by Diane Gaston
He stiffened. ‘I have no other choice. I need to support her and the child. How else may I do that? Your husband controls my money, so I must do as he bids.’
‘I still cannot like it,’ she murmured.
‘I cannot like it either.’ He gave her arm a fond squeeze. ‘I promise you I will be honourable to whomever I marry, Serena.’
‘Oh, Devlin!’ she sighed.
The carriage pulled up to the Marquess’s town house. Devlin hopped out and turned to assist Serena.
He walked her to her door. ‘Thank you, sister, for accompanying me. I could not have endured this evening without you.’
Serena did not know what to say in return. She knew she would attend another such evening if Ned required her to do so, but she felt sick at being a part of something that boded so ill for everyone.
Devlin stepped into the hall with her and gave her a quick peck on the cheek before leaving. As Serena turned to the stairs, she saw Ned staring down at her. Her heart quickened. He had waited for her! She hurried up the stairs, his eyes watching her every step. As she neared the top, he turned and walked into his bedchamber, shutting the door loudly behind him.
When Devlin returned to his apartments, Madeleine was sitting on the stairs, hugging her knees.
‘I waited for you,’ she said.
He gathered her into his arms with the overwhelming feeling that he had arrived home where he belonged.
She drew him into his room. ‘Tell me of Almack’s.’
He kicked off his shoes and unbuttoned his coat. She helped him remove it.
‘I shall play valet again,’ she said. ‘But, please, tell me of Almack’s. Was it beautiful? Tell me of its decorations.’
He tried to remember enough to answer her questions. ‘It was plain. Indeed, I cannot recall that there were any decorations to speak of.’
Madeleine gave him a sceptical look as she untied his neckcloth. He must be joking with her. She recalled her sisters rhapsodising about the day they would attend Almack’s. At the time, she thought it silly, but she’d always taken for granted that her future would include visits to ‘the seventh heaven’.
‘Do be serious, Devlin. I truly wish to know of it.’
He exercised his neck, free of its confining collar. ‘I speak the truth. The assembly rooms were plain, nothing to signify. Seating around the edge. Plenty of space for dancing.’
She sighed, exasperated. ‘Very well. Tell me of the dresses. What did the ladies wear? Were the dresses beautiful?’
He sat on the edge of his bed and removed his stockings. ‘The dresses were of light colours, mostly. Lots of white.’
‘Well, of course.’
She thought about the young ladies in dresses of white or pale pinks, yellows, and blues. Privileged, protected, caring only for the clothes they wore, the parties they were to attend, the prospective husbands they were to meet. Had he met a young lady there this night? Had he been attracted by her beauty and poise? Her unblemished reputation? It did not bear thinking of.
She hung his coat and picked up the scattering of clothes he had left on the floor. As she turned back to him, he was pulling his white linen shirt over his head, leaving his chest bare. She must become accustomed to the thrill of seeing him so, his muscles defined, the hair of his chest an inviting shadow.
She must also become accustomed to the idea that another woman would claim the privilege of running her hands up that expanse of male beauty. She brushed his jacket. ‘Tell me of the music, then. Was it wonderful?’
He stood, barefoot, bare-chested, clad only in his knee breeches. ‘The music? The orchestra played dance music. You know, country dances, waltzes and such.’ He walked to her, placing his hand on her shoulder.
‘Waltzes?’ The scandalous dance in which ladies and gentlemen touched each other. Had he touched one of Almack’s elegant ladies in a waltz? She began to regret her curiosity of this night. ‘I suppose you danced the waltz?’
‘Indeed,’ he murmured, turning her around. She refused to look at him. ‘It is now accepted at Almack’s. Have you not had the pleasure of dancing the waltz?’
‘My duties at Lord Farley’s did not include waltzing.’
He lifted her chin so that she was forced to see his eyes in the candlelight. He placed her hand on his shoulder and took her other hand in his. ‘I shall show you the steps.’
