The Devil's Match (12 page)

They were riding neck and neck now; she could
see the red flare of Titan’s nostrils, the breath of both mounts
now coming hard and fast like a bellows as their iron-shod hooves
continued to tear up the verdant turf. She stole another glance at
DeVere to discover with smug satisfaction that he was no longer
smiling. His features were drawn taut with concentration.

With a low clucking noise, Diana gave her mare
another inch of rein. The ears flickered, and the body beneath her
surged forward with a renewed effort that DeVere and Titan didn’t
hesitate to match. Her mare’s neck was damp with sweat, but the bay
stallion was coated with white foam at the mouth and chest. The
extent of his exertion under the heavier rider was now showing. He
was tiring quickly with a furlong still remaining to the
finish.

The stallion began slipping back, losing
valuable ground. DeVere plied whip and spur to no avail. The post
was within a hundred yards, and Diana could no longer glimpse them
in the periphery of her vision. Her pulse sped up with rising
confidence that the race had become theirs for the taking.

***

How the bloody hell can she be
winning?
Ludovic was nearly beside himself. A loss to
a woman in a sidesaddle would surely be too much for his pride and
reputation to bear! Hell, he’d have to leave the country for
another ten years before
this
humiliation would die down! Let alone the fact that he
had
almost
had her within his
grasp. He was desperate to end the damnable itch once and for all,
and a week in his bed fucking her day and night in innumerable ways
would surely have made the cure.

They were already ahead by a length, and he knew
his horse was spent. Oh, he could whip and spur till the stallion’s
flanks bled, but he knew damned well the effort would be pointless
destruction of a fine animal. Better to bow out with grace, or he
thought drily with his engorged “tail” firmly between his legs.

He was almost ready to concede when it happened.
In the final yards to the finish, the mare’s right leg collapsed
beneath her. Ludovic’s heart lodged in his airway when before his
eyes, she pitched forward onto both knees. For an interminable,
terrifying instant, he feared her momentum would send her into a
somersault, but by some miracle, she recovered. Diana, however, was
no longer seated in the saddle, but had slid onto the horse’s neck
where she now clung helplessly. He pulled up abruptly, flinging
himself to the ground before his own horse had even come to a halt.
“My God, Diana! What a close call! Are you all right?”

The mare’s eyes were wide. Except for her
trembling, she stood as a statue. Diana answered in an unsteady
voice. “Yes. I am unharmed.”

“You are certain?”

“Aye. But the horse?”

“Pratt will see to her.” He inclined his head to
the groom rushing toward them and then threw a leg up, vaulting
effortlessly back into the saddle.

“Where are you going?” Diana asked.

He gave her a wicked grin. “To cross the finish
line.”

She gave him a murderous glare. “You wouldn’t! A
gentleman would never—”

He regarded her sitting on the horse’s
neck with an amused gleam. “My dear, you know it is a wicked quirk
of my nature to take advantage of the disadvantaged.” He added with
a twisted smile. “Thus,
I
certainly would.”

***

The next two days passed in a blur with both
Diana and DeVere forfeiting their entries in the Derby. Diana
withdrew due to her mare’s injury, although Pratt was quick to
relieve her mind that it was but a sprain that poultice wraps and
stall rest would surely mend. DeVere, on the other hand, privately
conceded that while he had, indeed, crossed the finish first, Titan
had not proven himself worthy enough against the mare to try him
among a whole field of top-notch contenders. Nevertheless, they all
enjoyed the spectacle and the postrace celebrations.

Vesta and Hew exchanged their vows the next
morning in a quiet ceremony in the private chapel at Woodcote,
after which DeVere presented them a small, velvet box. Hew tented
his brows in surprise when he retrieved a skeleton key wrought in
silver from within its depths.

“The key to the castle, although it is merely
symbolic.” DeVere grinned.

Vesta regarded her godfather, wide-eyed. “You
can’t mean...”

“Yes. Woodcote Park is yours, my dear.”

After a stunned moment, Vesta threw herself
bodily into her godfather’s arms. “Thank you!” She then squealed.
“Oh, Hew! It’s ours! Woodcote is all ours!”

