A Devil Named DeVere (The Devil DeVere) (23 page)

"Damn you to hell, DeVere!" she cried, jerking out of his hold. "Yes, I want you
now,
but I would despise myself for it the moment we finished."

"Why?" he asked, confounded.

"Why? Because I once confused passion for deeper feeling. I won't make that mistake again."

"But don't you remember how it was between us? I can bring you rapture. You know that. What harm is there?"

"Surely the same words the serpent whispered to Eve," she retorted. "I can't deny the physical attraction between us, but it's not enough for me. I refuse to seek empty pleasure in meaningless copulation."

"What the devil do you want from me?" Ludovic cried in a growing agony born of mounting frustration.

"Absolutely nothing, my lord. I don't love or even respect you. I find you arrogant, selfish, immoral, and altogether lacking in character."

He flinched as if she'd slapped him. "Me? Lacking
character
?"

"Yes," she replied, "and of the two of you, Hew is by far the better man. Now pray unhand me."

And in his speechless amazement, Ludovic did just that.

***

With the terrace door locked, Diana fled through the gardens and around to the servants' entrance. Seeking the solace of her bedchamber, she wended her way through the army of surprised maids and footmen who tended the party, too rattled to do more than nod. She took the backstairs to her room, knowing her absence would soon be noted but desperate for time alone to recompose her jangled nerves.

She strode to her dressing table to repair at least the superficial damage wrought by the amorous encounter. Diana pinned up stray strands of hair with trembling fingers.

Four years.
It had been four years since she'd felt a man's touch, a lover's lips. In the beginning, the craving had been a persistent ache deep in her belly, but over time, it had mercifully dulled until almost imperceptible, only evincing itself again with a ferocity the day she walked in on Edward and Phoebe. They had just wed, and she'd barged into his study with only a perfunctory knock to find them with clothing askew, locked in an impassioned embrace. The sight of them, disheveled and flushing, had reawakened the yearning for physical intimacy with a vengeance.

She had thought to escape the constant reminder and the awkwardness of the situation by taking Vesta to London. Her only qualm had been the prospect of encountering DeVere, her one and only lover, the man who had opened the door to paradise only to abruptly disappear from her life with no explanation. She had despised him for that—for giving her what she most craved only to take it away. But now pieces of the puzzle had begun to come together.

She knew Caroline had wanted him back. The duchess had made no secret of it. She had also been in league with Reggie. Caroline had known things no one else was privy to. Was it possible she'd tried to blackmail DeVere?

He had confessed tonight that he'd left to protect Diana's good name, but she had believed the very worst of him all this time, had even briefly suspected him of murdering Reggie. Then tonight, she had added insult to injury by impugning his manhood, his honor. He'd not been unaffected by her verbal assault. Indeed, he'd looked almost stricken. It gave her pause.

Diana now recalled her recent visit from the courtesan, Salime, and all
that
had revealed. Was it possible she'd misjudged him? Her chest constricted at the very notion. For if DeVere was only half the villain she believed him to be...wanted him to be...Diana's heart was in grave danger indeed.

Long after the
party ended, DeVere sprawled in the leather chair in Ned's study. His boots kicked off, coat and cravat discarded, he stared blankly into the empty hearth. "I want her, Ned," he said. "My bloody bollacks ache for want of her."

Ned poured them both a drink, replying without the least compassion, "If you refer to Diana, my friend, you waste your effort sniffing about her skirts. She won't have you. I've told you so before. She's a virtuous woman, not a plaything. I'd advise you to slake your lust elsewhere."

"But that's the damnable thing about it. Fucking is what I like best. It's what I
do
best, and yet I can't seem to summon any fucking enthusiasm for it. What the devil is wrong with me?"

"When was the last time, DeVere?"

"Damned near three weeks ago. I feel like a monk."

Ned arched a brow. "Dare I ask about your state of health?"

"Hang you, Ned!" DeVere growled. "I don't have the bloody pox! You know I always take precautions. It's not that I
can't
, it's that I've lost the desire for any other woman. Yet the moment
she
walks into a room, I find myself nearing a full cockstand. I'm so full of my own unspent essence that I can't think straight."

"There's always the old way," Ned suggested with a grin.

"And I've bloody well blistered my palm frigging myself. It's to no avail. No, Ned. I will have her. One way or another."

"Take care, DeVere," Ned warned. "Diana has no husband, brother, or father to protect her, thus I willingly appoint myself to the role. She is a grown woman who can make her own decisions, for the better or worse. But if she won't have you, I advise you to let her be. I will not allow you to harass her."