He counted out the steps. Back step, side step, together. Forward, side, together. His hand at her back guided her as he performed the steps slowly, gradually increasing the pace. Back, side, together. Forward, side, together.
Soon they were swirling around the room, and Madeleine was swept up in the dance and the pleasure of being in his arms. He hummed the music. Bump, bump, bump. Da, da, da. She laughed at how silly he sounded, and he continued louder, smiling at her.
As they twirled to the music he made, he drew her flush against his chest. With only her thin nightdress between them, she felt as well as heard his resonant voice. Her hand moved to his neck, her fingers into his hair. The music stopped when his mouth found hers and a new tune commenced, a new rhythm that carried them into his bed and relieved them of the remainder of their clothing.
This was a dance she still feared a little, but so much more did she crave it. His hands on her flesh. His tongue dancing with hers. The excitation when he entered her. The transport when her pleasure exploded.
The climax of the dance left her panting.
‘That is not precisely as the waltz is done at Almack’s,’ he said.
She smiled. For the moment, she would pretend she was his exclusive partner in this waltz, and would content herself with that fact. ‘It is a lovely dance,’ she said.
Chapter Fifteen
As time progressed, Madeleine’s days were spent in glorious domesticity. She could almost pretend she, Devlin and Linette were a family. She and Devlin shopped together, purchasing various sundries they’d previously done without, finding treats to bring home to Linette. They took Linette to the park. They sat in quietly in the parlour, Devlin playing with Linette and her wooden horse, Madeleine stitching laboriously. Soon, however, it became necessary for Devlin to make afternoon calls, shortening the illusion. Every evening was taken up with some splendid event. This night it was the Elbingtons’ Ball, purported to be the event of the Season. Invitations were highly prized.
Madeleine helped Devlin dress as she’d done each night he left her in search of a woman to marry.
As he tried tying his neckcloth for the third time, he said, ‘Maddy, we must talk of the future.’
She could not think of the future. Her mind was too filled with the present, with the idea that another woman would be in his arms tonight, dancing the waltz, perhaps planning a different future with him.
He went on, ‘I think the country, don’t you? A place for you to have a horse, and Linette a pony…’
‘Whatever you decide, Devlin.’
What did it matter, after all, when another woman would spend both days and nights with him?
Madeleine smoothed the lapels of his coat and stood back to survey her handiwork. He looked dazzlingly handsome in his black coat, snowy white breeches and linens. How could any woman resist him? She kissed him goodbye and sent him off, pretending good humour, and returned to sew by candlelight, feeling empty inside.
When Devlin entered Lady Elbington’s ball, the noise and crush was as unwelcome as the memories of battle. Indeed, settings like this one, with its noise, bustle, and discreet forms of indiscretion, were now the only places unwanted memories of battle threatened to intrude. Madeleine had chased them away from other parts of his life.
Hearing the faint echo of French cannonade in the rumbling of the voices, Devlin scanned the room. Miss Reynolds gave him a meaningful look from the far corner. He made his way to her side, where two gentlemen half in their cups paid court to her, undoubtedly drawn by her fair hair and skin, and the décolletage of her gauzy lime gown.
Amanda Reynolds
and Devlin had developed an understanding of a peculiar sort. Neither had any particular interest in the other, but each found the other to be of use. Miss Reynolds used Devlin when she needed to rid herself of the unwanted attentions of other men, or to make her chosen suitor jealous. Devlin used Miss Reynolds as protection from young ladies who might pin hopes on him. As long at his attention seemed at least partially engaged by the current Diamond, no matchmaking mama fancied her daughter his favourite.
Devlin bowed to her. ‘Is this my dance, Miss Reynolds?’
‘I do believe so, sir,’ she replied. Some poor hapless soul had lost his moment with her. He suspected it was the young buck approaching whose eyes bulged with anger.
As they began the set, she thanked him. ‘I do not know when I was in such need of rescue.’
Miss Reynolds delighted in the dance as she appeared to delight in every activity associated with courtship. When the set ended, Devlin caught the eye of the Earl of Greythorne, the gentleman Miss Reynolds hoped to bring up to scratch. Greythorne looked daggers at him.
