Diana stared at him. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen.
He resembled nothing so much as the statue of Apollo that Jeremy’s father had brought from Greece. His hair, cut short in the latest fashion, was golden and slightly curling. His eyes were as blue as the sunlit sea and his mouth was long and shapely. He gave off an aura of cold strength and assured masculinity, which was reflected in a voice so hard and measured that it shocked Drusilla into silence.
Giles struggled upright and said indignantly, “Who the devil are you, anyway?”
The stranger laughed and rose. “You might say the devil himself if you wished. But I would prefer you to call me Devenish.”
The Devil and Drusilla
Harlequin® Historical
PAULA MARSHALL
Married with three children, Paula Marshall has had a varied life. She began her career in a large library and ended it as a senior academic in charge of history in a Polytechnic. She has traveled widely, has been a swimming coach and has appeared on British television in University Challenge and Mastermind. She has always wanted to write, and likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor.
The Devil and Drusilla
PAULA MARSHALL
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Available from Harlequin®Historical and PAULA MARSHALL
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
‘It’s true what they say about you, you have no heart at all, Devenish. None. They rightly nickname you devilish. You fleeced that poor boy at Watier’s last night as cold-bloodedly as though you were shearing a sheep!’
The subject of this tirade, Henry Devenish, Fourth Earl of Devenish and Innescourt, raised his fine black brows and said in a voice indicating total indifference, ‘The boy of whom you speak is twenty-two years old. He was gambling with money which he does not possess and he needed to learn a quick lesson before he became a gambling wastrel for life.’
‘But did you need to ruin him? I had thought better of you, Devenish.’
‘Oh, never do that, George. Most unwise. You should know by now that I have no better self.’
George Hampden, who sometimes (wrongly) thought that he was Devenish’s only friend in the world, gazed at his distant cousin hoping to see some softening in his coldly handsome face. He found none. Devenish might have the golden good looks of an archangel in a Renaissance painting, but they were those of an avenging one, all mercy lacking.
‘So you intend to call in his IOUs. Including the last one when he bet the family home—and lost.’
‘He took that risk, not I.’ Devenish’s tone was almost indifferent.
‘And if you can ruin someone so easily, do you expect me still to remain your friend?’
‘I never expect anything of anyone, least of all one of my relatives. And the choice is, of course, yours, not mine.’
How to move him? George said impulsively, ‘I don’t believe that even you will do such a thing. You don’t need the lad’s money, he’s not your enemy—’
‘And it’s not your business what I do with my winnings—or how I gained them. Forgive me if I decline to pursue this matter further. I am due at the Lords this afternoon: they are debating this matter of the