Georgina Devon - Betrayal

His eyes searched her face, bringing a blush of awareness as his attention lingered on her mouth before sliding down to where her breasts would be if she had not bound them.

Pippa pushed him gently down on the pillows. “Calm yourself,” she murmured. “’Tis only me, Pip—Pippen.” She had almost said her own name, she was sure because of his blatant regard.

Dev’s eyes lost their startled look and his gaze fell away from her face. “For a moment I thought you were someone else. A…a woman.”

“What would a woman be doing in here?”

Betrayal

Harlequin ®Historical

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has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Social Sciences with a concentration in History. Her interest in England began when she lived in East Anglia as a child and later as an adult. She met her husband in England, and her wedding ring set is from Bath. She has many romantic and happy memories of the land. Today she lives in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband, two dogs, an inherited cat and a cockatiel. Her daughter has left the nest and does Web site design, including Georgina’s. Contact her at www.georginadevon.com.

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

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Prologue

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

Epilogue

Waterloo, 1815

War is hell.

Major Lord Deverell St Simon ran his hand over his face, smearing rain water and mud across his nose and jaw. It was hot and muggy, and he hated Napoleon Bonaparte’s guts. His troops were demoralized and he was close behind.

Damn Napoleon. Damn him to hell for starting this war with his plans of world rule. Damn him.

If it were not for Napoleon’s escape from Elba, they would not be here. But the Little Emperor never quit.

Even now, there were occasions when Dev could see Napoleon just over the next hillock as the bastard urged his troops to victory. Because of him, Britain’s finest were ready to give up their lives. He was the reason they had been fighting for four days, and the massive losses on both sides were devastating.

Smoke lay like fog over the churned, bloody dirt. Death was a miasma Dev waded through while stifling the urge to vomit. Bodies, human and equine, littered the ground, grotesque in their death dance.

The rain started. Again.

Still, Dev made himself grin at his fellow officer and friend, Captain Patrick Shaunessey. ‘We are almost through this, Pat. Don’t give up now.’ The words were for himself as much as for his comrade, and he was honest enough to realize it.

Pat grimaced, his carrot-colored hair sweat stained. ‘Never say die,’ he said, bitterness tingeing the words.

Dev shrugged and shook his head like a dog, sending drops spattering out from his light brown hair. ‘You’d say the same, Pat, except you are more tired than I.’

For the first time that day, a smile quirked up one corner of Pat’s mouth. ‘And I didn’t stay at the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball until there was no time to change into my uniform.’ His blue eyes gleamed as he looked pointedly at Deverell’s gunpowder-stained evening shirt.

Dev grinned, knowing his friend needed the bantering to ease the strain of battle and death. He needed it too. ‘They don’t call me Devil for nothing. I had no intention of leaving the Duchess’s ball early and cutting short my pleasure.’ His teeth formed a white slash in his exhaustion-lined face. ‘There were any number of ladies ready to console a man about to face war.’

The Captain’s snort of amusement was lost in the roar of wind ripping through the poplars. Rain pelted down, turning the already muddy ground into a morass that would impede anything that tried to move. The artillery, with their heavy guns, would have a devil of a time.

Glancing behind and to the right, Dev caught sight of the Duke of Wellington. The Duke was mounted on Copenhagen, his chestnut gelding, and wearing his familiar dark blue coat, white breeches, white cravat and cocked hat.

‘Wonder what the Iron Duke wants?’ Pat muttered, raising up just enough to see over the ridgeline of Mont Saint Jean, the place Wellington had chosen for his final stand against Napoleon.

‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Dev said.

The sun broke through the clouds, turning the damp ground into a mist-shrouded enigma. Dev considered taking off his black jacket, but thought better of it. White made as good a target as the typical British red uniform coat.

‘Dev, Pat,’ Lieutenant Colonel Sir James Macdonell yelled, ‘come here. We have orders.’ Both men exchanged a telling glance as they rose.