The Devil's Match (The Devil DeVere #4)(17)

Edward glowered, and Hew colored magenta. “Perhaps you could delay the orchestra for a bit while I try to locate my errant brother?” Hew suggested to his soon-to-be father-in-law.

He turned on his heel to do precisely that when Vesta laid a staying hand on his arm. “Wait, Hew. There he is.”

All eyes turned to the door where DeVere paused, doffed his hat to bride and groom, and made a sweeping bow. He continued toward them, sporting a glazed look and a somewhat unsteady gait.

“What the devil!” Hew exclaimed. “Is he drunk?”

“By all appearances...” Edward shrugged. “I suppose it was to be expected. He told me he strongly preferred a quiet civil ceremony, rather than all the hullabaloo. At least he deigned to make an appearance.”

“Perhaps I’d rather he hadn’t. My apologies, dearest,” Hew said to Vesta. “Do you wish me to ask him to leave?”

“Lackaday, Hew!” Vesta exclaimed. “He is your brother!”

“Still, I won’t have him embarrass you.” Hew looked to Sir Edward.

“I am long accustomed to DeVere’s caprice. He may do as he wishes...as long as he remains clothed.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Diana asked.

“The night Annalee and I were engaged, he took a naked dip in the ornamental fountain. Luckily, the rose petals concealed...you know.”

Diana was aghast. “Has he no sense of propriety?”

“None,” Hew answered. “A word of warning, Diana, the less made of it, the better. Should you dare criticize, he will only delight in flouting you all the more.”

“Dear brother. Dear sister.” Bride and groom regarded him with uncertainty as DeVere embraced each with a kiss on the cheek. Diana was assailed with the pungent smell of brandy even from where she stood behind them. She also noted with distaste that he was rumpled, unshaven, his velvet coat was covered with dust, and mud clung to the soles of his normally glossy black boots. “Why the long faces?” he asked.

Hew gave him a scathing look. “What did you do? Come straight from the races?”

“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.