DeVere smirked. "Is that a threat?"

Ned raised his glass and smiled back at him. "No, my dear friend. It's a promise. Speaking of which, I promised my darling wife I would not leave her alone in a cold bed."

DeVere glared. "I think you delight in rubbing salt in my wound."

"I do, indeed." Ned chuckled and stood. "What are your plans? Do you stay until the wedding? Or do you return for the sacrament?"

"Actually, you have timed the event poorly, for it coincides with the derby races at Epsom."

"You don't mean to say you would miss your only brother's wedding for a race?"

"It's not just
any
race, Ned. It's for two thousand guineas, and I have the winning horse. He proved himself nigh unbeatable in Doncaster this week. But no, I don't wish to miss the happy occasion. Instead, I have a proposition for you, one I think shall answer nicely. Why not hold the wedding at Woodcote Park? A great many of our mutual acquaintances will already be gathered there. Besides, I have decided to gift the estate to Hew and Vesta. What more opportune time to tell them?"

Ned's brows rose. "You are deeding them Woodcote Park?"

"That is my intention. Hew is very fond of the place while my own attachments to it has greatly waned. I am thinking now to establish my stables closer to Newmarket."

"That's exceedingly generous," Ned said. "And actually, DeVere, I think it a splendid idea. I think they would be delighted to wed there. We can always hold a traditional wedding breakfast for them here at a later date."

"Capital. Then I shall depart in the morning to make preparations. I shall expect you all in a fortnight."

"I have only one hesitation," Ned said.

DeVere cocked a brow.

"What of Diana? There was much unpleasantness the last time we were all gathered there—her husband's death was quite a
shock. I fear it may be too much for her to return."

"You and I both know Diana is not so faint hearted. Besides," Ludovic added with rare reflection, "how better to exorcise the specters of the past?"

***

Diana rose intentionally late and ordered breakfast in her room in hope of avoiding Lord DeVere but soon learned she needn't have worried. Contrary to his custom, he had ridden out early that morning bound for Epsom. Indeed, she thought it unlikely he had ever gone to his bed at all. Unable to sleep, she'd heard Edward's footfalls softly creeping down the hall to the master bedchamber just before dawn, but no other had come after.

She told herself she was relieved not to have to face him after what had transpired on the terrace. She was glad to avoid the awkwardness and antipathy, for surely it could only be so after her poisonous invective. Yet unwanted thoughts of him lingered. His scandalously seductive suggestions had burned into her brain the same way his scorching mouth had marked her skin. It would be so very easy to give in, to take her pleasure with the same selfish greed others did, but then the emptiness would follow. She now understood the behavior of people like DeVere and Caroline, who passed from one lover to the next, persistently seeking meaning in the meaningless—for the same hollow ache now haunted her. She had endured it for the last four years.

No, she didn't want that, couldn't bear it again. She wished she knew why DeVere affected her so, and even more that she had some miraculous purgative to expunge him from her system. Diana had long determined she would have a whole man, one capable of giving her love and respect, or none at all...and the latter seemed a bleak, but real prospect.

Polly had already begun packing her trunk for her return home when Vesta bound into her chamber. "We missed you at breakfast, Aunt Di."

"I was exhausted after last night," she offered her excuse. "It was a truly lovely party, Vesta."

"Wasn't it, though?" the younger woman gushed, dreamy-eyed. "And now it's official. Hew and I are to be wed in a fortnight."

"So soon? A fortnight is scarce long enough to arrange everything. Shall I stay to help? Poor Phoebe is barely accustomed to the household. To plan a wedding would surely be overwhelming for her."

"
Poor
Phoebe?" Vesta repeated.

"Yes, Vesta. Upon closer acquaintance, I think I am guilty of misjudging her. She has all the marks of genteel breeding and is not at all the strumpet I had presumed her to be."

"Then you will be friends?"

"I don't know, but I refuse to be her adversary any longer. You might reconsider your own feelings in the matter."

"Actually, Aunt Di, I already have, for a woman in love sees all things in quite a different light."

Diana arched a brow. "Does she, indeed?"

"But of course!" Vesta grinned. "I am now brimming with happiness so it only seems fair that Papa should be happy too. And she will be his companion when I am gone. So it seems nothing is quite what we thought. Nothing except for you, Aunt Di. What shall you do when Hew and I are wed?"

"I haven't yet decided. Mayhap I'll just move in with you and become nanny to your children."

"Lackaday! You jest! Everyone knows nannies are plump and wrinkled." She furrowed her brow. "You know, I quite think Polly might suit."

The maid gave a loud snort.

