"If you wish to elicit sympathy from me, I am sorry to disappoint you."
Ludovic shrugged and dropped his mask comfortably back into place. "The only thing I wish to elicit from you, my dear, are screams of rapture."
"Back to that again, are we? You waste your breath. Now why did you bring me here?" Diana demanded.
"You challenged me last night, Diana, taunted even, when you know damn well I never take such a thing lightly. So I wish to know what you propose by way of a wager."
"Perhaps I haven't had sufficient time to think on it," she hedged.
"Don't dissemble when we both know you had already something in mind before you even spoke."
"All right, my lord. I will tell you. I would very much like to rebuild my former racing stables, but I have not the means to do so without a quality breeding stallion."
"A woman has no business with a racing stud."
"Perhaps that is my concern and not for you to judge, my lord."
DeVere quirked a brow. "Very well. Then what are you asking? You wish me to wager one of my stallions?"
"Not just any stallion. I wish to you wager Centurion."
"The sire of my best prospect for the Derby?"
"I thought it would be more than you would be willing to chance." She turned for the door.
"I have not yet decided," he retorted. "I would first know what I might stand to gain from this wager."
"You once expressed interest in Cartimandua," she suggested.
"An unequal bargain," he replied. "A brood mare may produce a single foal per year at best, while a proven stallion can sire a hundred offspring at a considerable profit. No, my dear, you must offer a much greater incentive than that."
"But I am not a wealthy woman, and you know as well as I that you acquired that stallion through dubious circumstances. You owe me the opportunity to win him back!"
"I owe you? I seem to recall only recently your great affront at just how much I have already paid you."
"That is not what I mean! You owe me the opportunity to redeem my honor, my lord. Were I a man, we would have settled this long ago on a dueling field."
"You still have a taste for my blood, madam? On second thought, you need not answer." He touched his lip with a bemused smile. "So it is now your honor that's at stake?"
"Yes." Diana faced him with her hands braced on her hips.
He laughed, a low rumble. "Ironic indeed, when your person is the only thing that remotely interests me."
Her gaze narrowed. "You wish me to wager myself?"
He shot one brow up. "How badly do you want the stallion?"
"What are your terms?" she asked.
"If I win, you will be mine for a week...to take whenever and however I please. No conditions. No constraints." Ludovic was prepared for a reaction of shock, outrage, or at least righteous indignation. Instead, to his amazement, she appeared calm, pensive, even calculating.
"A very tall order," she remarked. "If I were to agree, do I have your assurance that afterward you will never harass me again?"
He inclined his head with a half smile. "If that is your wish."
"I know my own mind."
"Then let it be my object to change it."
"So be it then," Diana said. "It's inconsequential anyway, for I don't intend to lose. Let us meet, just you and I, on the down at dawn tomorrow."
Chapter Twenty-four
They met early in the morning, while the dewy swirls of mist of still danced over the down, the mounted riders facing each other with a duelist's salute.
"Where is your jockey?" DeVere asked with a puzzled frown.
"Did I not say? I intend to ride."
"You? A woman in a sidesaddle?" He scoffed.
She met his mocking gaze with defiance. "It is how I am accustomed to going. Perhaps you're not up to the challenge, my lord?"
"Oh, I'm always up, my lady...for any challenge. I only exercise care for your neck."
His condescension and innuendo made Diana's hackles raise. "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 fra
ctions. 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 ironshod 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.
***
How the bloody hell can she be winning? Ludovic was nearly beside himself. A loss to a woman in a sidesaddle would surely be too much for his pride and reputation to bear! Hell, he'd have to leave the country for another ten years before this humiliation would die down! Let alone the fact that he had almost had her within his grasp. He was desperate to end the damnable itch once and for all, and a week in his bed fucking her day and night in innumerable ways would surely have made the cure.
They were already ahead by a length, and he knew his horse was spent. Oh, he could whip and spur till the stallion's flanks bled, but he knew damned well the effort would be pointless destruction of a fine animal. Better to bow out with grace, or he thought drily, with his engorged "tail" firmly between his legs.
He was almost ready to concede when it happened. In the final yards to the finish, the mare's right leg collapsed beneath her. Ludovic's heart lodged in his airway when before his eyes, she pitched forward onto both knees. For an interminable, terrifying instant, he feared her momentum would send her into a somersault, but by some miracle, she recovered. Diana, however, was no longer seated in the saddle, but had slid onto the horse's neck where she now clung helplessly. He pulled up abruptly, flinging himself to the ground before his own horse had even come to a halt. "My God, Diana! What a close call! Are you all right?"
The mare's eyes were wide. Except for her trembling, she stood as a statue. Diana answered in an unsteady voice. "Yes. I am unharmed."
"You are certain?"
"Aye. But the horse?"
"Pratt will see to her." He inclined his head to the groom rushing toward them and then threw a leg up, vaulting effortlessly back into the saddle.
"Where are you going?" Diana asked.
He gave her a wicked grin. "To cross the finish line."
She gave him a murderous glare. "You wouldn't! A gentleman would never—"
He regarded her sitting on the horse's neck with an amused gleam. "My dear, you know it is a wicked quirk of my nature to take advantage of the disadvantaged." He added with a twisted smile. "Thus, I certainly would."
