough, though, she recovered. She pulled away from him and turned so he could not see her face as she removed the mask to wipe her eyes with the linen sheet. When she turned back her mask was in place.
‘Now have you finished, little watering pot?’ he asked, his lovely green eyes the kindest she had ever seen.
She nodded.
‘Silly goose.’ He tapped her on the nose and slid off the bed to grope on the floor for his clothes. Still unsteady, he stumbled and bumped against the bedpost.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
He laughed softly. ‘Getting dressed. Do not worry, miss, I will forgo your favours tonight.’ He cast her a long glance, a woeful expression on his face. ‘Though it may be more difficult than piquet duty in freezing rain.’
‘No, you mustn’t.’ She pulled him back, trying to urge him back on top of her. ‘It would not suit. I am expected to perform.’
‘No, sweet Miss England. You have performed enough tonight.’ He stood again.
Madeleine stared at him, trying not to be transfixed by the flexing of his well-defined muscles as he groped for his trousers. She could not bear it if he should leave so soon.
He turned that mischievous grin upon her, his dimple emerging. ‘We must, of course, give a show for the others in the next room. Create proper noise. Make the poor buggers envious.’
She giggled.
‘Not laughter. Passion. Like this.’ He let out a loud moan. ‘More! More! More!’
‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ she returned. They both burst out laughing, holding their mouths to keep it silent.
He collapsed on the bed. ‘Stop. It hurts to laugh.’ He grabbed his side. ‘Ow.’
She pulled his hand away. To the side of his abdomen there was a scar, jagged and still pink from recent healing.
‘You were injured at…at…?’ She traced the scar with her finger.
‘At Maguilla? As you would say, it is of no consequence.’ He smiled, but without joy. ‘We chased a regiment of French cavalry until the tide was turned and their reserves chased us. I made a foolish attempt to rally the men. A Frenchman met me with a lance instead. The wound is healed now. In two days’ time I return to my regiment.’
‘Back to the war?’
‘Of course. It is a soldier’s duty.’
Two days and he would return to war. He could be injured again. He could lose his life. Never again see his precious England. And, if she knew Farley, Devlin Steele would also return to war penniless.
‘Lieutenant?’
‘You must call me Devlin.’
She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Devlin, then. Have you won at cards tonight? I mean, in addition to winning me?’
He laughed. ‘Will you be in search of my money next?’
This offended. She had principles, after all. ‘I want none of your money, but you must refuse to play further. Make some excuse.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘The game is not honest.’
The silly men who lost fortunes to Farley while trying to win a second chance with her never comprehended. No one won her twice in a night.
‘The devil,’ he mumbled. ‘I never thought to inquire of Farley’s reputation. I should have known better. I shall make my excuses to him. I am indebted to you. You are quite a lady.’
‘Don’t elevate me, sir. I am just as I seem.’
He laughed. ‘You seem quite like the misses in the marriage mart. A young lady of quality.’ He smiled. His eyes turned kind and his voice tender. ‘Indeed, that is what you are. A young lady of quality.’
Her face grew hot with shame. ‘No.’
He struggled to get into his trousers, hopping on one foot and making no progress.
She did not wish him to leave. ‘Lieutenant?’
‘Devlin, remember?’
‘Devlin. Will England win the war?’
He momentarily ceased his struggle. ‘Without a doubt. It is nearly done, I think.’
‘Wellington will see to it, will he not? And you soldiers who fight the battles with him?’
‘Worry not, little miss.’ He ran his finger over her brow. ‘England will endure.’
Madeleine reached out and placed her hand over his scar.
‘Lieutenant?’
‘Yes?’ He had become still, too, looking directly into her eyes.
‘I wish to make love to you.’ She slid her fingers up his chest.
‘Miss England, it is not necessary.’
She reached behind her head and untied her mask. With trembling fingers, she removed it. His eyes darkened.
She moved closer. ‘I will make love to you. It will be my gift, because you must return to battle.’ With one hand stroking his hair, the other moved downward. Farley had taught her where to touch to arouse. This time, with Lieutenant Devlin Steele of the First Royal Dragoons, it gave her pleasure.
He moaned, softer this time. She clasped her hand behind his head and brought him uncomplaining to her lips. Urging him atop her, she gasped as the firmness of his body bore down on her. Her heart beat faster. She would truly make love to this soldier, this kind man who had been willing to comfort her.
He eased himself inside her with exquisite gentleness, and what typically caused her to deaden all emotion gave unexpected delight. She thrilled to the feel of him filling her, revelling in each stroke, each scrape of his chest against hers, each breath on her face. The only sound she heard was the clap of their bodies coming together and their panting breath. She matched his rhythm, stroke for stroke, press for press, and the sensations he created in her became urgent, spurring her on with each thrust. His pace quickened and her need grew. She would burst with pleasure, she was sure. She would shatter into a thousand sparkling shards. She would escape herself, this life she was forced to lead, the dismal future, in this brief space of time with Lieutenant Devlin Steele.
He collapsed on top of her, his need satisfied with hers. Sliding off, he lay facing her, his eyes half-closed, his skin aglow with a sheen of sweat. Madeleine let her gaze wander languidly over his face, memorising each feature, committing each curve and line to memory. She needed to remember him. She needed to dream of her Dragoon returning victorious from the war, coming to whisk her away. She would need for him to come to her tomorrow and the next day and the next.
The fantasy would comfort, though it would never come true.
‘Sweet England,’ he murmured. ‘Thank you.’
She kissed him again, boldly giving him her tongue, tasting him. Brandy would never again taste so vile. It would be how he tasted. She inhaled his masculine scent, filling her lungs and memory with it, as his seed had filled her. She entwined her legs with his. He moved away from her kiss and grinned at her as she arched her pelvis to his.
