The Mysterious Miss M

The Mysterious Miss M
Diane Gaston

THE REGENCY UNDERWORLD–SEX, SCANDAL AND REDEEMING LOVE!The Mysterious Miss M is a living male fantasy–alluring, sensual, masked. But when Lord Devlin Steele finds himself responsible for her–and her child–he comes to know the real Maddy: the loving, passionate woman who drives away the nightmares of the Waterloo battlefield.But the aristocratic soldier can't support his new family. He will inherit his fortune only on marriage to a suitable lady–and Maddy is far from suitable. With the dangers of London's underworld closing in, how can he protect the woman he has come to love?

“You are a vision, Miss M.

“Like England herself, beautiful to behold. 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 at. He hooked his finger under the material and pulled it away from her skin, allowing a soft touch of what was below.

“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.”

The Mysterious Miss M

Diane Gaston

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

For Helen and Julie, who have been with me in this writing venture from the very beginning, and Virginia, who made our circle complete.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Chapter One

London, September 1812

M adeleine positioned herself on the couch, adjusting the fine white muslin of her gown and placing her gloved hands demurely in her lap. The light from the branch of candles, arranged to cast a soft glow upon her skin, enhanced the image she was bid to make. Her throat tightened, and her skin crawled from the last man’s attentions.

This wicked life. How she detested it.

She checked the blue-feathered mask, artfully fashioned to disguise her identity without obscuring her youthful complexion or the untouched pink of her full lips. ‘The Mysterious Miss M’ could be any girl in the first blush of womanhood. It was Farley’s contrivance that she appear so, and the men who frequented his elite London gaming hell bet deep to win the fantasy of seducing her. Escape might be out of the question, but at least the mask hid her face and her shame.

Unable to remain still, Madeleine stepped over to the bed, discreetly tucked into the corner and covered in lace-trimmed white-and-lavender linens like some virginal shrine. She perched on the edge of it and swung her legs back and forth, wondering how much time was left before the next gentleman had his turn. Not long, she surmised. She had taken more care in the necessary toilette than usual, thoroughly washing away the memory of that odious creature who had not departed too soon for her taste.

Male laughter, deep and raucous, sounded in the next room. Stupid creatures, seated around tables, as deep in their cards as in their cups, just waiting for Lord Farley to make away with their fortunes. The girls who ran the tables, tonight dressed as she was, like ingenues at Almack’s, were meant to tantalise, but, for a select few, the Mysterious Miss M was the real prize.

Farley would not allow his prize to flee. She had learned that lesson swiftly enough. No matter. There was nowhere for her to go.

Voices sounded outside the room, and she blinked away the memory of how Farley had doomed her to her fate, or, more precisely, how she had doomed herself.

The next man, thankfully the last, would appear soon, and she had best be ready. She checked her hair, fingering the dark curls fashioned in the latest style to frame her face, a pale pink silk ribbon threaded through them.

Something thudded against the door. Madeleine hopped off the bed and hurried to her place on the couch. In staggered a tall figure, silhouetted against the brighter light of the gaming room. He stood a moment with his hand to his brow.

A soldier. He wore the red coat of a British uniform, festooned with blue facings and looped gold lace, unbuttoned to reveal the white linen of his shirt. If only she were a soldier. She would battle her way out of this place. She would be in the cavalry and gallop away at breakneck speed. How lovely that would be.

The soldier, who looked not more than five years older than she, swayed as he swung shut the door. Lord Farley’s generous supply of brandy, no doubt.