Miss M?’
‘Indeed, my lord. I cannot recall when I have been so entertained.’
He chuckled softly and swung around, bringing his face close to hers, his expression more full of mischief than lust. ‘And I thought you were here to entertain me.’
She felt a smile tickling the corner of her mouth. He placed his finger on her lip and traced the edge. His eyes filled with a wistful expression that surprised her. A heat she was not quite prepared to feel made her wish to fan herself. As she wiped the disturbing touch from her mouth with her tongue, he took a swift intake of breath and gazed into her eyes so intensely that she lowered them.
He was like the fantasy she conjured up in her loneliest hours. A knight on a huge white stallion, who faced the evil lord in the joust, winning her away. Or the pirate who fought the blackguard and sailed her away in a ship with a dozen sails. He was the soldier, riding in with sabre flashing, to rid her of Farley and keep her safe forever.
Such nonsense. He was none of these, for all the splendour of his uniform, dark, curling hair and sun-darkened skin. He certainly looked the part, though, with his eyes wondrously expressive and a face lean, as if honed by battle.
Once Farley had been a fantasy, when she’d dreamed he was taking her to a marriage bed instead of the one in this room.
The soldier shrugged off his coat, and his loose linen shirt revealed a peek of black chest hair. Madeleine’s eyes fixed on the wiry patch and her fingers itched to discover how it would feel.
As if it would feel any different than the other lust-filled men who forced themselves so hard against her that she pushed on their chests to give herself room for breath. She placed a hand on her breast. What fancy had captured her to give way to such thoughts?
He grinned impishly at her again, the dimple deepening in his cheek. ‘You are a vision, Miss M. Like England herself, beautiful to behold. Nothing mysterious about it. In fact, I shall call you Miss England.’
‘Do not be so foolish, sir. The fabric of my dress is Indian. The design is French and the style Roman. My mask is Venetian. My pearls are Oriental. I think my shoes are from Spain. There is nothing of England here.’
His finger traced the edge of the demure bodice of her dress where the fullness of her breasts was only hinted. He hooked his finger under the material and pulled it away from her skin, allowing a soft touch of what was underneath.
‘I suspect,’ he murmured, stroking her skin and gazing into her eyes, ‘underneath you are pure England.’
‘Not pure, my lord,’ she whispered as his fingers did lovely things to her soft skin. ‘Not pure at all.’
He slowly leaned closer so that she could feel his breath on her lips. With a gentleness she did not know existed, he placed his lips on hers and lingered there, moving so softly, she was only half-aware of him urging her mouth open and tickling the moist inside with his tongue.
She moaned and positioned herself closer to him. Her arms twined around his neck and her fingers played with the curls on his head. He tasted of brandy, but she decided she might like brandy the next time she was compelled to drink it.
He urged her down on the couch, covering his body with hers. The hard bulge of his arousal pressed against her. To her surprise, it pleased her.
Only once before had a man’s arousal not filled her with revulsion. That day in the country when her father’s house-guest, the Lord Farley her older sisters prosed on about, met her out riding and showed her what happens between a man and a reckless, unchaperoned fifteen-year-old girl. She had thought it a splendid joke to be the first of her sisters kissed by a man, but, all too easily, that kiss had led to delights she had not imagined.
The soldier’s muscles were firm beneath his grey wool trousers. His mouth played lightly on her cheek, and Madeleine’s long-suppressed desire tugged at her again. She must not allow herself the weakness. She must control her sensibilities.
His kisses trailed down the sensitive skin of her neck, and she said her rehearsed lines: ‘Shall we go to the bed, my lord?’
Immediately he rose, grinning his dimpled grin. ‘Whatever you command, my lady.’
He gallantly extended his hand to assist her up. His grasp was firm and warm, even through her lavender-kid glove. As she led him to the bed, he kept hold of her hand, the gesture unexpectedly setting off a storm of yearning inside her.
Vowing to get her feelings under control, Madeleine continued her duties, turning back the covers on the bed and facing the soldier. She slowly pulled off her gloves, one finger at a time. Her fingers free, she unlaced his shirt, caressing his warm bare skin as she pushed it off his shoulders. When she unfastened his trousers, the bulge therein attested to the success of her endeavours. She tried not to watch his green eyes darken with passion.
A guttural sound emerged from his throat. Madeleine collected herself and proceeded with the task she was bid to perform. This was the moment for him to pounce on her. She must temper his lusting, so that her dress not become ripped from his impatience.
Even completely free of his clothes, he did not pounce. Instead, he simply gazed at her. All the unwanted cravings of her body rushed back as she gazed at him in return. Usually she avoided a view of the men who bared themselves before her. When Farley first seduced her, she had been too shy to look, but her gaze freely drank in this soldier’s body. He was more beautiful than the drawings of Greek statues in her father’s books. Her eyes widened with surprise at the pleasure of seeing him.
‘Good God, Miss England,’ he exclaimed. He moved toward her. With gentle hands on her shoulders, he turned her around and fumbled with the laces of her dress, his progress painfully slow.
He chuckled. ‘I am woefully out of practice.’
With a resolute purse of her lips, Madeleine spun back to face him and made quick work of the laces. The dress fell to the floor. She tackled the corset next. When she let her shift drop from her body, his gaze was as rapt as hers had been, and her resolve to simply perform her task fled.
His eyes met hers. ‘I feel home at last.’
He ran his hand over her breasts, his fingers barely skimming the soft flesh. Her breasts ached. How could they ache? He’d barely touched them.
‘Wh—where have you been?’ She would distract herself. These feelings were too disturbing. ‘In the Peninsula?’
‘Last at Maguilla.’ His manner turned solemn and his sparkling eyes lost lustre.
Maguilla. So exotic a name, like a magic kingdom far away. But what had happened there to cause his change in mood?
Sadness lingered in his eyes, but he smiled. ‘I have been too long at battle and not long enough at home to have seen what I most have missed.’
‘I do not understand you, my lord.’ She chewed on her lip. ‘What have you most missed?’
His gaze travelled up and down the length of her. ‘England,’ he said in a reverent voice. ‘Every hill, curve, and thicket. All lush beauty and honest comfort.’
Madeleine felt herself blush. She stilled the impulse to cover her most female parts. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘shall we proceed, my lord?’
Quickly she climbed on the bed, her mouth set in a determined line. He followed her, more slowly than she would have guessed. That he was not so eager to slake his desire unsettled her, but not so much as her own yearning. When he climbed in the bed and positioned himself over her, she nearly burst with excitement. It felt too much like what had brought her to ruin, but she wanted this soldier. Wanted him very much.
She stiffened and panic raced through her.
He halted immediately, searching her face. ‘What is wrong?’
Her heart pounded. ‘Nothing. Nothing is wrong.’
He cocked his head sceptically. ‘You are frightened. I do not understand.