"I thought you and Polly nigh despised one another."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Vesta's grin broadened.
"Polly and I have a perfect understanding of each other. But that's not what I came to tell you. You missed the big announcement at breakfast. You and Phoebe will not have to attend to a thing, because Hew and I are to be wed at Woodcote Park, my godfather's estate at Epsom."

"What?" Diana shook her head. "Why?"

"Because the setting is lovely, and everyone who's anyone will already be there for the Derby. Hew and I love the races. This way we can attend without any delay in the nuptials. Uncle Vic is taking care of all the wedding arrangements. So you see, it's perfect." She beamed.

Diana's gaze narrowed. "Perfect for DeVere, you mean. That's the truth of it. The selfish cad simply wasn't willing to sacrifice a horse race for your wedding."

"But you know how he is about his racing stud, Aunt Di. It's one of the only things he cares about. Besides, his stallion won all his matches save one at Doncaster this week, and he feels certain of a win in the two-thousand-guineas race."

"Really? Did he happen to say which race he lost?"

"I'm sure he did, but I paid little heed. If you really wish to know, Papa could surely tell you. Why do you ask?"

"Because I have a young mare in training at Doncaster. I did
not attend her maiden race because of your party, but I received a message from my groom this morning that she won me fifty guineas."

"Did she, indeed?" Vesta squealed. "Then you must take her to run at Epsom!"

"But Woodcote Park." Diana shook her head. "You must know after all that happened there, I have no wish ever to return."

"But it's all in the past now, Aunt Di. Please say you will come. I would be so very disappointed if you did not stand up with us. Besides, wouldn't it be a delight to see your mare beat Uncle Vic's stallion?" Vesta gave Diana a wicked grin.

Diana hesitated for a long moment. There were so many very good reasons not to go, but the temptation to do so was overpowering. "I confess the only thing I would love more in this world than to see Lord DeVere taken down a notch, would be to be the one to do it. Yes, Vesta," Diana replied, "I will go to Epsom with you, and my mare will race."

Woodcote Park, Epsom, two weeks later

The excursion from
Doncaster to Epsom was nothing like the melancholy journey Diana remembered from four years prior. Wishing to banish all unhappy remembrances, she had made certain it would be so. Instead of riding in the carriage with Phoebe and the maids, she and Vesta had cajoled Hew and Sir Edward to allow them to travel most of the trip on horseback. Joining the gentlemen and small army of outriders and grooms, their pace had been brisk and their spirits high, perhaps elevated even more so by the frequent stops at the better taverns and posting houses along the way.

When they finally arrived at DeVere's country house, Vesta was bubbling over with excitement. "Isn't it lovely here!" she exclaimed.

"I'll take you over the grounds shortly," said Hew as he lifted his fiancée from the saddle and handed the horses off to the grooms. "This expanse of park surrounding the house abuts the Epsom racecourse."

"How delightful! I am so happy to be arrived at last. Only two more days, Hew."Vesta sighed. "It's been an interminable torture to be in each other's company and not be permitted five minutes alone."

"Your father is right to enforce the rules of propriety," Hew remarked.

"Lackaday! How unromantic you are." Vesta pouted.

"You should be pleased Hew respects your father's wishes," Diana berated her.

"Aunt Di, don't you ever crave stolen kisses in moonlit gardens? But then again, you had ample opportunity the night of the engagement party, did you not?" Vesta gave a mischievous laugh.

"You knew we were out there and locked the door? How could you?" Diana protested.

"My apologies, Diana," said Hew, "I was unaware of her mischief. I told her not to interfere where you and my brother are concerned."

"It matters little now," Diana murmured half to herself. "For here I am, back where it all began."

"Are you all right?" Hew asked. "I feared it would be too much to ask you to return. If you've changed your mind about it,
you need only say so."

"No. It is a beautiful place, Hew, and perfect for your wedding," Diana said. "I shall be fine. I refuse to put a damper on such a happy occasion."

"Thank you, Aunt Di," said Vesta. "I so much wanted to be wed here. Will you please show me the grounds now, Hew?"

"But what of the unpacking? Don't you wish to see your rooms first?" Hew asked.

"Polly can attend to my things, can't she, Aunt Di?" Vesta asked, her gaze never leaving Hew's face as she spoke.

Diana noted the high color in Hew's cheeks and the gleam in Vesta's eye as well as the impatient tone of her goddaughter's voice. "We shall manage." Diana sighed in capitulation. "But pray don't be long." Her remark went unheeded, as they were already bounding together across the lawn in the direction of the yew maze.

