The Virgin Huntress (The Devil DeVere #2)

by Victoria Vane

  “Hew? Captain Hew?” Vesta said breathlessly.

  Polly shook her head. “A hue and a cry, daft girl.”

  Vesta glared. “I had need of some air.”

  “Four hours worth?” The maid shook out Vesta’s discarded shawl with a snap.

  “I remembered I needed something from the apothecary. But then I got lost.”

  “And you just happened to find yourself again?” Polly’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “I found my godfather who took me up in his chaise. Indeed, it’s even now parked in the mews. He said he has given it and a postillion for my exclusive use so I need never get lost again. It’s so much more practical and maneuverable on these crowded streets than Papa’s great lumbering traveling coach.”

  Polly’s eyes widened in her fleshy face. “Do you mean to say you was out driving with that dev—with Lord DeVere?”

  “Of course. We drove to Richmond where he showed me some sights and then had Pratt drive me home.”

  Polly gave her a chastising look. “While my poor lady wore herself out after she and Captain Hew spent nigh on three hours traipsing over London looking for you.”

  “Captain Hew?” Vesta said. “He was worried about me?”

  “More like he was worried about my lady what was worried about you.”

  “Must you sour everything, Polly!” Vesta willed herself not to emphasize the statement with a foot stomp. “Did the gowns arrive yet? They were supposed to be delivered this afternoon, were they not?”

  “Aye. There be a day dress, a riding habit, and an evening gown apiece, along with all the gloves, fans, and other finery from the haberdasher.”

  “Ooh!” Vesta squealed. “I must see them at once!”

  When Polly laid the three ensembles out on the bed for inspection, Vesta admired the riding habit she’d ordered in crimson to match Captain Hew’s uniform, thinking it would certainly suffice. She thought the military cut of it gave an impression of maturity and even enhanced her scanty, five-foot-two-inch height. The other two gowns, modestly fashioned in soft, satin pastels in the new French shepherdess mode that had delighted Vesta only days ago, now seemed juvenile choices. Her heart sank. How could she ever get Hew to notice her when she looked no more sophisticated than a dairy maid?

  “Please fetch Aunt Di’s gowns,” she commanded. “I wish to see those as well.”

  Polly heaved a sigh and brought in a lovely gown in old gold, one cut to show off Diana’s generously proportioned figure, but also one that would perfectly bring out the golden hue in Vesta’s hazel eyes. “It appears the modiste has made a mistake,” Vesta said. “This one should have been fashioned for me. Pray call for Mister Pratt. I shall need the carriage at once.”

  ***

  “Pratt,” began Vesta, “if one had virtually infinite resources at one’s disposal, what do you suppose would be the most expeditious route from London to Scotland?”

  “What part of Scotland?”

  “Any part, I suppose, but let’s suppose I should like to visit Edinburgh.”

  Pratt scratched his chin. “’Tis quite a journey by post-chaise, miss. Fastest be the London to Edinburgh Fly what takes five days to a sennight, depending on the roads.”

  “That is a long time.” Vesta digested this with a frown. “It would also necessitate many stops along the way at coaching inns.” She sighed. “No, I’m afraid it just won’t answer at all, Pratt.”

  “The only other way, miss, would be by sea. I reckon ‘twould shorten the journey by at least two days, mayhap more if the winds be favorable.”

  “By sea? You are so very clever, Pratt! I never would have considered it! Tell me now, does his lordship have a boat?”

  ***

  “A missive from the miss, my lord,” said Pratt with a grin.

  “And how are you getting by with the little rogue?” DeVere idly asked as he broke the wax seal. He scanned the contents and shook his head with a laugh. He then rang for his majordomo.

  “She sure be a taking little thing, my lord,” said Pratt.

  “So she’s won you over too, eh? Taking, indeed! But the question still remains whether Hew will take her.”

  Pratt’s grin broadened. “Wi’ all due respect to the cap’n, my lord, do ye truly think he will have much say in’t?”

  DeVere roared with mirth. “By the look of things, I’d say highly unlikely!”

