feminine sensibili-
ties. Instead, she snuffed the candle and pressed as closely as she
dared to the door. Still, she only caught frustrating snippets of the
exchange.
“ … amazed such a fine specimen of womanhood…such a buffoon…”
37
The Devil You Know
She found it strange that she took Edward’s high regard for
her in stride, yet DeVere’s words of admiration stirred something
deep within. She couldn’t comprehend why—when he’d already
shown himself a rake of the first order and a man with no respect
for women—yet his interest almost made her forget the issue of
Reggie’s debt. She heard the clink of glass, and then the conversa-
tion was frustratingly muffled, as if they had turned their backs
or moved further away.
They were now speaking of DeVere’s odious mistress, a topic
she had not the slightest interest in. She turned to leave, but her
breathing arrested as her own name assailed her ears. It was Ned,
and he was laughing.
“Diana come to your bed ... whoremonger ... wouldn’t touch you with gloves...”
Diana’s hand flew to her mouth at DeVere’s unmitigated pre-
sumption. While she was certainly guilty of encouraging a harm-
less flirtation with him, the notion of joining ranks with such as
Caroline Capheaton was beyond the pale. With her blood near the
boiling point, she spun on her heel and returned to her room. It
would be a cold day in hell before she ever allowed herself to be
used by such a libertine.
But then again, it was precisely this illicit thought that took
root in her subconscious as she returned to her chamber—what it
would be like to know such a man as a lover, to give herself up to
selfish, lascivious lust, to finally let loose the deep and relentless
yearning after a lifetime of suppressed passion?
She recalled the hungry way his blue gaze had devoured her
at their very first meeting, and the suggestion that had hung heav-
ily in the air between them. She had thought herself dismissed
as a potential lover until overhearing his profession of interest to
Edward, a confession that inspired within her equal parts loath-
ing and lust.
Feeling stifled, Diana flung open the French doors and
stepped onto the balcony into the moonlight. She stood there in
the deep silence of the night, lost in her reflections and the illicit
visions that kept returning to DeVere. When the damp chill forced
her back inside, Diana explored her room, still restless and seek-
ing escape from her disquieting ruminations. She discovered a
leather-bound volume of John Donne and opened it at random to
The Dream, an unfamiliar work, but one whose theme she hoped
38
Victoria Vane
might induce sleep. By the end of the first stanza, however, Diana
realized her error. The erotic message of the poem was clear.
Unbidden, her mind conjured Donne’s lovers. The man asleep
and dreaming of his love only to be awakened by the object of his
passion took the form of DeVere. She cast the book aside with a
listless sigh before her mind’s eye could invoke what she knew
would be the intimately familiar features of his lover.
Her footfalls w
***
ere lost in the plush Turkish carpet of DeVere’s bed-
chamber. Behind the shield of her hand, the flame of the lone candle flick-
ered as she padded across the room to the massive tester bed. The cur-
tains were drawn back, but the bed was cast in the obscurity of shadow.
She wondered briefly if one body or two would be revealed in the faint
light of her fluttering flame, yet she moved closer still with bated breath
that expelled from her lungs in a soft rush to find him alone. She snuffed
the candle, waiting for her vision to adjust. She stood there, pulse rac-
ing and heart hammering a rapid tattoo against her breastbone at the
thought of him waking to find her there.
He was sprawled on his back, arms outstretched in the confident re-
pose of a king or some other invincible being. A sheet draped over a