His cock stirred at the thought of Diana…and the image of it sliding between the luscious mounds of her breasts. Yet here was Caroline in his bed—the proverbial gift horse, writhing and moaning in the full thrall of masturbation. Perhaps if he were to close his eyes and enter her from behind? He retrieved a small, satin pouch from the pocket of his breeches and unfastened the placket to withdraw his semi-erect phallus. Taking it in hand, he sheathed it in a thin layer of sheep gut incongruously secured with a blue satin riband.
Noting his preventive measures, Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “Why must you always use such a device?”
“Out of care for my health…as well as your own,” he answered.
She sat upright, lips curved in distaste. “You suspect I carry disease?”
“I suspect nothing. But I know for fact you have other lovers, some of whom are far less fastidious than me. But if my preference for armor offends you, my sweet, I can surely eliminate my own discomfort.” Taking his stiffened cock in hand, he fisted himself with several hard, fast strokes. His brief actions swiftly brought him to full length and breadth. He heard her intake of breath. He saw her pupils flare in eyes widened in fascination and desire. She licked her lips.
His own twitched. “Do I detect a change of heart, my pet?”
She glared in outraged capitulation. “Come and fuck me, you bastard!”
With a laugh, Ludovic flipped Caroline onto her stomach, a position that would muffle her voice. He then closed his eyes, envisioned Diana beneath him, and plunged deeply into her.
***
Diana and Annalee were swiftly and efficiently settled in separate en-suite apartments in the west wing. Diana could hardly contain her awe at accommodations that were commodious and breathtaking in opulence, with furnishings of damask and gilt, and elaborately plaster-worked ceilings complete with silk coverings on the wainscoted walls. She noted with particular pleasure the French doors opening to a balcony overlooking a magnificent parterre garden and ornamental fountain.
Edward was right. If this was only Viscount DeVere’s retreat, he certainly suffered from no dearth of fortune. For no particular reason, Diana found herself overcome with curiosity about the man. He must be about thirty and had never married; that much she knew from Annalee. And who was this duchess? Her instincts already told her there was a story even before DeVere had cut Annalee off. She tried to shake it off as none of her business, and yet…
A soft knock sounded on the door before Diana’s abigail peered inside. “Is there aught that you need, my lady? Do you wish to refresh yourself?”
“At present, I wish more than anything to escape the blasted confines of my stays!” Diana said. “I’d also love a brief repose followed by a hip bath, if that can be easily managed.”
“There is one already prepared in the adjoining dressing chamber, milady, and hot water on the way. The lady duchess desires to take particular care of his lordship’s guests.”
“Does she? Then I shall take particular care to thank Her Grace.”
The maid, already at work unlacing her gown, paused. “Have you met the duchess before, my lady?”
“No. I have not. Although I understand that Lady Annalee has some acquaintance with her.” Diana’s curiosity was roused by the maid’s manner. “Is there a particular reason you ask, Polly?”
Helping to strip away the layers of bodice and petticoats, the maid replied in a conspiratorial whisper. “Word from the servants here, milady, is that the duchess is no better than she ought to be. She arrived two days hence and has not slept in her own chamber. The staff says she conducts herself as if she were already mistress of the house. ‘Twould seem to me she’s another kind of mistress altogether and no fit company for my lady!” Polly added in affront.
Diana’s forehead furrowed. In having briefly met his lordship, Diana presumed the maid’s suspicions were correct. This thought was followed by indignation. Not that Diana ever would have entertained his presumed proposition. Still, she was piqued that he would even have insinuated such a thing with a woman already under his roof.
“While I share your sentiments, Polly, it is the viscount’s home, and he can do whatever he wishes. The duchess is a widow, and the viscount is unwed. Thus, it is their business alone,” she spoke the mild reprimand, wishing neither to encourage the girl’s impertinence nor squelch it completely. “We can only hope they conduct themselves with proper circumspection.”
“Yes, my lady.” The maid flushed rose. “Shall I unlace you now?”
“Please.”