"It's obvious two days can't come soon enough for either of them," said Phoebe, joining Diana as her husband tended to horses, grooms, and servants.

"Yes," said Diana, "but one can only hope Hew can rein her in."

"I think she truly loves him," Phoebe said.

"I think she does too," Diana agreed. "Shall we proceed?" She nodded toward the house.

Phoebe smiled in reply, and the two women advanced arm-in-arm to the white marble portico of DeVere's Woodcote Park.

***

Diana didn't see DeVere until supper that evening, a lively event that encompassed the pillars of the turf world who gathered seasonally at each scheduled racing venue. Casting her gaze about the drawing room, Diana recognized many familiar faces, Lords Derby, Egremont, Grosvenor, Clermont, Captain Vernon, Sir Charles Bunbury, who was the Steward of the Jockey Club, and the Duke of Queensberry, whom she had formerly known as Lord March.

The women who joined Phoebe, Diana, and Vesta were scarce, but included the actress, Elizabeth
Ferren, Lord Derby's longtime mistress, and Margaret, Lady Bunbury, best known for her tranquil tolerance of her husband's lifelong racing obsession.

During the hour before supper, the men and women were mostly segregated by gender, the men laughing, drinking, and swapping horse tales, while the ladies pursued more quiet and genteel conversation at the other end of the gallery. While Diana had yet to exchange any words with DeVere since her arrival, the
respite had only served to increase her tension. Against her will, she found herself casting frequent glances at him across the room that thankfully he was too occupied to notice.

When supper was announced, Ludovic greeted Diana with little more than cool civility. "Baroness"—he inclined his head—"as Vesta's godmother, I fear you will be obliged to accept my escort to supper."

"You honor me, my lord," Diana replied, adopting a deceptively tranquil smile. She was placed at her host's right hand, with the duke taking his position on DeVere's left, followed by Hew and Vesta, far too occupied with each other to pay much heed to the rest of the company, which seemed to grow more boisterous with every newly opened bottle of wine. Reflecting upon another dinner at this same table at which she had once covertly studied her host, Diana observed that while outwardly DeVere was still the munificent lord of the manor, providing a bountiful table and free-flowing wine, something subtle had changed. There was a restless edge to his seeming languor, a hardness that accompanied the indolence.

Careful to avoid any private discourse with DeVere, Diana feigned interest in every other conversation around her, picking up snatches of theater gossip from Phoebe and Eliza, breeding
pointers exchanged between Lord Egremont and Captain Vernon, and a sotto voce mention by the duke to DeVere of the availability of his last Italian mistress. DeVere's apparent interest in the subject made her want to grind her teeth. Yet seated beside the man she couldn't ignore, Diana somehow managed her serene façade for the long hours of the affair until the last cover was finally removed.

As the footman brought in the bottles of port and Madeira, the traditional cue for the ladies to withdraw, Lord
Egremont remarked, "I hear your Titan ran undefeated at Doncaster, DeVere. I shall be running a full brother to last year's champion, Assassin, on the morrow. Do you care to make a gentleman's wager?"

"I fear you were misinformed about Doncaster, my lord," Diana interjected before DeVere could reply. "Lord DeVere's Titan only defeated the stallions and geldings, for my own mare,
Boadicea, prevailed in her maiden race against
all
runners."

"Is that so, Baroness?" remarked Lord
Egremont. "I was not aware you were also a follower of the turf."

"I am, indeed. My late husband, Lord Reginald, kept a fine stable of runners at one time." Diana directed a pointed stare at DeVere. "And I believe the horse, Titan, that you speak of is even
the progeny of our former stallion, Centurion."

"All too true," DeVere confessed. "I had the good fortune to acquire a number of fine horses from Lord Reginald prior to his...unfortunate passing."

It was a fact that needled Diana to no end, that DeVere should now be making his turf name at her expense. "Though little remains of our former glory, I still have a premium brood mare in Cartimandua."

"I remember her well." DeVere gave Diana a significant look. "I also recall having some small interest in her. She last ran here at Epsom, did she not?"

"She was, indeed, a fine runner," Hew interjected. "I rode her myself and think she had a fair chance of beating your Prometheus, dear brother, but then the races ended rather abruptly..." He slanted a glance to Diana, who studied her napkin.

"Yes," she admitted. "Due to the unforeseen circumstances, her racing career terminated early." She turned to DeVere with a challenge in her eyes. "But now I have her daughter, a fine filly by
Matchem that I intend to run in the Derby."

"Then perhaps it is you and Lord DeVere who should make a small wager?" Lord
Egremont suggested with a smile.