‘My rival has arrived,’ he said.
Miss Reynolds grinned. ‘Looking deliciously jealous. My thanks to you again.’
Devlin delivered Miss Reynolds to a group of her friends and made his way to Miss Duprey, feeling faintly guilty at the pleased expression on Miss Duprey’s face as he approached. It would not be a disservice to her to engage her in a loveless marriage, would it?
He bowed to her. ‘Good evening, Miss Duprey.’
She smiled shyly. ‘Lord Devlin.’
He chatted with her in the inconsequential ways expected—of her health, her family’s health, the weather. He engaged her for the supper dance, which happened to be a waltz. When her next partner came, he withdrew.
Devlin went in search of Serena, who he knew would be seated among the dowagers. Ned had taken to accompanying Serena and Devlin to the various entertainments. Very unusual of him, Devlin gathered from Serena. Ned spent little time in the card room, instead staying within sight of his wife, though dancing rarely with her. Devlin presumed the main purpose of Ned’s presence was to keep watch over his younger brother, but it was not well done of Ned to so ignore his wife.
Devlin found Serena and sat beside her.
She cast him a look that barely disguised her concern. ‘You dance often with Miss Reynolds.’
‘We have become friends of a strange sort,’ he replied. ‘She relishes all this nonsense and I—’ He was about to say that he detested it, but caught himself in time. ‘Worry not, sister, there is nothing in it.’
While he tried to decide which of the young ladies present would be safe to dance with, Serena’s gaze never left the couples performing the set. A wistful expression came across her face. Curse his brother for neglecting her.
‘Are you engaged for the next dance, Serena? I would be honoured, if you are not.’ The music had stopped. He stood and extended his hand to her.
‘Devlin, you need not waste your time dancing with me,’ Serena said.
‘Indeed,’ came a cold voice behind him, ‘you ought to look to the unmarried ladies, not the married ones.’ Ned moved beside Serena. The look he gave Devlin was stony at best. ‘I will dance with my wife.’
‘Ned.’ Devlin forced a cheerful tone to his voice. ‘What a surprise to see you on this side of the room. I all but forgot you were here.’
His brother glared.
‘Serena, I leave you to your husband.’ Devlin bowed and walked away.
The Marquess had lately become damnably ill-humoured. Steady Ned had become a man of erratic moods. No telling when he might erupt. Those days when Devlin could pour all his troubles into his brother’s willing ear had vanished. Devlin could not even bear to ride to these evening events in Ned’s carriage. Accompanying the silent Marquess and Marchioness was too unpleasant by half. What had so changed this brother he idolised, Devlin could not understand.
He collected Miss Duprey for the supper dance. She kept her eyes demurely downcast except when he spoke to her. Her blue eyes were her best feature, Devlin thought. If he were hard pressed to describe her, he could say only that the rest of her was unremarkable. Conversation with her was easy enough, though no different than with the other young ladies he partnered. He listened with half an ear.
‘Do you go to Vauxhall Gardens this Wednesday, Lord Devlin? My mother says we do not, but others have talked of it.’
Vauxhall. Good God, why had he not thought of it before? He could never take Madeleine to Covent Garden or to Almack’s, but he could take her to Vauxhall! With the black cloth masks so common at Vauxhall Gardens, they could dance under the lights and watch the illuminations. They could stroll along the hedged paths or seek shelter in one of the grottoes. He quickened his step with happy anticipation.
‘Do you go to Vauxhall, then?’ she asked again.
He had almost forgotten her presence, even though he held her in the dance. ‘I had not planned to go,’ he said. But he began planning an excursion now.
He escorted Miss Duprey into the supper room and seated her at a table with some friends of her acquaintance. He offered to fill her plate, to which she pleasantly agreed.
Making his way through the crush around the sideboard, he heard a voice hail him.
‘Steele?’
Devlin turned and saw a ghost, a most welcome ghost. He’d last seen Christian Ramsford struck down on the battlefield and had mourned his loss, but this was truly Ramsford, walking toward him.