A moment later, Polly deftly released Diana’s generous breasts from a prison of tightly stitched linen and whalebone. Diana breathed a great sigh and stretched. “I’m going to indulge in an hour’s repose, Polly, but then I shall need you to press my gown while I bathe and then redress my hair.”
“Which gown shall it be?”
While not normally afflicted by excessive vanity, DeVere’s abrupt dismissal of her stirred something devilish within. “The new emerald and gold damask in the Polonaise fashion is quite lovely, don’t you think?”
“And most becoming to your eyes and figure too, my lady,” the maid countered with a wink.
The latest mode from Paris, the gown had a devastatingly low, square-cut bodice accentuated with the tiniest bit of sheer, gold trim that barely concealed a hint of dusky nipple. If the viscount appreciated her well-endowed bosom, what harm in teasing from afar that which he could never touch? Deeming it naught but a bit of harmless flirtation with a charming rogue, Diana paid little heed to the fleeting notion that she might actually be playing with fire.
CHAPTER THREE
TWO HOURS LATER, another soft rap sounded upon Diana’s door. “We thought you might desire our escort to supper. But how lovely you look!” Annalee exclaimed in admiration as Diana joined them in the hall. “I knew that gown would be perfect for you. I could never carry off a style so bold even if I had my slender figure back.” She laid a hand on her expanded waistline with a look of dismay.
Elegantly attired in bottle-green velvet and crisp, white linen, Edward gave a formal bow over Diana’s hand. “You are indeed…dashing,” he said as if struggling for the right word. Noting the spots of color in his cheekbones, Diana knew a moment’s regret for her daring décolletage. She fought the impulse to fetch a fichu, but remembering a certain vivid blue gaze that had fixed upon her breasts, she determined to sally forth with boldness.
“Is there still no word of Reginald?” Diana asked.
“Hew was some considerable assistance in the matter. He said Reggie arrived at Epsom several days hence.”
With no further elaboration forthcoming, Diana prompted, “Where do you suppose he has been all this time?”
“I am given to understand he has been a guest at Clay Hill.”
“Clay Hill? Do you suppose he was uncomfortable arriving ahead of our party and chose to stay with another acquaintance? Who owns the place? Do you know, Edward?”
Edward’s color deepened. “It is the residence of a man who calls himself Colonel O’Kelly.”
Diana was thoroughly befuddled. “I don’t understand. Who is this man to Reggie? And why would he be there when he knew we were all expected here?”
“I only know of him, Diana, and regrettably, nothing good. He is a noted turf man and notorious blackleg. He is also the owner of Eclipse.”
“Then mayhap that explains it. Reggie had entertained thoughts of breeding Cartimandua, although I hear the stud fee for Eclipse is extortionate.”
“I cannot answer, but DeVere, Hew, and I shall ride over after supper and retrieve your errant spouse.”
“Why do we not all go?” she asked.
“Because Clay Hill is no fit place for a lady of good repute.”
“Oh?” She arched her brow with a frown. “And why is that? I would know more of this, Edward.”
“Then I defer to DeVere.” He offered an arm to each lady. “For now I’m famished, so let us descend to supper.�
��
***
In their brief exchange before repairing to dine, Diana found Caroline, Duchess of Beauclerc jealous, possessive, and overweening with her own worth. Toward Annalee, she was warm, if a trifle condescending, but the moment she laid eyes on Diana, or more aptly, the instant DeVere had, her steely gaze shot daggers. Thenceforth, the duchess sought every opportunity to disparage her seeming rival.
“Do you plan another sojourn in town before your return to the country, Lady P? It seems you had little time to catch up on the latest fashions. I could recommend a number of places to you.” The duchess smiled. “A friseur, perhaps?”
Diana’s hand flew to her hair before she realized she had risen to the bait. While the duchess was undoubtedly more richly attired, stylishly coiffed, and extravagantly bejeweled, Diana knew that her own simplicity of hair, gown, and pearls showed her off to far better advantage. She smoothed back an errant curl and flashed—she hoped—a confident smile. “I know ‘tis the fashion in London and Paris, but as a taller woman, I do not favor the high headdress, Your Grace. Besides, with the daily running of an estate, I have not so much leisure to indulge my vanity.”
