A Devil Named DeVere (The Devil DeVere)(67)

"It was either that or ne'er at all." DeVere filched a glass of champagne from a passing footman. He raised it in a silent salute and then downed the contents in one draught. "Music!" he cried. "Let the festivities begin." He commanded the orchestra with an imperious wave of his hand. He turned back to Hew and patted his coat pocket with a sloppy smile. "I was obliged to stay until the last race, but at least I am arrived plump enough in the purse to open the Faro bank."

"The Faro bank?" Vesta's gaze flitted from DeVere to Hew with dismay. "But you can't do it, Uncle Vic! It would ruin the party if you commence gaming, for there will not be a single gentleman left for the dancing. Besides, you must be the first to commence."

Ludovic turned to the tiny termagant with an intimidating arch of his brow. "You expect me to dance?"

"Indeed, you must," Vesta insisted. "By tradition, the highest-ranking couple always opens the dancing with a minuet, and you are a viscount, after all."

"A minuet?" he said. "Bloody hell. It only gets worse. Do you really think to have me tripping about the dance floor like some Frenchified fop in front of a hundred people?"

Vesta's face crumpled. Tears misted her eyes. Her lower lip quivered. "Please, Uncle Vic," she implored prettily. "It's your only brother's engagement party, and it's tradition for the highest-ranking gentleman to lead out the highest-ranking lady. If you do not do so, then who will accompany Aunt Di?"

***

Ludovic noted the glimmer in her eye and the sly quirk of Vesta's lips. The scheming little baggage was once more up to something. Very well then, I'll play along.

"Me?" Diana queried. "Vesta, I have no intention of dancing with anyone."

She couldn't have made it more clear who anyone was, yet Ludovic noted with satisfaction how she avoided his gaze. "But, my dear Lady Palmerston-Wriothesley, we wouldn't wish to defy tradition, would we? What would people say?" he mocked.

"You are wearing boots," she replied with contempt. "A gentlemen does not dance in boots."

He glanced down at his feet with a feigned look of surprise. "Ah, so I am. Yet fabricated of the supplest calfskin by George Hoby's own hands." He extended a leg in admiration and then experimentally flexed and rotated his ankle.

Diana visibly paled.

Ludovic chuckled. "I daresay I can manage even with the boots."

"You wouldn't!"

"Why ever not?"

"My lord, you may make an ass of yourself all you like, but I will not allow you to humiliate me or our dear goddaughter."

"Once again, my lady, you make unfounded presumptions. You will put your antagonism aside for Vesta and Hew's sake. And I will lead you out to the floor where you will dance with a smile upon your face as if you are transported."

"And if I refuse?" she challenged.

He answered sotto voce with a twisted smile. "Then, my dear, I will bodily carry you. And I promise there is not a single one here who would dare to intervene."

***

When Lord DeVere extended his velvet-clad arm, Diana scrambled for any excuse, any way out, but then his hand came over hers, holding it in a clasp of iron on his sleeve. The taunting look he delivered confirmed that her wish was impossible; there would be no escaping the mortification.

Choosing to meet her fate with quiet dignity, Diana raised her chin and advanced to the center of the room on DeVere's arm. She watched with amazement as with a mere inclination of his head, the crowd divided, moving in a giant wave toward the outer walls, as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea. With a hundred or more pairs of eyes riveted on their every move, Diana felt her face would burst into flames. He gave her another mocking smile, and she wondered if the evening could possibly get any worse.

Upon DeVere's command, the musicians launched into an airy piece she recognized as a Bach minuet. Determined not to give him any more fodder for ridicule, Diana turned to their audience, dipping into the deep curtsey, the formal show of reverence that began the courtly minuet. She kept her eyes lowered on her silk petticoats sweeping the floor, then turned to offer the same homage to her partner, refusing to meet DeVere's gaze even as she rose to face him. She couldn't mask her nervous tremble when he reached for her hand to begin the dance.

She stared, flabbergasted when he remarked, "Just concentrate on the pattern, Diana, and I'll ensure you don't make a spectacle of us."

"Me? I'm not the one reeling with drink!" Diana couldn't determine if he had meant to reassure or ridicule, but he had certainly succeeded in discomposing her. Thenceforth, it took all her concentration to keep track of the intricate steps. They had already proceeded halfway across the floor when Diana realized rather than stumbling and staggering through the dance as she had anticipated, DeVere rose and dipped in perfect time with the music, every movement executed flawlessly.

"But you don't even dance!" she hissed.

He flashed her a dazzling smile that rattled her to the point of faltering. DeVere broke the pattern to take her in hand and lead her back into the dance. "I despise it," he murmured back through his show of brilliant white teeth. "But I never said I couldn't. One can hardly avoid the tedious obligation of it when spending half a year in Paris."

They executed the first turn and parted for the z-figure. When they came together again, DeVere remarked, "It's the main reason I left Paris for Venice—to escape the execrable French obsession with dancing." They parted once more for the left turn. "There is, however, one form of dance of which I am highly enamored," he said as the figure brought them back together again.