‘Ram,’ he rasped, at first grasping the man’s hand in greeting, then ignoring all propriety and embracing him in a hearty hug. ‘Ram, I thought you dead.’
Ramsford gave an ironic smile, but his eyes glistened as Devlin supposed his own did. ‘I thought you were long since put to bed with a shovel, as well. So, I suppose all those bottles of brandy consumed in your memory were for naught.’
‘Damn, brandy’s never a waste.’ Devlin took a good look at his friend, outfitted in a superbly fitting coat of black superfine. Though the penniless son of a country vicar, Ramsford’s size and presence always had commanded attention.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ Devlin asked. A London ball was the last place he expected to find Christian Ramsford.
‘Both my uncle and my cousin had the misfortune to drop dead.’ Ramsford’s voice was almost mournful. ‘My father inherited.’
‘Good God, Ram. You are heir to an earldom.’ Devlin grinned at him.
His friend shrugged. ‘I am escorting one of my sisters, and am also directed to consider the succession in my family line.’
‘Come, I must select some food.’ Devlin grabbed Ramsford’s arm and pulled him into the throng around the food. Ram took a glass of champagne off a tray, downed it, and took another.
‘You will sit at my table. I insist.’
Ramsford shrugged again, but followed him to the table where Miss Duprey sat. Devlin introduced him to the young people who had joined her, noticing the curious glances from the ladies present. Devlin was suddenly impatient to be rid of all of them for the sole company of his old friend.
Finally he was able to deliver Miss Duprey back to the ballroom. He drew Ramsford aside again. They stood near the open windows where the night breeze cooled the room and spoke of the war.
Amanda Reynolds, temporarily detached from Greythorne’s grasp, boldly approached. She entwined her arm in Devlin’s. ‘You have all but deserted me this evening, sir.’
Devlin knew he was being used again. Miss Reynolds’s true concern was the presence of a new gentleman, whose admiration she had not yet procured.
‘Doing it up too brown, my lady,’ Devlin said.
He introduced Amanda to Ram and realised the once-penniless vicar’s son had the greater chance with her. He left them conversing in a strained manner until a red-faced Greythorne came to collect her. Before she was too many steps away, she turned, giving Ramsford a backward glance.
Devlin collected Miss Duprey for h
is second dance. Knowing that two dances was the limit propriety would allow, he then felt free to make his escape. After saying his goodbyes to the hostess and Serena, and ignoring his brother, he left the ball with Ramsford.
The two men found a comfortable tavern near St James’s and spent several hours there toasting comrades they would never see again. The tavern, smelling of hops, gin and male sweat, was nothing like ones he and Ram frequented in Spain, but the camaraderie was identical. Devlin had missed it acutely.
When the night was well advanced, they finally emerged into the chill night. Devlin embraced his friend. The drink had turned him maudlin, but he was too foxed to feel embarrassed. He stumbled his way home, his baritone voice singing one of the raucous ditties still echoing from the tavern.
Near his residence, a man stepped in front of him. ‘Good evening, Steele. I see you’ve had an entertaining evening.’
Devlin squinted, bringing the figure into focus under the lamplight. Farley.
‘Bugger off.’ Devlin shoved him aside, almost losing his balance. He was directly across the street from his apartments. It penetrated Devlin’s foggy mind that Farley must know where he lived, that he was lurking in this neighbourhood for that very reason.
‘Bugger off,’ he said again, staggering as he started off across the street.
A whim had sent Lord Farley to spy on Steele this cool, mist-covered night, a whim and the frustration of an empty bed. The gaming hell’s full coffers were not satisfaction enough.
Farley had known for weeks where Steele had taken Madeleine to live, had made it his business to know. Indeed, he knew all about Steele, his falling-out with his brother, his need for money, his search for a wife. The time was ripe to get Madeleine back.
Lord Farley gave one final glance toward the retreating figure of Devlin Steele and disappeared in the growing mist.