by Diane Gaston
He stood instead. ‘I shall take my leave, Miss England. Please tell my brother he shall hear from me.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ She hurried to fetch his hat and gloves and to open the door for him. The child hovered behind her, and he gave the little girl a final smile as he walked out of the door, his barouche pulling up in front of the house.
Linette ran out the door, pointing. ‘Horse! Horse, Mama!’
Miss England rushed out to grab her. Ned caught the child first and held her until Miss England took her hand. Regretting he had to leave the child, Ned continued towards the barouche. He stopped, a thought interrupting the plan half-formed in his head.
He turned back. ‘Miss England?’
She hesitated. ‘Yes, my lord?’
‘Are you married to my brother?’
Surprise flashed across her face and she blushed deep red. ‘No, my lord.’
He continued on his way, climbing onto the barouche and snapping at the rungs while his tiger leapt on to the back.
From an alleyway across the street, black eyes watched the retreating vehicle and glanced back at the mother and child re-entering the house.
What was meant by that tender scene? Lord Farley wondered. The Marquess of Heronvale going all mawkish over Madeleine’s child? Perhaps the man’s fancy ran toward young ones. Rumour said he had no fancy for his ice-maiden wife.
Farley tried to calculate what small fortune a marquess might spend for the rare chance to dally with such a child. He rubbed his hands at the thought.
Perhaps he should have sold the child to settle his debts instead of giving up Madeleine. Madeleine had become so much more difficult since the child was born. He should have got rid of it straight away.
Cursed chit—Madeleine had vowed to slit her own throat if he so much as touched the child, and he’d decided to keep her happy. He’d counted upon her being grateful enough to come willingly to him, like the first time when she’d been flushed with delight. That was what he desired again.
Farley leaned against the lamppost. He removed a pinch of snuff from its box and inhaled it. After a spasm of sneezing, he glanced back at the door she’d walked through, recalling the sway of her hips. She was made for seduction. If ever there was a woman created for passion, it was Madeleine.
So why did she withhold that passion from him? It enraged him. He thought he’d taught her a lesson when he forced her to become the bribe in his crooked games. He’d intended to offer her only a few times, but she’d made him a tidy profit. Men would come to his establishment every night, hoping to win time with her, especially if he offered her only every now and then. Then they returned often, losing more blunt each time.
While she was fat with child she’d earned him nothing. If he’d been in London he’d have dealt with her before it had grown too big to get rid of, but one did not refuse an emperor’s summons or, to be more accurate, one from an emperor’s emissary. Not when the emperor paid well for information gleaned from brandy-loosened tongues and gentlemen desperate to settle gambling debts.
He should have taken her to France with him, but that night before he left she’d angered him, and it had suited him well enough not to set eyes on her for a while. Besides, she’d become something of a patriot. More than once he discovered her poring over newspapers filled with stories about the war. If she had discovered his business dealings with Napoleon, she might have been stupid enough to pass the word to some fool willing to put country above fortune.
Stepping out of the alley onto the pavement, Farley gazed once more at the apartments where Madeleine lived with Devlin Steele. He thought of her naked beneath Steele, and his own loins ached.
He’d have her again, even if he had to kill to get her.
Madeleine paced the floor, wishing Devlin would hurry home and dreading when he would.
What could be worse for Devlin than the Marquess of Heronvale learning of her existence and that of her child? She knew what could be worse—his suspecting the child to be Devlin’s.
Oh, she should never have opened the door. He would have gone away none the wiser had she not.
Linette walked up to her. ‘Mama? Where’s Markiss’s horse?’
‘Gone, Linette,’ she said for what seemed like the hundredth time. Linette had not stopped speaking of those cursed horses. They were beautiful animals, she had to admit.
After what seemed like hours but could barely have been more than one, Devlin walked in. Linette reached him first and was lifted into his arms.
‘Markiss’s horse! Markiss’s horse!’ Linette chattered.
