The Devil's Match by Victoria Vane Page A

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 Eleven

    They met early in the morning, while the dewy
swirls of mist of still danced over the down, the mounted riders
facing one another 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 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,