‘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.’
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