  When Winchester promptly appeared, DeVere handed him the billet with the command, “See it done at once.”

  ***

  “You will not wear such a gown for afternoon tea,” Polly declared. “It is far too mature and revealing for a chit of your age.”

  “Why should you always be such a Marplot, Polly? I had it especially made to match my eyes, and I will wear it,” Vesta insisted with a militant look. She turned left and right in front of the glass, admiring the way it emphasized her modest, feminine curves. She had thrust her bosom as high as it would go when Polly laced her stays and was now quite pleased with the effect.

  “Besides, you know I’m attending the theater this evening. Why should I change twice? And you will dress my hair fashionably today. I wish to look tall, statuesque.”

  Polly snorted.

  Yet, two hours later, Vesta descended the stairs in her new gold gown with matching high-heeled slippers, looking very much the lady of the manor. At Vesta’s relentless cajoling, Polly had teased, pomaded, and piled her hair a full six inches high upon her head, making her feel regal indeed.

  She entered the drawing room with mincing little steps that made her skirts sway gracefully. Greeting her guests with just the right amount of sophisticated hauteur, she extended her hand first to her godfather who air-kissed it and then to Captain Hew who, to her disappointment, merely bowed over it.

  Still, her heart leaped with joy when his brows shot up upon taking in her dress. “Lady Vesta? That’s quite a remarkable gown. Do you go out this evening?”

  “Indeed. Uncle V...my lord has graciously offered his box at the Theatre Royal.”

  “Ah, The Maid of the Oaks,” he said.

  “I understand the play is written by General Burgoyne,” she said. “Did you know the general was a playwright, Captain Hew?” She beckoned them both to sit. Lord DeVere astutely chose the chair, leaving the settle for Vesta and Hew.

  “I did,” Hew said. “His works have become quite popular. You might be interested to know this same play is named for an estate neighboring my brother’s in Epsom.”

  “Is that so, Unc...my lord?” she asked her godfather.

  “Yes. The general is the son-in-law of Lord Derby whose estate, The Oaks, is very near to my own Woodcote Park.”

  “That is very enlightening,” Vesta said, maintaining her sophisticated sang-froid. She turned to the cart. “Shall I pour tea now?”

  The captain looked about inquiringly. “Is the baroness not to join us?”

  Vesta poured three cups, squeezing a generous amount of lemon juice and spooning copious amounts of honey into all three. She handed the first to Lord DeVere and the second to Captain Hew. “Aunt Di sends her regrets, Captain DeVere. Unfortunately, she won’t be able to join us. She is feeling rather indisposed.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope,” Hew said.

  “I don’t suppose so.” Vesta wrinkled her brow. “It’s another megrim. She is quite plagued with them, you know, although they seem to come less frequently now that she’s taken to sherry.”

  “Sherry?” Hew repeated with a raised brow, while DeVere sputtered on his tea.

  “For strictly medicinal purposes, you understand,” Vesta explained with exaggerated solicitude. “But when she drinks it, the poor dear sleeps the whole rest of the day.”

  “Does she, indeed?” Hew frowned.

  “Yes. In fact, I sent the footman an hour ago for two more bottles.”

  DeVere’s mouth began to twitch. Vesta gave him a warning glare.

  Hew took a sip from his cup and made a face.

&nbs
p; “Do you not like the tea, Captain Hew?” Vesta gave him an injured look.

  “It is exceedingly sweet, my lady,” he stated apologetically. “I generally drink my tea plain.”

  “Nothing at all to enhance it?” she asked.

  “No. I was on campaign for nearly four years and became accustomed to drinking it so.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “How thoughtless of me for not asking! It’s just this is the way my dear mama always made it for me.” She gave a little sniff. “I will ring for another cup.”

  “Pray don’t trouble yourself,” Hew said, always the gentleman. “I shall drink it anyway.”

  Vesta held her breath, only releasing it when his empty cup returned to the saucer with a soft click.

  ***

  “What did you give him?” asked Lord DeVere as he and Pratt loaded the unconscious Captain Hew into the chaise.