‘Ah, England, you shall be most difficult to leave.’ As she placed her finger in the dimple on his cheek, he pressed his fingers into the soft flesh of her buttocks. She felt his passion flare back to life and she made a primitive sound deep in her throat.
As he entered her for the second time, Madeleine whispered. ‘Lieutenant Devlin Steele. I shall remember you.’
Chapter Two
London, April 1816
D evlin Steele glanced up from the cards in his hand. The acrid smoke and dim light muted the gaudy red velvet of the gaming room. He reached for his glass and set it down again. The prodigious amount of brandy he had already consumed threatened to fog his brain.
His months back on English soil were as hazy as his present thinking. Snatches of memory. His brother, the imperious Marquess, rescuing him from the dirty makeshift hospital in Brussels. Days drifting in and out of consciousness at Heronvale, his sisters hovering around him, dispatched there to return him to health. Eventual recovery and a flight to London for a frenzy of dissipation meant to banish images of blood and horror and pain. Thus far, Devlin had managed to gamble and debauch away his quarter’s entitlement. What capital he’d possessed had gone to money-lenders, but at present his pockets were flush, an unexpected surprise at Lord Farley’s table.
‘Your bet, Steele?’ Farley’s smooth voice now had an edge. His foot tapped the carpet.
Devlin stared at his cards, blinking to focus on the hearts and spades and diamonds. He had avoided Farley’s gaming hell until this night, preferring an honest game, but damned if the man had not sought him out at White’s. Predictable, Devlin figured, after he’d been tossing blunt all over town. Ripe for fleecing, by all accounts. A perfect pigeon for Farley.
He smiled inwardly. Farley had not yet heard the River Tick was already seeping into Devlin’s boots. All the fleece had been long shorn.
‘I’ll pass.’ Devlin barely glanced at the man seated across from him, concentrating instead on keeping his wits about him. Knowing Farley dealt a dishonest hand gave Devlin a slight advantage, if he could but hold on to it.
The cards were too good, though. Farley must be seducing him with a run of luck. He bet cautiously, against the cards, and avoided losing the successive hands. Farley’s brow furrowed.
Rumour had it that Farley had lost a fortune in bad investments. Moreover, Napoleon’s exile to St Helena had brought an end to the lucrative smuggling business everyone knew he ran. Farley was mortgaged to the hilt, a situation to make a man desperate—and desperate men made mistakes. War had taught Devlin that.
Farley indeed became more reckless, and Devlin stacked his chips higher.
Farley dealt the next hand, and Devlin carefully watched his expression. The man could still be considered handsome, though hard living had etched lines at the corner of his mouth and eyes. With his thin elegant nose, hair once fair, now peppered with grey, he had the look of the aristocrat he was, though his family fortunes had been squandered by an ancestry of fools. Typical of society, Lord Farley might not be a welcome suitor to the daughters of the ton, but, in the world of gentlemen who enjoyed his brandy, his card tables, and the young woman whose favours he doled out to the select few, Farley was top o’ the trees.
Farley’s fingers tapped a nervous tattoo on the table. ‘Steele, I believe I could allow you some time with our Miss M. She is delightful tonight. A Spanish maiden. Perhaps she will remind you of your service in Spain.’
Devlin peered over the fan of cards in his hand. ‘I have no wish to be reminded of Spain.’
He placed his cards on the table, and Farley blanched, pushing another stack of chips to Devlin’s side.
The man plastered on a smile, but a nervous twitch had commenced under his right eye. ‘I think you might recollect you won a time with Miss M once before. I assure you, she remains in good figure and has added to the delights she may offer.’
Devlin remembered her. Indeed, memory of her lovely face, so pale against her dark hair, had often warmed lonely nights as the British waited for Napoleon’s army to attack. Her spirit and sensibility had intrigued him more than young ladies in drawing rooms could do. Not that he had mixed in society to any great degree. Good God, he’d never even set foot in Almack’s.
Devlin smiled at his host. ‘I’m sure I’d be delighted to renew my acquaintance, sir. Perhaps after a hand or two.’
How long ago had he shared that memorable space of time with her? Three years and more? Just after Maguilla. What had her life been like under the thumb of this man?
Farley’s brow broke out in beads of sweat. Devlin suppressed his smile. The man was in trouble. Throwing caution to the wind, Devlin made a hearty bet. The tic in Farley’s eye quickened.
The cards were called, and the man on Devlin’s right let out a whoop. So intent on besting Farley, Devlin had forgotten the other player. As Devlin gave up half his stack of chips, he vowed not to continue such carelessness.
‘Enough for me, gentlemen. I think I shall stop before Barnes here takes my whole stack.’
Barnes bellowed with laughter. ‘I’d be pleased to do that, Steele.’ He gathered his winnings, leaving Farley with a scattering of chips too small to stack.
‘Another time,’ Devlin said, standing.
‘One more hand.’ Farley’s voice was thick and tense. ‘Don’t deny me the chance to recoup, Steele. One more hand is all I ask.’
It would hardly be civil to refuse. Devlin bowed slightly and sat back down. One more hand couldn’t break him, though that last loss had hurt a bit. Farley would have been wiser to quit. The man had lost all card sense. Devlin doubted he could even cheat effectively at this point. Barnes, too, was flush with his winning streak and eager to extend it.
Play was fierce. Devlin bet moderately, intent only on preserving his present winnings, but the cards came like magic. Was Farley setting him up, or had true luck shone upon him?
Caution be damned, he thought. Life’s the real gamble. Devlin bet deep.
And won.
Barnes good-naturedly laughed off his losses, still ahead with his one spectacular hand. Farley slumped back in his chair, his face drained of all colour.