Madeleine tapped her foot in impatience.
Devlin frowned at her. ‘My brother was not at home, so we remain penniless.’
‘He was here.’
Her words were drowned out. Linette grabbed Devlin’s cheeks and yelled, ‘Markiss’s horse!’ as if getting louder would help.
‘What the deuce is she talking about?’ Devlin asked.
‘I told you. Your brother was here. He came here, Devlin. He saw Linette. Markiss. It is her way of saying the Marquess.’
‘Good God,’ Devlin said. ‘What did he want?’
‘To see you.’
‘For what purpose?’
She lifted her arms in frustration. ‘I do not know. He did not confide in me.’
‘Good God. He met you?’
‘Of course he met me.’ Her voice went up an octave. ‘I have told you.’
She knew it was a terrible thing for Devlin’s brother to learn of her existence. Still, it stung to realise Devlin thought so, as well.
Devlin set Linette down, putting his hand to his brow.
‘You need not worry.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I told him I was the housekeeper.’
He threw his head back and laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls of the hallway.
Madeleine glared at him. ‘It is not a jest, Devlin.’
Grinning, he drew her into his arms, even though she tried to pull away. ‘You are nothing like a housekeeper.’
She pushed at his chest. ‘Be serious. What are we to do?’
Linette ran up with her toy horse. ‘Deddy play!’
‘Not now, Lady Lin.’ Devlin continued to hold Madeleine. Linette pulled at his trousers.
‘We do nothing, Maddy,’ he said. ‘Ned would know of us sooner or later. My brother always discovers my secrets.’
Madeleine settled against him. As long as her presence remained a secret, she had an easier time pretending. In the full light of day, however, her existence was a shameful one.
Madeleine rested her head against the comforting beat of Devlin’s heart.
‘Are Sophie and Bart here?’ His deep voice resonated in his chest. It was like feeling the sound, as well as hearing it.
Madeleine did not move from his warm, strong arms. ‘They went to Madame Emeraude’s, but that was a while ago. I believe they may be dallying.’
He chuckled, producing more interesting vibrations. ‘They are the unlikeliest pair.’
No, she thought. We are. A man of Bart’s class may marry a girl, no matter what her reputation. A lord may not.
The next morning Devlin woke, tangled in Madeleine’s embrace. He stared at her face, inches from his and, in sleep, looking innocent as a lamb, so very young and vulnerable. His heart ached with tenderness for her.
She had not come to him in the night. He’d been restless and eager, desire heating his loins until he could wait no longer. He crossed the room, opened the door, and lifted her into his arms. She’d not protested when he carried her to his bed.
He intended to make love to her this morning. More than once, if the child slept long enough. Knowing he must give her up made him hungry for her, as if he needed to get his fill of her while he could. Enough to sustain him for the rest of his life.
Her eyes fluttered open, immediately filling with tenderness. A heartbeat later those eyes registered alarm and then, slowly, carefully, turned blank.
‘Shall I mak
e love to you, Devlin?’ She spoke in that sweet voice that sounded as if it came from someone else. Her hand slid across his scarred chest and descended, nearing to where he was already hard for her.
He caught her wrist. ‘Do not trouble yourself, Miss M.’
He had not expected to see this side of Madeleine again. He’d resigned himself to a limited time with her, but he expected her passion. Had not that much passed between them?
It angered him, made him want to teach her a lesson. He could show her how a man takes what he wants. He could climb atop her and force her to love him, before their time ran out.
Devlin sat up and ran a hand raggedly through his hair. His heart pounded and his throat tightened so that he could not take a breath. The walls of the room closed in on him and he heard the beat of the French drums, the pounding of horses’ hooves charging. Retreat! he thought. Run. Ride. Gallop until your lungs feel like bursting and you are safe behind the line.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and searched for his clothes.
‘What are you doing?’ Madeleine’s modulated voice trembled a bit.
