The scent of her perfume, the sidelong look of her dark blue eyes, and the wanton husky Irish voice, were all invitations. As anyone will tell you, put Harry Flashman next to a woman like that and one of two things is inevitable—there will either be screams and slaps, or the lady will surrender. Sometimes both. In this case, just from the look of her, I knew there would be no screaming and slapping, and I was right. When I kissed her it was only a moment before her mouth opened under mine, and I promptly suggested that since my leg was still painful, a woman’s touch on it would soothe the cramp out of my muscles. She complied, very teasingly, and with her free hand was remarkably skillful at fending off my advances until the coach reached her house, which was somewhere in Chelsea.

By this time I was in such a state of excitement that I could barely keep my hands still while she dismissed her maid and conducted me to her salon, talking gaily about anything and acting the cool minx. I soon put a stop to that by popping her breasts out the minute the door was closed, and bearing her down on to the settee. Her reaction was startling; in a moment she was grappling with me, digging her nails into me and twining her limbs round mine. The fury of her love-making was almost frightening —I’ve known eager women, plenty of them, but Miss Rosanna was like a wild animal.

The second time, later in the night, was even more feverish than the first. We were in bed by then, and I had no clothing to protect me from her biting and raking nails; I protested, but it was like talking to a mad woman. She even began to leather me with something hard and heavy—a hair-brush, I believe—and by the time she had stopped writhing and moaning I felt as though I had been coupling with a roll of barbed wire.6 I was bruised, scratched, bitten, and stabbed from neck to backside.

In between, she was a different creature, gay, talkative, witty, and of a gentleness to match her voice and looks. I learned that she was Marie Elizabeth Rosanna James, no less, the wife of a fellow-officer who was conveniently out of town on garrison duty. Like myself, she was recently returned from India, where he had been stationed; she found life in London deadly dull; such friends as she knew were stiff and boring; there was hardly any of the bright life she craved; she wished she was back in India, or anywhere she might have some fun. That was why my appearance in her carriage had been so welcome; she had spent a preposterously dull evening with her husband’s relatives, escorted by the German Otto, whom she found stuffy to a degree.