Hew turned to his brother. “I am truly
speechless, Vic.”

DeVere flushed with apparent embarrassment. “It
is my intent to now leave you newlyweds to explore it at your
leisure.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Ned agreed. “Phoebe and I
depart immediately after the wedding breakfast, although you must
suffer through another one the first time you travel north again.
Our neighbors would never forgive us otherwise.”

“Within the month, Papa,” Vesta promised,
glancing eagerly to her husband.

“And you, Diana?” Ned asked. “Do you return with
Phoebe and me?”

“Actually, I would prefer a short sojourn in
London if the house is still available to me.”

“Of course, my dear,” Ned said. “Please consider
it your own. Phoebe and I will have little use for it, and Vesta
and Hew will be here at Woodcote for at least a fortnight. By all
appearances, considerably longer,” he added wryly.

“Shall we?” DeVere prompted toward the house
where a sumptuous feast awaited. The bride and groom preceded
everyone, followed by Ned and Phoebe. DeVere stayed Diana long
enough to remark with a wicked curve of his lips. “Well done, my
lady. I shall send for you anon.”

“No, my lord.” Diana turned on him. “I shall
come to you as promised, but it shall be at my own leisure.”

“Oh?” He quirked a brow. “As I recall, our
agreement stated no conditions.”

“While I nevertheless intend to conform to the
spirit of the wager, since you proved yourself less than a
gentleman, I insist that you indulge me in this one thing.”

He inclined his head. “All right, Diana, I’ll
grant your short reprieve. But be aware that I am not known for my
patience. Don’t make me wait too long.”

Chapter Twelve

Garbed in a simple gown in a mode worn by the
better class of servants, Diana concealed her face behind a heavy
veil and exited covertly through the mews where she hailed a
hackney coach.

When she gave the driver the address, a
notorious gentlemen’s domain of King’s Place, St. James, she noted
an instantaneous shift in the driver’s manner from respectful to
familiarity bordering insolence. Refusing to acknowledge his
lascivious leer, she closed the door in his face and directed her
gaze out the opposite window. When the coach lurched forward, Diana
suspected he meted out his vengeance by aiming for every pothole in
the road.

When they finally arrived, she noted his
hesitation to assist her down. He offered a black-toothed grin that
made her skin crawl. “O’ course, ye can always keep ‘yer tuppence
in exchange for a tup.”

Careful to avoid his face, she retrieved the
proper fare from her purse and dropped it wordlessly into his
hand.

“Suit yerself,” he grumbled, adding, “Uppity
whore,” at her departing back.

Already shaken, Diana was unsure what would
greet her behind the massive portal of the infamous brothel, but
the liveried footman who answered maintained the same wooden
countenance as in any well-heeled establishment.

Her second surprise came upon entering the
vestibule. She had expected cheap and tawdry, but what greeted her
was plush opulence—marble floors, soaring ceilings, elaborate
artworks adorning the walls, and expensive furnishings—an effect
worthy of royalty. Compared to her surroundings and what she had
seen of the exotic Salime, she felt gauche and self-conscious in
her drab and inconspicuous clothing.

“Have you an appointment, madam?” the footman
asked.

“I do not, but I wish to speak with one of
your...er...residents. Her name is Salime.”

“Your name, madam?” he asked.

“I wish to remain anonymous, but you may convey
that I am an acquaintance of Lord DeVere. I believe he is a
frequent patron here.”

“He is a most honored guest at this
establishment,” the footman acknowledged. “If you will be pleased
to follow me, I will inquire of the proprietress, Mrs. Hayes,
whether Madam Salime is receiving.” He led Diana into a small
sitting room done in gilt and soft blue pastel. “Do you care for
refreshment?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she replied nervously,
clutching her handkerchief.

“Very well.” He departed with a stiff bow.

After only a few minutes, Diana turned toward
the swishing sound of silk. A painted and patched woman of middling
years made her entrance with the confident hauteur of a duchess. “I
am Mrs. Hayes, the proprietress of this establishment.” She smiled,
the white paint on her face accentuating the yellow of her teeth.
“I understand you are an acquaintance of my Lord DeVere?”