Caroline flicked a scathing look over Diana’s gown. “A daring cut for a woman of your proportions. I shall have a footman fetch you a shawl. One would hate for you to catch a chill.”
“I am perfectly comfortable,” Diana replied.
“Nevertheless—”
“You needn’t trouble yourself, Caroline,” DeVere interjected. “As host, my guests’ comfort is my concern.” He turned to Diana with a burning look that made her pulse skitter. “Should you later grow chilly, dear lady, you need only whisper the word, and I shall command every hearth in this monstrosity be lit. I would rather set my entire house aflame than cover such a magnificent…” His gaze raked over Diana’s bosom with an appreciative gleam. “…gown.”
The duchess looked apoplectic. Though Diana tried at first to suppress it, and then to stifle it behind her hand, she simply couldn’t contain the ripples, and for the first time in distant memory, Diana erupted in full-bodied mirth. Although Annalee had warned her of DeVere’s dangerous charm, she never could have imagined her own susceptibility to it. His blue eyes glittering with devilment, DeVere joined in her gale of laugher and forgoing protocol, took Diana’s hand to lead her into supper, leaving his brother Hewett to escort the fuming duchess.
The incident did little to endear her to the other woman.
They supped at a table that could easily have accommodated twenty with a liveried footman strategically placed behind each person. DeVere commanded the table’s head with the Duchess of Beauclerc at his right. Hew took his place on the other side of her while Ned, Annalee, and Diana all sat to the left. Furthest from DeVere and the duchess, Diana enjoyed the opportunity to observe them unobtrusively and stole frequent glances at DeVere. Though the duchess seemed to go out of her way to attract his attention with frequent touches and over-bright laughter, Diana thought he seemed far more interested in his other companions.
The meal was a lengthy event with more covers and dishes than Diana could ever have counted accompanied by the best wines she’d ever tasted. The hours were highlighted with bright conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter, interposed with brief silences only upon the removal of each cover.
“This is quite a remarkable house, my lord,” Annalee said. “You implied earlier that it has an interesting history. Perhaps you might share it with us now?”
DeVere leaned back in his chair and signaled for more wine all around. “The story of the house itself is quite innocuous. It is the iniquity of the past owner who has brought it to infamy.”
“Iniquitous?” The duchess’s eyes gleamed. “But surely you tease us.”
His mouth kicked up in one corner. “My dear, I assure you the wolf can identify the beast.”
“Go on then,” Ned prompted with unrestrained eagerness. “You have us all ears now.”
“Let none accuse me of refusing anything to my guests,” said DeVere. After emptying his glass, he slumped back in lazy repose, dangling the stem between his fingers. “This house and park were built one hundred years ago by the Evelyn family but passed on to the Calvert family—the Barons Baltimore, the Proprietary Governors of Maryland. The third Baron pulled down most of the old house and made extensive improvements to include the present Palladian façade, but there is little of interest until the estate passed to the Sixth Baron, Frederick Calvert, a man whose life was rife with scandal, from the cradle to the grave.”
“How so?” asked Ned.
“You shall see for yourself if you merely incline your heads to the long wall to the left. Call it an absurd vagary, but I have taken it upon myself to remove the two portraits from the gilt monstrosity that serves as a library to hang them here, side by side.”
All eyes turned to study the portraits.
“What do you see?” asked DeVere.
Annalee responded first. “Each is a young nobleman of similar age, and they bear a striking resemblance one to another. Brothers, mayhap?”
“I have seen one of these portraits!” exclaimed the duchess. “The one to the right is clearly Frederick, Prince of Wales, the father of our own King George. Yet the other does not resemble any of his living brothers, the royal dukes. Who is it, darling?”
DeVere inclined his head toward Caroline. “You have correctly identified the Prince, Your Grace, but the portrait to the left is another Frederick altogether—Frederick Calvert, Sixth Baron Baltimore and the late owner of this house. The Prince of Wales was his godfather.”
