The Devil's Match (The Devil DeVere #4)(27)

His condescension and innuendo made Diana’s hackles rise. “You would do better to look after your own. If I can take a four-foot stone wall while chasing a fox, I daresay I can gallop over a gently sloping down.

DeVere threw his head back with a laugh. “You are in earnest?”

She gave him a tight smile. “Yes.” Diana had to suppress the urge to grind her teeth until his fit of mirth subsided.

“Fair enough, then,” he replied with a lingering smirk. “I have brought Pratt to be our lone official, if that is agreeable to you?”

The grizzled jockey who had followed his master tugged a forelock in her direction.

“I trust Pratt’s impartiality,” she said.

DeVere inclined his head to the starting post. “Shall we?”

“For the signal, I’ll drop me handkerchief.” Pratt turned to Diana.

“That is also acceptable,” she replied, her fingers nervously clenching the reins.

Preceding DeVere, Diana tried to quiet a heart that already seemed to be galloping across the down. They would run a single lap around the racecourse, a distance of one mile that would be completed in two potentially life-altering minutes. It was as if this moment were a culmination of fate, for Diana knew with a certainty that she would be forever changed if she lost.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing her gaze ahead, avoiding all eye contact with her nemesis, yet couldn’t help slanting a reluctant glance of admiration to the rider at her side, to the strong, handsome profile, his proud and solid seat on the horse. He was in every way formidable and would give no quarter.

The hour they had spent together in the gallery had been profoundly revealing, not just in the family skeletons but in the glimpse into his soul. He had shown a paradoxical protectiveness of his family and of his good name. He had protected his brother from the worst of the dirty secrets, and although he outwardly despised both of his parents, he had ensured their care and security. Although DeVere emulated much of their bad behavior in his own life, he refused to wed for his lack of faith in marital fidelity, whereas most other noblemen would just wed for the heir and then take a mistress for pleasure. She also knew he exercised sufficient responsibility and self-control not to sire bastards upon his mistresses. DeVere continued to be a conundrum that both fascinated and repulsed her.

Diana wondered now what devil had possessed her to undertake this wager. The loss of the horses to DeVere had surely been a point of contention, and her pride had played no small part. She desperately desired to take back a portion of what had been lost, surely a just and legitimate cause, but it reached much deeper than that. She wanted to take something from him, just as he had taken from her, but that something she couldn’t even define, and wouldn’t confess it even if she could. Perhaps it was sheer caprice on her part? For surely her experience had already taught her that any involvement with DeVere was playing with fire, but like a helpless moth, she was mortally attracted to his flame.

The little mare shifted impatiently beneath her. Diana reached down to stroke the sleek neck. “Soon, my girl,” she murmured.

Pratt retrieved his handkerchief. He raised his arm, and the nervous tension roiled within her. With bated breath she watched as the handkerchief descended. Plying whip and spur, horses and riders bolted from the starting post like a violent clash of thunder and lightning.

***

Refusing to cast a sidelong glance, Diana was still ever aware of DeVere’s presence. She crouched low over her mare, that sleek and supple snorting mass of muscle and sinew. Boadicea was well matched against her foe, ironically the son of Centurion. Diana was confident in the mare’s ability. Boadicea was bred of the finest racing blood; Diana knew the fiery, little horse would run until she burst.

The horse’s ears flickered forward and back in response to her rider’s cues. Diana crooned words of encouragement as her fingers played on the reins. It was no magnanimous gesture that DeVere had given her the lead, for she knew he intended to play a cat and mouse game with her. He was visible out of the corner of her eye now, gaining, but only by fractions. She held back, refusing to push the horse too soon. He would surely try to taunt her into burning her up early. She wouldn’t make that mistake.

They had covered half a mile when he appeared at her side, flashing that dazzling smile meant to unnerve her. It wasn’t completely without effect. The underhanded bastard. Yet, refusing to be daunted, Diana and the mare held their own against the larger, stronger pair...until the three-quarter mile marker came into view.

They were riding neck and neck now; she could see the red flare of Titan’s nostrils, the breath of both mounts now coming hard and fast like a bellows as their iron-shod hooves continued to tear up the verdant turf. She stole another glance at DeVere to discover with smug satisfaction that he was no longer smiling. His features were drawn taut with concentration.

With a low clucking noise, Diana gave her mare another inch of rein. The ears flickered, and the body beneath her surged forward with a renewed effort that DeVere and Titan didn’t hesitate to match. Her mare’s neck was damp with sweat, but the bay stallion was coated with white foam at the mouth and chest. The extent of his exertion under the heavier rider was now showing. He was tiring quickly with a furlong still remaining to the finish.

The stallion began slipping back, losing valuable ground. DeVere plied whip and spur to no avail. The post was within a hundred yards, and Diana could no longer glimpse them in the periphery of her vision. Her pulse sped up with rising confidence that the race had become theirs for the taking.