A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(17)

She had not given up hope of engaging his interest, although her own feelings were decidedly unengaged—all the better for such an arrangement. While she thought she had known what to expect in meeting him, something about the man was truly disconcerting. He was perpetually restless, almost manic in his quest for diversion, as if he feared that in resting even for a moment he might be forced to take stock of himself.

At first, she was befuddled by the close relationship between him and Ned, but now realized Ned’s steadiness served as a perfect foil for DeVere. Although he might mock his friend, deep down, he admired and, perhaps, even coveted that quiet reserve. DeVere was a man who hadn’t grown up and likely never would. Yet he would, assuredly, be entertaining if he chose to take her as his mistress. Moreover, she had absolutely no fear of losing her heart to him.

Ned, on the other hand, was dangerous.

Their brief time together in the garden had only made her realize how lonely she was...had refreshed the longings she’d once had...awakened new cravings. Without even touching her, he had ignited a smoldering fire low in her belly. Knowing she would do well to avoid his company, she was glad he would be only a few days in London. Still, she couldn’t avoid stealing a glance at him across the room. She found him staring back at her. Caught, he hastily looked away. Though he fought the attraction, she knew he felt it too. Phoebe’s heart raced with the confirmation that he was not indifferent to her. Whatever his reason, it was definitely not aversion. She wondered why he had refused her in the garden. Perhaps it was lack of money, but he didn’t seem to want for it. Or perhaps he found such a business arrangement distasteful?

“Well, gentlemen,” DeVere said. “I’ve just dropped a gauntlet. No horses, cocking, cards, dice, or seducing women, as there’s no challenge for me there. Do I have any takers?”

The loser of five hundred guineas earlier that night, Lord Malden perked up at the opportunity to win it back and then some. “Then what kind of challenge are you proposing?”

“Whatever quest your feeble minds can conjure. If I don’t accomplish the feat, I am a thousand guineas poorer.”

“I confess a vivid imagination.” Lord Carlisle chortled. “Perhaps you could try to beat Fox’s record of posting to Paris and back in thirty-six hours. What the devil was it for, Fox?”

“A particular chartreuse waistcoat I had admired. Had gold frogs embroidered on it. You know what a dandy I am.” Fox laughed.

“In almost thirty years, no one has yet beat Lord March’s racing chaise record.”

DeVere dismissed the notion. “I said no horses.”

“Steal a lion from the Royal Menagerie?” Lord Malden suggested.

DeVere looked to Ned with a grin. “If I recall, we both agreed that roasted lion had a rather unpleasantly gamey taste.” He gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “No. Nothing further with animals. It’s all been done before. Come now.” His eyes gleamed. “You can do better.”

“I have a proposal.” All eyes turned to the Prince of Wales, grinning like a monkey escaped from the aforementioned Royal Menagerie. “And one that has certainly never been done before. But I fear, even you, DeVere, may not wish to risk the consequences.”

“And why not?” asked DeVere.

“Because failing would mean much more than the loss of your gold. It would almost certainly land you in the tower.”

“Indeed?” All trace of boredom had left DeVere’s face. “I am fascinated to hear more, Your Highness. What would you lay before me?”

“I challenge you this night to take a woman of pleasure into the Bed of State at St. James Palace and bring back to me the soiled monogrammed sheet as proof.”

“You wish me to defile the king’s bed with a whore?” DeVere roared with unbridled mirth.

The prince smiled. “A bit crudely put, but precisely.”

“I wish to add a proviso,” Lord Malden whispered to the prince, his gaze on Phoebe. “Not just any whore, but that one.” He gestured with a nod.

“Why her?” the prince asked.

Lord Malden replied with a smug smile, “Because, Your Highness, she’s a Sapphist.”

***

“Not on your life,” Ned said, departing Carlton House with a throbbing head and shaky legs. “Our escapade with the lion was one thing; we at least had a fighting chance that time, but this? I don’t relish a march up Tower Hill. I quite like my head right where it is.”

“But where is your sense of adventure, Ned? Your passion for life? You didn’t use to be such a lackluster bore.”

Ned turned to face him. “Unlike you, I grew up!”

“I beg to differ. You’ve grown old. Old and dull. Dull Dog Ned.”

“I’m not the least moved by your taunts, DeVere. I’m perfectly content with my life, while you can’t seem to stand yours.”

“What the devil does that mean?”

“The reason you run amok. You’re miserable!”

“Me? Miserable?” DeVere barked with laughter. “I’m the happiest sod in England! Unlike some people who suppress their carnal appetites behind feigned respectability, I do whatever the hell I want, whenever I want. And moreover, with whomever I want.” He slanted a meaningful look to Phoebe.

“Think what you like, DeVere. It’s your bloody wager. Not mine.”