A Devil Named DeVere (The Devil DeVere)(34)

Diana's head was spinning, her thoughts scattering like leaves before a tempest. The combined assault of warm, hard, musky male and her own urgent desire overpowered her stymied senses. She clutched his hair and pulled away from him only long enough to gasp out. "There's something you need to know."

"I only need to know my cock is buried inside you," he growled back, his clever fingers freeing a breast from her stays. He closed his mouth over it, his hand sliding between her bare thighs. He groaned as his fingers entered her slick sheath, and she was lost to all brain activity beyond the unadulterated need to join with him.

Diana's frenzied hands moved to his breeches, caressing, squeezing, fumbling, and finally freeing his engorged staff. Both his hands were now under her skirts cupping her buttocks, his arms sliding beneath her thighs.

He tore his mouth away, his arms supporting her legs, guiding them about his waist. "Hands on my shoulders," he grunted and lifted her against the wooden door panel. He slid home in one solid thrust, pinning her to the portal. His tight buttocks began pumping a furious rhythm, and her consciousness reduced to the most primal instincts. She squeezed her thighs tight, meeting each driving plunge with her own grinding hips as he pounded into her, hammering her to the door in a coupling that was both feral and sublime. Her orgasm came upon her fierce, frantic, and forceful. Tears were streaming down her face when he caught her cry in his mouth. She swallowed his own shuddering groan as he withdrew and spent between her thighs before they both collapsed to the floor.

***

Ludovic was in exceedingly good humor upon rejoining his guests after the brief but torrid interlude with Diana, but his revelry was curtailed by the interruption of his head groom.

"Pardon yer lordship, but 'tis a matter most urgent." The ashen-faced jockey nervously twisted his cap.

"What the devil is it, Pratt?" DeVere demanded. "I've fifty some guests at present. Are you certain it cannot wait?"

"I fear not," Pratt answered his master with a grim face. "Mayhap it be best you come to the stables, milord. 'Tis sommat you must see for yourself."

DeVere made an irritated sound. "All right, then. Hew, pray see to the guests. I'll return as soon as I'm able."

Pratt led his master down to the stable block housing his guests' horses.

"Now what has my unflappable Pratt in such a lather?" DeVere demanded.

"Here, my lord," Pratt said, stopping in front of the oversized box which had earlier housed Lord Reggie's stallion.

DeVere frowned. "Where is the horse? And why did he not run this morning?"

"The poor beast was in a great agitation when we found him, my lord. Horses have an innate fear of death."

"Death?" DeVere repeated. "What the hell do you yammer on about?"

With trembling hands, Pratt slid the stall door open on its track. "'Tis a most gruesome sight, but we durst not move the body wi'out your express leave."

"Sweet Jesus!" DeVere cried out at the gory spectacle, his stomach lurching at the splattered blood and brain matter that clung to the walls. Adjusting to the initial shock, he stepped inside, taking care not to disturb the remains of Baron Reginald Palmerston-Wriothesley. "There's a pistol still in his hand."

"Aye, my lord. One would think he'd have dropped it."

DeVere was thinking the same thing. Something was horribly amiss. He stepped out with an impatient wave of his hand. "For God's sake, man, close it! What more do you know of this?" he demanded of Pratt as soon as the door slid shut.

"Almost nothing, my lord. His lordship's horses was cared for by his own groom, Johnson."

"And what of Johnson?"

"He be in fair sad condition hisself. We found him beside the baron. Looks like he was beaten senseless."

"Yet he lives?"

Pratt shrugged. "For now."

"Where is he?"

"Bedded down at me own cottage. Dr. Stone's been sent for, but little good t'will likely do."

"Has anyone yet notified the magistrate?"

"Not yet, my lord."

"Sir John Gooding is the Justice of the Peace, is he not? Pray locate him for me, Pratt. And send some men out to make discreet inquiries. I wish to know who was about during the races."

"Aye, surely, my lord." Pratt tugged his forelock.

"And Pratt, you know that the Baroness is amongst my company. It is my particular wish to shield her ladyship from any word of this. She had best not hear anything except from my own lips. Do you understand?"

"Aye. But what of the afternoon race, my lord?"

"Regardless of my personal dislike for the man, one cannot ignore that a death has occurred under my own roof. There will be no further racing this afternoon."

***

Diana waited with fretful anticipation for DeVere after learning of his departure and hearing Hew's vague explanation. "There was some commotion in the stables that demanded his attention, but I'm sure my brother will return shortly."

"But what of Reggie?" Diana asked. "He has not come back either." Wondering if her husband was the real cause of DeVere's unexpected departure, her unease was rapidly increasing.

"I have seen nothing of Lord Reggie since this morning," Hew said. "If you will please pardon me now, my lady, it seems I must dance attendance on our new arrivals."