A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(21)

There in the vast presence chamber decorated entirely in crimson velvet and gold lace with a soaring, white marble chimney and massive ormolu gilt chandeliers, on a raised dais surmounted by a crimson velvet canopy of state, was the ancient seat of kings, the very throne occupied by a succession of English monarchs for six centuries.

“What are you gawking at?” DeVere asked Ned who looked like he was fighting the impulse to genuflect.

“It’s—it’s rather awe-inspiring, don’t you think? To be alone in this room before the king’s very throne?”

DeVere laughed. “It rather comfortable-looking, don’t you think?” He swaggered across the gleaming parquet.

Ned gave him a warning look. “Don’t you dare.”

“Don’t I? But I’ve always fancied the role, you know.” DeVere caressed the scarred arm. “What think you, Kitty dear? Would it not suit me better than that pompous prig who reigns? Shall I warm my arse on the velvet cushion?”

“I think you’d do best to enact your fantasy on the stage if that is your wish, my lord, for to sit even for a moment on that seat would be a treasonable offense.”

DeVere raised a mocking brow. “More treasonable, you suppose, than frolicking in his bed?”

“Please, my lord,” Phoebe said. “There is little time. The palace staff rises early. We haven’t long before we greatly increase the risk of discovery.”

“I assume the king’s and queen’s private apartments are on the other side of that door?” He inclined his head to a massive oaken portal.

“Aye,” she said.

“Pity,” DeVere said with a look of yearning to the throne. “Perhaps another time?”

“Damn it, DeVere! Just get on with the business!” Ned growled, his irritation increasingly evident.

At what he knows will come next? Phoebe wondered with a pang of satisfaction if mayhap he was not so immune to her after all.

“Perhaps it’s best if you wait here?” DeVere pulled the flask from his pocket. He offered it to Ned with a smirk. “For your nerves, ol’ chap. You appear rather on edge.” Ned snatched it from his hands and had already downed a great swallow before she and DeVere disappeared together behind the door.

***

Although Phoebe had often accompanied the young princesses to their mother, the set of rooms comprising the king’s apartments were unfamiliar and awesome ground. They had only entered the antechamber, but like Ned, she felt somehow humbled and guilt-ridden to be here, as if as a mere mortal, she had no business invading the sanctity of the king’s private abode, let alone defiling the very bed where generations of kings had been conceived and had emerged from the royal wombs.

DeVere, on the other hand, evinced no such qualms. He had already loosened his cravat and was stripping off his coat.

“As I said earlier, there is no need,” Phoebe insisted. “A couple of buttons and a raised petticoat are all the business requires.”

“How delightfully unromantic you are, my dear!” He chuckled. “But while most men would be charmed to comply with your simple wishes, I have quite another game in mind. One that most definitely requires you to disrobe.”

“But what if I don’t want to?”

“Oh, but you will,” he said with a smug smile.

She glared. “You are very sure of yourself!”

He studied his buffed fingernails. “I am sure of Ned. Thus, we must put on a convincing show.”

Her brows came together in a deep scowl. “What do you mean? What has Ned to do with this?”

“Everything. And at any moment, I expect him to burst through that door like a raging bull.”

Phoebe looked from DeVere to the door, and her mouth dropped. “But why would he do that? What on earth are you up to?”

DeVere’s eyes gleamed with suppressed mirth. “Because this entire evening has been, until now, a dismal failure. I am now pressed to take extreme measures. For you and I, my pet, are about to bring my dear friend, Ned, back to the living.”

***

Though still feeling groggy from his earlier overindulgence, left to stand sentry while imagining DeVere having his wicked way with Phoebe, Ned didn’t pause to savor the contents of the flask.

Why did he want her anyway? Was she not even now conducting herself as a whore? Committing a lewd and probably treasonous act simply for money? Though he tried to dismiss her with these thoughts, he couldn’t. In his thirty-six years, only one other woman had truly inflamed him, and while he had loved Annalee desperately, she had not proven his equal in passion. He had always come to her with a certain amount of restraint, had always held something back.

Perhaps he should take a woman of pleasure? Maybe that was the logical answer for a man like him. A mistress would expect him to demand physical recompense for his protection. If he paid her well enough, he would have no reason for guilt over his frequent demands...as long as he took care not to impregnate her. He had already planned to lease a house for the season. He could find her someplace discreet in the country, provided she would come. Provided she was willing... His thoughts gravitated to Kitty. He had no doubt she would be willing. He had first felt her desire in the garden, and she had positively vibrated with it in the warehouse when he touched her. But if DeVere had decided to keep her...

What were they doing in there? He imagined her legs wrapped around DeVere’s flanks as he pumped into her, and his blood heated. Or lying on her belly with her pretty arse raised to DeVere in invitation. That thought made his stomach roil. His thoughts drifted to the graphic little book he had secreted in his pocket, and his mind filled with lurid imaginings. The illustrations in his head now had the faces of Kitty and DeVere. Bloody hell! It was too much for a man to take! Taking a final pull that emptied the contents, he slung the flask aside and turned resolutely to the door.