“Merely his godfather?” She arched her delicately penciled brow.
“Officially, yes. Though I surmise his true parentage is suspect. Calvert’s father was a Gentleman of the Bedchamber to the prince, who we all know was a great philanderer. In looking at these portraits, one wonders if Lady Baltimore might have also have taken some less official role in the prince’s bedchamber? Yet his questionable birth is only the beginning of this wastrel’s tale.”
“Whatever did he do?” asked the duchess.
DeVere laughed. “One might better ask what he didn’t do!” DeVere continued his narrative, “Frederick came into a vast fortune upon his father’s death, but had little interest in the administration of his holdings. Instead, he appointed a sub-governor for Maryland and took himself off for extensive continental travels. The influence of his grand tour is seen in the tawdry appointments of this house.” DeVere rolled his eyes at the frescoed ceiling above them. “With all of these Italian frescos and friezes, Corinthian columns, plaster work, and gilt furnishings, it is as if he endeavored to create his own little Versailles. In addition to his execrable taste— “
“But I think it’s lovely,” Annalee interrupted, craning her neck to better study the depiction of Verrio’s Ganymede.
DeVere gave her half shrug. “Chacun son goût, my dear. On any account, Frederick proved a profligate of the highest order.”
“Let not my brother the pot, call the kettle burnt-arse,” said Hew. “You bought this place, after all.”
DeVere looked affronted. “Accused by my own blood.” He raised his glass in a laughing salute.
“Your history of the house is diverting, darling, but let us hear more of the iniquity.” Caroline leaned into him until her breasts caressed his arm.
“I live only to indulge you, my pet,” said DeVere.
“Oh?” The duchess smiled, and Diana noticed one of her hands slip under the table.
DeVere’s expression seemed to change, yet he continued his narrative. “The scandals that followed our young prodigal were sordid enough to have inspired Hogarth’s Rake’s Progress had he lived a generation earlier. As I said, Frederick travelled extensively and always with a grand entourage. He also gambled away a great deal of his wealth and was in need of a boost to his coffers upon his return. Thus, he wed a younger daughter of the Duke of Bridgewater. It was considered an advantageous match on bo
th sides, but they were constantly at odds with one another. ‘Tis no great surprise, of course. No man loves his fetters, be they made of gold.”
Caroline slanted DeVere an inquiring look. His lashes fluttered briefly, he seemed to tense for a moment, and then he slumped back in his chair. Her hand returned to the table.
“Perhaps she just didn’t care for his philandering ways?” Diana suggested tersely, feeling more than a slight affinity to the duke’s daughter.
“But it is a man’s world.” DeVere gave a smug smile and raised his glass.
Diana felt her hackles rise. “So you believe all women should blindly accept profligacy and faithlessness in marriage?”
“Let us say, she would be much more content who does.”
“I differ with you on that score, my lord,” the duchess remarked. “I say the sauce for the gander is just as good for the goose.”
DeVere’s expression hardened. “Speaking as one with no personal inclination toward monogamy, my answer is then why wed at all?”
Caroline gave him a petulant look.
“More wine!” DeVere called out, breaking the strained silence. He took another great draught, and then his genial mask returned. “Where was I now? Ah! Conjugal felicity! This is precisely where the story gets interesting. Five years into their less-than-fruitful marriage, Lady Baltimore took a fatal fall from her husband’s phaeton.”
“I remember hearing of this!” Caroline declared. “He was highly suspected of foul play. After all, how can one possibly fall from a moving carriage unless it has overturned?”
“No charges were filed against him?” asked Annalee.
“None,” remarked DeVere. “One of the many privileges of being a well-connected peer of the realm. Yet suspicion lingered, so Baltimore left the country again, hoping the scandal would die down. He spent an extended period in Italy and then went eastward, living amongst the Turks until he was forced to leave Constantinople for fear of his life.”
Seven Nights of Sin: Seven Sensuous Stories by Bestselling Historical Romance Authors Page 54