He could show her his anger, but he would be damned if he would let her see this panic that so frequently beset him.
‘I am going out.’ He left the room, still buttoning his trousers.
Madeleine, her breath coming rapidly, waited a few moments before donning her nightdress.
The previous night had been more than her daydreams could have imagined. He created sensations in her that she’d not known possible. Her body had responded to him, and she had performed all the tricks she had been taught to perform. But this time she had meant them. She had wanted to share her pleasure with him, wanted to feel him under her hand and her lips, wanted to bind him to her forever.
She must not allow herself to love him. She must give up foolish dreaming and prepare for leaving him. She must hope that the lady he wed would be worthy of him, and that he would eventually fall in love with her and be happy.
Such a thought was too miserable by half.
Madeleine opened the door connecting her room and Devlin’s. Linette still slept, but in a short space of time the sun would send its fingers through the window to poke her awake. Madeleine hurried to dress herself and to drag a comb through her unruly curls. In the scratched mirror, her lips looked swollen from Devlin’s kisses. She lightly touched her breast, remembering how his hand had felt there the night before, remembering the ferocity of their lovemaking.
Her body sprang to life. The light from the rising sun increased its brilliance. The sounds of Linette’s breathing grew louder. From the open window, she could smell dampness in the cool morning air. She could not afford to feel so alive again. She vowed to tame the desire he aroused in her and to become dead again. As she had been at Farley’s.
After all, leaving Devlin would be a little like dying.
Devlin strode through the streets with only one thought in his mind. To run. To ride. To be on horseback again with the sensation that nothing could catch him. No man, no musket ball, no blue eyes that stared blankly through him.
He quickened his pace as he neared his brother’s stable. Entering, he called a ‘halloo’ and walked past the gleaming berlin carriage, a well-sprung curricle, and what appeared to be a brand new barouche. The smell of hay, so long missed, came back to comfort him.
A squat, wiry figure emerged from the most distant stall, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘Yes, sir. What is it, sir?’
Devlin peered at him as he walked closer. The man was about his age and familiar. ‘Jem, is that you?’
The man broke into a wide smile. ‘Lord Devlin, well I’ll be. Good to see you again, sir.’
They had grown up together at Heronvale, separated by their stations in life. Jem had been born to the stable, while Devlin belonged in the great house with its portrait hall of ancestors, its armour and family silver. When he and Jem met in the horses’ stalls, however, they were of one mind. Horses. They could spend hours talking of horseflesh. On horseback, they rode for miles.
Devlin reached out his hand, which Jem accepted with hesitation. ‘What are you doing here, Jem? By God, I have not seen you in years.’
‘Yes, sir, since you went off to fight the Frogs.’ Jem glanced around proudly. ‘His lordship gave me the running of the stable here.’
‘Indeed?’ Devlin surveyed his surroundings again. ‘Well done, Jem. He could not have chosen a better man. How goes it with you? You are well, it seems. What of your mother?’
‘Passed away two years ago, I’m sad to say.’ Jem’s mother had worked in Heronvale’s kitchens. She had been a jolly, generous soul.
‘I am sorry. I had not heard.’ Devlin felt guilty for not having known, not having even thought of her in that many years.
‘I’m married now, sir,’ Jem said, a proud expression on his face. ‘I have a son and another babe on the way.’
‘That is excellent news.’ It was on the tip of Devlin’s tongue to tell all about Madeleine, Linette, Bart and Sophie, but it could not be right to do so. Jem had a real family. His was not.
They stood awkwardly for a moment before Jem asked, ‘And how can I be serving you today?’
Devlin had almost forgotten his purpose, though it now seemed less necessary to thunder away on horseback at breakneck speed. ‘I had a fancy to ride this morning. Did the Marchioness send word of me using the stable?’
‘She did, m’lord.’
Devlin clapped the man on the back. ‘Show me your animals, Jem, and help me select the best bit of blood.’