“Yes,” Diana replied.

“I am, of course, honored to receive any friend
of my lord. Is there something special you seek? I have several
strapping fellows in my employ who are both well-equipped and eager
to satisfy the poor, neglected women of the Ton.”

“My business is with Madam Salime,” Diana
said.

Mrs. Hayes gaze narrowed with speculation. “So
you are the one.”

“Pardon me?”

“Our Jewel of the East had said there was one
who had the potential to capture the elusive viscount. I wonder now
what is hidden behind that veil of yours.”

“You may wonder all you like, but my identity is
not your concern.”

“Ah, but you seek something from me, do you not?
This is a house of both business and pleasure, you understand.
Perhaps we can come to an arrangement?”

“You wish me to pay you just to speak to
her?”

“One hundred guineas per hour for Salime,” the
bawd said with an avaricious gleam in her eye.

“But I only need a moment,” Diana protested.

“Salime’s time is exceedingly valuable.”

“So she said,” Diana replied wryly, wondering if
she even had enough coin to procure the brief interview she sought.
“I have but ten guineas.” She opened her purse.

“That will buy you precisely seven minutes, my
dear.”

“Seven minutes?” Diana sighed. “So be it then.”
She gave the madam the ten gold coins, and Mrs. Hayes promptly
beckoned to the footman. “Jenkins, take her to Salime.”

***

The footman opened the door to a large and
exotic room much like DeVere’s private apartments, only in this
case, a scantily clad woman reclined on the divan, the stem of a
hookah between her teeth. She took a slow pull before casting a
lazy gaze toward Diana.

“So you come at last.” Her lip curled with
insolence.

“Yes. I have come regarding your proposal,”
Diana said stiffly.

“Come.” Salime gestured her to the divan. “You
will smoke with me.”

“I don’t smoke,” Diana said. “What is it?”

“Opium,” Salime replied. “It relaxes the body
and opens the mind.” She offered Diana the pipe. “You are sadly in
need of both.”

Diana scowled.

“You will smoke if you wish to speak with me,”
Salime insisted.

“Very well,” Diana snapped, taking in a brisk
and choking puff that made her lungs burn and her eyes sting. She
threw down the pipe with a glower.

Salime gave her a glassy-eyed smirk. “You must
learn patience and to wait for instruction.” She offered the stem
to Diana once more. “Slowly, gently, draw it into your lungs as if
you inhale the fragrance of a delicate flower.”

When Diana repeated her attempt, she choked less
violently. Within minutes, a peculiar languor settled over her.

“Much better,” Salime remarked, settling herself
back on the silk cushions. “Now we talk.”

“Several weeks ago, you made me an offer—”

“One you snubbed with your English
arrogance.”

“It was with no disrespect to you, madam.”

“No?” Salime looked dubious.

“You don’t understand how it is between he and
I. We have a history, one that ended badly.”

“For both of you, I think. Yet he still
desires you
,
Khunam
.”

“Yes,” Diana replied. “He has made it clear, but
it’s only a matter of vanity, because I snub him.”

“I think not,” Salime said. “For
Efendi
is a man of great pride, but
this reaches deeper. But now you change your mind?”

“Perhaps,” Diana answered. “You said you
could teach me things. You said ‘it is
he
who would soon be enslaved, heart and
soul—prostrate at your feet!’ I wish to learn what you meant by
this.”

Salime gifted her with a secretive smile. “You
wish to make him wet clay in your hands?”

“Yes. I agreed to a wager and lost. I now
must go to him, but I want it to be on
my
terms. Do you understand that?”

“I understand very well,
Khunam.
But did you not agree to
give yourself to him completely?”

“Without condition or constraint,” Diana
confessed.

“Do you not understand what this means? He
desires much more from you than just to be a bedmate. You must seek
his pleasure in
all
things.”

Diana bridled. “I may agree to go to his
bed, but I shall not become his
slave!
”

“But what woman would have agreed to such a
wager unless she secretly desired to lose it?”