  “Only a spoonful of laudanum,” Vesta answered. “I took it myself to help me sleep when Mama passed. It is perfectly safe, although I do recall the strangest dreams.”

  DeVere raised a hand with a shake of his head. “Pray say no more. ‘Tis best I know nothing of your plans, as I have no wish to perjure myself when your father lands on my stoop.” He took Vesta’s hand and held it tightly between his own. “Just know this, my darling girl, if matters should somehow go awry and not turn out to your liking, I would not have you suffer even a moment for your intrepidity.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked with a puzzled frown.

  “That should my brother be such an ass as not to recognize the priceless jewel laid at his feet, I would not have you ruined. If Hew fails you, Vesta, know that I would take to you wife myself.”

  “La! Uncle Vic!” Vesta emitted a paroxysm of giggles. “How ludicrous you are! You are far too old for me!”

  He looked mildly affronted. “Six and thirty is hardly ancient.”

  She awarded him her most effulgent smile. “Nevertheless, you worry for naught, for I do not intend to fail. I vow to you that within three day’s time, Captain Hew will be mad for me.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  With Pratt riding postillion, the small and maneuverable chaise had made good time to Greenwich. After speaking briefly with the ship’s master, two hands followed to load her senseless cargo aboard the yacht. That had been over twelve hours ago, and yet Hew slept. Vesta worried now that she may have overestimated the dose, but then he stirred.

  She had stayed up all the night long for fear he would awaken without her knowledge, but she still felt no fatigue. She studied his features, both manly and boyish in repose, and her heart seemed to fill her entire chest. How she had dreamed of this, being alone with him, albeit, he was a bit more conscious in her fantasies. Still, this was Captain Hew DeVere, the man of her dreams. And he was all hers, for at least three days.

  Mesmerized, she watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, but unable to contain the impulse any longer, Vesta perched upon the side of the bed and outstretched her hand to his face, gently tracing his scar from cheek to chin with her fingertips. Tears misted her eyes at the thought of the horrors that had wrought such disfigurement to what would otherwise be perfection.

  She bent over his face, relishing his warm expirations against her cheek. The breath of his body that filled her own with the same warm tingles that always overcame her when she thought of Hew. The tingles that magnified now as she touched him. Her lips brushed first his forehead and then his cheek, the bristle of beard stubble abrading her tender lips.

  He moaned and shifted and then...dear God in heaven...his lips touched hers. Vesta closed her eyes, praying for, willing his kiss. And then he gently brushed her lips, inciting tiny tremors of breathless delight that expanded into waves as his mouth grew more insistent, more demanding. His tongue darted out and stroked the seam of her mouth, and her heart galloped. She parted her lips for him on a sigh. It was heavenly to feel him with her mouth, to taste him with her tongue. It was wondrous. Dizzying. Overwhelming. But then he opened his eyes...

  ***

  Although his head throbbed, Hew couldn’t recall the last time he had had such a pleasant dream. His nights were usually haunted by the staccato report of musket fire and the thunderous explosion of cannons punctuated by the agonizing screams of fallen comrades. It had been almost four years since his nocturnal fantasies had included murmured endearments, breathy sighs, and warm caresses. His cock sprang to life at the whisper of silky hair, subtly scented of violets, brushing his forehead, the pleasant sensation of light and feathery kisses on his face. It was heavenly. It was torture. It was so vivid, so real, yet the face and form of his seductress was strangely nebulous.

  He felt the tender touch of her fingertips tracing the scar on his face and warm, moist breath against his cheek. He turned into the touch, seeking and finding it with his mouth, and then sought those luscious lips with his own. Timid and tentative, they parted on a murmured sigh for his exploration. He was growing harder by the minute, and by God, he didn’t want to wake up.

  He reached for his aching cock and fisted himself. It pulsed in his hand, begging for release. He began languid strokes as his tongue grazed her mouth, probing the plump lips and finding her own, licking and sliding over them. She tasted delicious, an incongruous medley of sweet and sour, mildly reminiscent of lemon and honey, and he drank her in.

