A Devil Named DeVere (The Devil DeVere) by Victoria Vane Page B

of Lord Reggie. I'm sure a bath and a good night's rest will see me completely restored. Pray convey to Lady Chambers that I shan't join them for supper this evening."
    "Would you have a tray sent to your room, then?" Polly asked.
    "No, thank you." The thought of food almost made Diana retch. "If you will only call for hot water and help me to disrobe."
    The hot bath that followed soothed her shattered nerves, or perhaps it was really the medicinal dose of brandy Polly produced which Diana threw back in one long and unladylike, draining draught. It burned its way from her throat to her belly, but then quickly filled her with a welcoming languor, thanks to her empty stomach. Diana's mind whirled with the various repercussions of her discovery.
    Ten years together, and she had never had an inkling, yet having had time to overcome her initial shock, she saw that Reggie's behavior made perfect sense. She understood now that he had felt as trapped by their marriage as she, although he had certainly had a choice in the matter. While Diana had wed him out of duty to her parents, she had known that Reggie's motives had been entirely mercenary. Through their marriage, Diana had provided him with a title, income, and substantial properties. She had satisfied his need to live as a gentleman in the hopes they would come to rub along together, but now she understood the impossibility of that and of the more private needs she could never satisfy.
    Ten years of her life wasted. Her youth sacrificed waiting and hoping for something that could never be, that never had any chance to begin with—purely because she was a woman. He had chosen to live the lie, and for that, he had punished her. He had fed her self-doubts and insecurities daily by making her question her own worth as a wife, as a woman. She felt betrayed and dishonored, a realization that filled her with an impotent rage. If she were a man, she would deal with it in a man's way—with pistols at dawn— but she was a woman, a woman now in desperate need of vindication...of validation.
    The recognition of this one simple fact, of her legitimate need to feel appreciated, to be desired, was somehow liberating and empowering. Perhaps it was the drink that falsely bolstered her confidence, for with a calm resolution she never would have thought herself capable of, Diana determined to reclaim what had been taken from her.
    ***
    The hour was well advanced when she approached the dressing table. She slipped off her night rail, and selecting her favorite scent of damask rose, strategically daubed the stopper at her neck—remembering with a shiver how his lips had grazed it—and then between the full breasts he had openly admired. She cupped them now, the weight of them heavy in her hands, and regarded her reflection, wondering what he would see, how he would react when she disrobed for him. Would she be all that he had imagined, or in some way disappointing? It took a conscious effort to tamp down the virulent doubts that threatened her resolve.
    Forgoing the gown she'd discarded, Diana donned only her wrapper, a diaphanous silk. She took down her hair, riffling her fingers through the waves until they cascaded over her shoulders, and by the light of a single candle, ventured to the north wing apartments and Lord DeVere.
    ***
    Ludovic raked an exasperated hand over his stubbled jaw and took a long drink. Although he wouldn't relish the nights he would now spend palming himself, he had at last bid Caroline her overdue farewell. Lewd and adventurous, she'd been his longest bed partner, but he'd long become bored with her shallow vanity and irritated by her constant demands on his time and attention. Still, he didn't doubt Diana's arrival had been the final impetus for her dismissal. The frustration he now felt was a bittersweet penalty for his impetuous actions.
    He didn't know what it was about Diana that got under his skin. She was handsome and voluptuous, the type that attracted him