A Devil Named DeVere (The Devil DeVere)(70)

"Because you seek it out!" she insisted. "And if anything good came to lie at your feet, you would be too blinded by hedonistic self-indulgence to see it!"

"Wrong again, my love," he murmured. "For I clearly see you."

***

Diana opened her mouth to remonstrate, but no sound emerged.

Sensing her lowered guard, he entrapped her between his body and the marble balustrade in front of them, brushing his fingers along the neckline of her bodice, locating her nipples, while he sucked her neck. He found the hollow place behind her ear with his tongue, and her erstwhile protest transformed into a strangled moan.

"Are you going to bite me again?" he asked. "Or do I take that sound as an invitation?"

"Please, don’t," she protested, even as she tilted her head back, giving him easier access.

"Still, you contradict yourself," he said, licking and nibbling her skin while his thumb and forefinger teased her nipple. "The truth now, Diana. Do you truly wish me to stop? Or shall I take that rosy nipple into my mouth and suckle it while I finger you until you scream? Or would you rather I tongue you to your release? I would be happy to comply with either. The door is locked, and I would be concealed by those voluminous skirts of yours. Thus, it is purely your preference."

"Dear God," she cried out, a sound of mixed pleasure and protest. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I'm a ruthless bastard when I want something, and I want the truth from you. If I must go to my knees to get it...so be it."

She gasped in another halfhearted protest, her chest rapidly rising and falling as he cupped her breasts, squeezing and molding the soft mounds. He ground his cock against her buttocks, and she arched into him with a soft cry. He released one breast to inch under her petticoat, skirting up the inside of her smooth, quivering thighs, until he approached the object of his desire. To his smug satisfaction, he found her wet with the want she so vehemently denied.

"A mere touch, and you'd explode," he remarked. "Don't dare refute it now, Diana. I've never known a woman want to come so badly. I can cure your ache. I can give you what you want...what you need."

"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.