As they toured the stable, Devlin selected Ned’s black gelding, the only horse to truly tempt him. He spied another spirited animal, a mare.
‘Jem, I have another request…’
From the kitchen where she washed the morning dishes, Madeleine heard the front door open. Devlin’s voice roared, ‘Bart!’
She ignored it and returned to her chores. Sophie had become more accustomed to Madeleine’s insistence on helping with the work. The little maid’s success as a seamstress helped her relinquish her hold on every menial task that needed to be done. That and the fact that her cough had become no better.
Linette came barrelling into the kitchen.
‘Mama! Mama! Horses. Horses.’ The little girl pulled her by the hand and there was no refusing. Madeleine followed, though she preferred to avoid Devlin.
Linette led her out the front door to where Bart was holding the reins of two of the most beautiful horses she had ever seen. The gelding was so black the sun on its coat reflected blue. The mare was a rich chestnut. The steeds’ eyes shone with intelligence and good breeding. Their superior long legs impatiently pounded the cobblestones of the street.
She noticed the mare was saddled for a lady to ride.
Linette squealed something incoherent, and it was all Madeleine could do to keep hold of the child’s hand.
‘What are you about, Bart?’ she asked.
‘Dev asked me to hold them.’ Bart scooped Linette up in his free arm, cooing to the child, ‘Now, lass, pet the nose gently.’
Linette was in raptures, hardly able to be contained in Bart’s arm.
Madeleine smiled at her daughter’s enthusiasm. ‘What is this?’
Devlin appeared at her side, responding to her question in a low voice. ‘Have you forgotten what riding horses look like, Maddy?’ He reached for Linette.
He was dressed in riding gear: buckskins clinging to his muscular thighs, top boots gleaming with polish, a riding coat of deepest blue. Her heart caught in her throat and she turned away from him.
‘Horses, Deddy!’ the child cried.
‘Indeed, Lady Lin.’ He grinned at Linette and placed her on the back of the black horse, holding on to her as he did.
Linette looked tiny atop the huge steed. ‘Devlin, please take her off. She is too little—’
He spoke stiffly. ‘I’ll not let any harm come to her.’ Without turning toward her, he continued, ‘Madele
ine, you will accompany me for this morning ride?’
The lady’s horse was for her? A thrill rushed through her, replaced by trepidation. She should not spend time with him.
‘I have no clothes.’
‘Yes, you do. On your bed is the riding dress.’
She had refused the riding dress at the modiste. He had ignored her. ‘I told you I’d have no need of riding clothes.’
‘You were wrong. You need them now.’
More useless money spent on her. Perhaps if he had simply given her the money he spent on clothes, she could have found her own place to live and he would be free not to marry for her.
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. ‘What else did you buy that I asked you not to?’
‘The evening dress.’
‘The evening dress!’ Her voice became shrill.
‘And shoes to match.’
She gritted her teeth. ‘Useless waste of money.’
Devlin spoke firmly. ‘Madeleine, change into the riding dress and return here forthwith. We will ride.’ It was a command straight from a battlefield.
‘Yes, my lord.’ She turned and made sure she did not rush up the steps and into the house.
Once out of his sight, her anger blazed. She stomped into her room, and saw the riding dress laid out on her bed. It was an elegant outfit, a deep crimson, the colour rich and luxurious. She fingered the fine weave of the cloth and could not help but admire the garment’s excellent cut.
She picked up the matching hat. A single feather adorned it, curled into a crescent to accent her chin. The hat had netting she could pull down over her face.
She had never expected to ride again. Indeed, she had settled in her mind that giving up horses was fitting punishment for fate to bestow upon her. When Lord Farley had first seen her on horseback, she had worn her brother’s outgrown breeches and shirt instead of a proper riding dress. His old clothing was tight on her newly emerging curves. Now she knew how such garments must have inflamed Farley’s senses, and she’d had no sense to restrain herself.