A Devil Named DeVere (The Devil DeVere)(73)

"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 fa?ade 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."