***
The next two days passed in a blur with both Diana and DeVere forfeiting their entries in the Derby. Diana withdrew due to her mare's injury, although Pratt was quick to relieve her mind that it was but a sprain that poultice wraps and stall rest would surely mend. DeVere, on the other hand, privately conceded that while he had, indeed, crossed the finish first, Titan had not proven himself worthy enough against the mare to try him among a whole field of top-notch contenders. Nevertheless, they all enjoyed the spectacle and the postrace celebrations.
Vesta and Hew exchanged their vows the next morning in a quiet ceremony in the private chapel at Woodcote, after which DeVere presented them a small, velvet box. Hew tented his brows in surprise when he retrieved a skeleton key wrought in silver from within its depths.
"The key to the castle, although it is merely symbolic." DeVere grinned.
Vesta regarded her godfather, wide-eyed. "You can't mean..."
"Yes. Woodcote Park is yours, my dear."
After a stunned moment, Vesta threw herself bodily into her godfather's arms. "Thank you!" She then squealed. "Oh, Hew! It's ours! Woodcote is all ours!"
Hew turned to his brother. "I am truly speechless, Vic."
DeVere flushed with apparent embarrassment. "It is my intent to now leave you newlyweds to explore it at your leisure."
"My thoughts exactly," Ned agreed. "Phoebe and I depart immediately after the wedding breakfast, although you must suffer through another one the first time you travel north again. Our neighbors would never forgive us otherwise."
"Within the month, Papa," Vesta promised, glancing eagerly to her husband.
"And you, Diana?" Ned asked. "Do you return with Phoebe and me?"
"Actually, I would prefer a short sojourn in London if the house is still available to me."
"Of course, my dear," Ned said. "Please consider it your own. Phoebe and I will have little use for it, and Vesta and Hew will be here at Woodcote for at least a fortnight. By all appearances, considerably longer," he added wryly.
"Shall we?" DeVere prompted toward the house where a sumptuous feast awaited. The bride and groom preceded everyone, followed by Ned and Phoebe. DeVere stayed Diana long enough to remark with a wicked curve of his lips. "Well done, my lady. I shall send for you anon."
"No, my lord." Diana turned on him. "I shall come to you as promised, but it shall be at my own leisure."
"Oh?" He quirked a brow. "As I recall, our agreement stated no conditions."
"While I nevertheless intend to conform to the spirit of the wager, since you proved yourself less than a gentleman, I insist that you indulge me in this one thing."
He inclined his head. "All right, Diana, I'll grant your short reprieve. But be aware that I am not known for my patience. Don't make me wait too long."
Chapter Twenty-five
Garbed in a simple gown in a mode worn by the better class of servants, Diana concealed her face behind a heavy veil and exited covertly through the mews where she hailed a hackney coach.
When she gave the driver the address, a notorious gentlemen's domain of King's Place, St. James, she noted an instantaneous shift in the driver's manner from respectful to familiarity bordering insolence. Refusing to acknowledge his lascivious leer, she closed the door in his face and directed her gaze out the opposite window. When the coach lurched forward, Diana suspected he meted out his vengeance by aiming for every pothole in the road.
When they finally arrived, she noted his hesitation to assist her down. He offered a black-toothed grin that made her skin crawl. "O' course, ye can always keep 'yer tuppence in exchange for a tup."
Careful to avoid his face, she retrieved the proper fare from her purse and dropped it wordlessly into his hand.
"Suit yerself," he grumbled, adding, "Uppity whore," at her departing back.
Already shaken, Diana was unsure what would greet her behind the massive portal of the infamous brothel, but the liveried footman who answered maintained the same wooden countenance as in any well-heeled establishment.
Her second surprise came upon entering the vestibule. She had expected cheap and tawdry, but what greeted her was plush opulence—marble floors, soaring ceilings, elaborate artworks adorning the walls, and expensive furnishings—an effect worthy of royalty. Compared to her surroundings and what she had seen of the exotic Salime, she felt gauche and self-conscious in her drab and inconsp
icuous clothing.
"Have you an appointment, madam?" the footman asked.
"I do not, but I wish to speak with one of your...er...residents. Her name is Salime."
"Your name, madam?" he asked.
"I wish to remain anonymous, but you may convey that I am an acquaintance of Lord DeVere. I believe he is a frequent patron here."
"He is a most honored guest at this establishment," the footman acknowledged. "If you will be pleased to follow me, I will inquire of the proprietress, Mrs. Hayes, whether Madam Salime is receiving." He led Diana into a small sitting room done in gilt and soft blue pastel. "Do you care for refreshment?" he asked.
"No, thank you," she replied nervously, clutching her handkerchief.
"Very well." He departed with a stiff bow.
After only a few minutes, Diana turned toward the swishing sound of silk. A painted and patched woman of middling years made her entrance with the confident hauteur of a duchess. "I am Mrs. Hayes, the proprietress of this establishment." She smiled, the white paint on her face accentuating the yellow of her teeth. "I understand you are an acquaintance of my Lord DeVere?"
"Yes," Diana replied.
"I am, of course, honored to receive any friend of my lord. Is there something special you seek? I have several strapping fellows in my employ who are both well-equipped and eager to satisfy the poor, neglected women of the ton."
"My business is with Madam Salime," Diana said.
Mrs. Hayes gaze narrowed with speculation. "So you are the one."
"Pardon me?"
"Our Jewel of the East had said there was one who had the potential to capture the elusive viscount. I wonder now what is hidden behind that veil of yours."
"You may wonder all you like, but my identity is not your concern."
"Ah, but you seek something from me, do you not? This is a house of both business and pleasure, you understand. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement?"
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