"That would entirely depend on what Lord DeVere would be willing to stake." Diana taunted her nemesis.

"Ah ha, DeVere!" Lord Egremont laughed. "I wonder if perhaps the devil has finally met his match?"

"You must know by now that I like nothing better than a worthy challenge," DeVere said, rising to his feet, as well as to her bait. "What do you propose, Baroness?" His sardonic gaze swept Diana with renewed interest.

"I am unprepared to answer, my lord. I think I must sleep on it."

He bowed over her hand. "Then I shall anticipate your answer on the morrow." As she turned to depart, he added in an undertone, "It seems we may have unfinished business between us, after all."

She met his gaze over her shoulder. "Perhaps we do at that."

***

Ludovic caught up with Diana as she was going into the morning room for breakfast. "Good morning, ladies." He inclined his head in polite greeting to Phoebe and Vesta. "Might I have a private word with you, Baroness?" he asked, cornering Diana.

"Why certainly," Vesta replied, giving Diana no chance to demur. "Come, Phoebe." Vesta took her stepmother's arm and
compelled her through the morning room doors, glancing over her shoulder with a grin.

"Will you walk with me?" he asked.

"Why can't we speak here?"

"Because this matter of the wager is between us alone." He sensed her hesitation to be alone with him but offered his arm all the same.

"All right." She sighed.

He took her down a long hallway to the north wing, toward his private apartments. He felt her tense, as if she remembered what lay in their direction. He then diverted them through a door into the family portrait gallery.

"I have not seen this room," she said.

"It is a private place where we shall not be disturbed. I never come here myself. I only use the room to store portraits I'd otherwise be obligated to look upon."

Diana strolled the periphery of the room, studying the faces of Ludovic's multifarious ancestors with an ever-changing mein. "I recognize the styles of Sir Godfrey Kneller and Allan Ramsay," she remarked. "Is this last one by Sir Joshua Reynolds?"

DeVere nodded with appreciation. "You know your English painters."

"Is this your mother and father?" She halted before the aforementioned Reynolds. It was of a beautiful, young woman holding a child on her lap, both of whom shared cobalt-blue eyes that stared blankly out of the canvas. An elderly gentleman with dissipated features stood behind the pair, one hand possessively placed upon the lady's shoulder.

"It is, indeed, my mother, Hermione, and her husband Richard, Fifth Viscount DeVere."

"And the child is you?"

"Yes, and judging by the gown, I suppose I must have been about three years old."

Diana turned to him with a puzzled expression. "I don't understand. This is a family portrait. If she is your mother and he is the viscount, how can you not refer to him as your father?"

Ludovic laughed a long and bitter sound. "
Of course, you know nothing of my family. Few people do, as I have taken great care, and much greater expense, to keep it so."

"I am puzzled," she said, a frown wrinkling her brow. "These portraits are your history, and some must be very valuable. I wish to understand why you keep all this"—she made a sweeping gesture—"hidden away."

"Painters and poets have leave to lie, you know. Perhaps the subjects were not worthy of the artists' efforts."

"And what would these artists have lied about?" she continued to press.

"You wish me to air the dirty laundry?"

"I don't seek diversion, but comprehension," she said.

Ludovic's first impulse was to wave away the subject and move on to his purpose, but something in her gaze compelled him to say more, to voice the things he had paid dearly to keep secret.

"Very well, Diana." He sauntered across the room to stand beneath a portrait of a haughty, young man in the full-bottomed wig favored half a century earlier. The painting was done in the classical Italianate style favored by those on their Grand Tour. "Behold Lord Richard DeVere before his complete corruption by dissolution and vice."

Diana cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, seeming to study the arrogant features of Lord Richard. "I daresay you do favor your mother. But tell me of him."

"Lord Richard was born into a great fortune, traveled widely, and wed late in life, when fear of his own mortality struck with a certain scurrilous disease that his physician said no amount of mercury would cure. Desperate that his seed should
not die out, what does the poxy bastard do but take a wife! Ironically, I later learned that his disease was already so advanced by that time as to make it impossible for him to sire any progeny."

Ludovic advanced to a second portrait of the same beautiful woman sitting alone and posed under a flowering tree. "Behold my mother. She was twenty-five years his junior, and the marriage was, as to be expected, an utter travesty.
Lord DeVere was the biggest whoremonger in all Christendom, and my mother complemented him well as the greatest whore. Together, they were the most notoriously faithless couple in England. I was raised with all the privilege of my noble station to include a personal servant to wipe my arse for as long as I can remember, yet to this day, I cannot say with any certainty if that same servant might have been my true father."