  Lemon and honey! The tea. It was the last thing he remembered before the world had become hazy and his legs had gone weak. Hew’s eyes snapped open to find himself face-to-face, or better said, lip-to-lip with... “Bloody hell! Vesta!”

  He jerked upright. She stepped back two paces, and he raked over her with a livid gaze. For the first time, he noted a hint of trepidation in her wide and deceptively guileless, hazel eyes.

  He swung his bare legs over the side of the bed, realizing he wore nothing but his shirt. He remembered his activity of only a moment ago and instantly flushed with mortification at what she must have witnessed.

  He had startled her, certainly, but he feared it was much more than that. The monstrosity of hair she had worn earlier had fallen in wild curls about her face, her lips were parted, pink, and kiss-swollen. Her plump, white breasts that he’d never realized existed rose and fell with her quickened breaths. She looked...tumbled. It filled him with both horror and a sense of dread.

  “Dear God, Vesta!” he cried. “What the devil has happened? Did I accost you?”

  “N-no,” she stammered. “You have not touched me at all! That is not until...” Her cheeks colored. Her fingers pressed against her lips.

  The world lurched suddenly, and Hew realized the rolling sensation he had only a moment ago mistaken for vertigo was the motion of the sea. The cloud began lifting from his muzzy brain. “What the devil am I doing on a ship?” he demanded. “Have I been taken by a press gang?” He shook away the remaining cobwebs and scanned the room, noting the familiar layout and nautical appointments. It was DeVere’s private yacht. “The Sylph,” he said. “What am I doing on my brother’s vessel? And what the devil are you doing here with me?”

  Vesta bit her lower lip. “You are sailing?”

  Hew willed himself to moderate tone and temper. “And why am I sailing?”

  “Because I had to get you away,” she answered matter-of-factly.

  “Away? Away from what?”

  “Away from certain...distractions,” she replied.

  With the vagueness of her answers, Hew found his ire increasing by the second. “My brother has arranged this little undertaking as some kind of joke? Or a wager, mayhap? If so, I fail to see any humor in it. Where is Ludovic?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

  “You are quite mistaken, Captain Hew. This was my own doing, and it is no jest. I assure you, I am in complete earnest,” Vesta said.

  “But this is his ship.”

  “I have only borrowed it.”

  “You borrowed a yacht?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I intend to return it.�
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  “Then DeVere does know of this?”

  “Not exactly,” she said, with infuriating evasiveness. “But he did tell Winchester to grant whatever I asked.”

  Hew clawed a hand through his hair. “And you thought that included appropriating a ship?”

  “He never said it precluded a ship,” she argued.

  “This is inconceivable!” Hew erupted in a loud and mirthless laugh. “The valiant war hero, Captain Hewett DeVere, abducted by a school miss!”

  “I am not a school miss!” Vesta stomped her foot.

  He gave her a disbelieving scowl, whereby she immediately looked chagrinned. “How long ago did we sail?” Hew demanded.

  “About thirteen hours ago,” she said. “You are quite a heavy sleeper.”

  “I was bloody drugged!” he shouted. “What the devil did you give me?”

  “Just a small sleeping draught.”

  “Tincture of opium, perhaps?”

  Vesta nodded mutely. “That’s why I had to add all the lemon and honey—to disguise the bitterness.”

  “You planned to abduct me all along? What the deuce for?”

  “So you would not marry Diana,” she said.

  “You silly child! You kidnapped me because you feared I would take your aunt away, just as Phoebe took your father?”

  “Of course not! I am a grown woman! I didn’t want you to wed her because you belong with me!”

  Hew’s jaw dropped. “I can’t possibly have heard that right. What did you say?”

  “It’s you own fault, you know. I was forced to take drastic measures because you can’t see what’s under your very nose. But it will all be made right very soon,” said Vesta. “We only have three days, after all.”

  His head was spinning again, and it had nothing to do with the ship. “How is that?”

  “We will be at sea together and in this very cabin for the next three days.”

  “The devil we will! We will be turning back at once!”

  “No, we won’t.” Vesta crossed her arms over her chest. “We will not return unless I am convinced that you don’t love me.”