A Devil Named DeVere (The Devil DeVere)(95)

Three bloody months without sex? No way in hell! He honestly didn't believe he could bear it. Yet, for Diana's sake….he had vowed to endure. It had been precisely eight days and six hours since he'd touched her, and he was already as edgy as a convict awaiting the noose. He still had seventy-six more days of celibacy to bear and felt so full of his own unspent essence that he thought he would burst. He'd already broken his fast following a hell-for-leather ride and now sat in his study staring at the clock…fighting the urge to grind his teeth.

That very morning he had lain awake for hours, nearly overcome with the need to stroke, touch, and taste her. He had considered prevailing upon her to ease his suffering and had little doubt she would willingly have gratified his request, but realized what an insensitive cad he was even to think it. His unslaked lust had finally sent him fleeing their bed to seek the soothing influence of brandy instead.

Perhaps this was his penance for his former life—for the years he had spent indulging his every whim, gratifying his sexual urges with countless women, while giving nothing back in return—all of which had changed with Diana. He had never before known sex could transcend bodily pleasure to encompass the soul. Only with Diana had he ever experienced this intense feeling of intimacy, and he had reciprocated by worshipping her with his entire being.

Now he had no desire to go back. Damn it all! He gulped down his brandy with the acceptance that he'd soon have little choice but to toss himself off like some randy school boy. He resolved to postpone that inevitability by occupying his mind with estate matters, and his body with preparations for the upcoming racing season. With the last thought in mind, he took up the newest copy of the Racing Calendar, opening the pages with an impatient snap.

A sharp rap soon sounded on the door. Ludovic glanced up from his periodical to the entrance of a liveried footman. "A message for you, my lord." The servant offered the wax-sealed missive on a silver salver.

"It was delivered by a most…unusual…courier," the footman finished with a sniff of disdain.

"Indeed? Do tell," Lord DeVere replied in a bored drawl.

"'Tis a behemoth blackamoor, my lord."

"Mustafa? What the devil?" Ludovic threw down his periodical and snatched up the missive with a frown.

"He awaits in the kitchen. Insufferable rude creature he be. Just stands all akimbo. Refuses to speak or to depart without an answer from your lordship."

"The man cannot speak. He has no tongue. They took it when they castrated the poor devil."

The footman's eyes bulged. He involuntarily crossed his legs.

Ludovic broke the seal and scanned the contents with a deepening scowl. "Tell him I shall be in touch with his mistress shortly…and that she should notify me at once should her circumstances become any more…distressed."

"Aye, my lord." The much-chagrinned footman departed.

Ludovic read the cryptic note once more. Salime in want of a protector? What a sticky situation that created. At first he wondered why she had appealed to him, but then again, there were few people she truly trusted. Given their shared history, he would never deny her his aid. Besides, it was Salime who was most instrumental in helping him achieve his present state of conjugal bliss. For that alone he owed her his undying gratitude.

Still, he was flummoxed. Salime had never been in want since coming to London. For five years she had reigned supreme. He wondered what could be behind her request but abandoned both letter and the dilemma the moment another came bursting into his library. It was surely a day of surprises.

"Ned?" Ludovic leaped up to greet his best friend. "What the devil has brought you all the way from Yorkshire to Kent?"

"I have most portentous news, DeVere," Ned sputtered with excitement. "News I could hardly relay by messenger. Thus, I came down myself."

"What kind of news? Out with it, Chambers," Ludovic commanded.

"Mayhap you should pour us a drink first."

Ludovic lifted a sardonic brow. "A drink? Not so urgent after all?"

"'Tis fortification you'll need for the shock you are about to receive."

"Shock? Me? You know I am not easily shocked, Ned." Ludovic paused with his hand on the brandy decanter and a slight frown marring his face. "Come to think of it, I'm damned if I can recall a single occasion that has wrought from me such a profound reaction as shock."

Ned flung himself into Ludovic's favorite chair. "There's a first for everything, DeVere. Now that drink?"

Ludovic sloshed amber liquid into two glasses, handing one to the would-be herald, who downed it in one draught. Ludovic quirked a brow.

"It was a devilish long ride," Ned explained.

"All to deliver this shocking report of yours?" Ludovic perched a hip on the corner of his mahogany desk.

"Yes! It's Lazarus all over again!"

"Lazarus, you say? Am I to surmise that someone has been miraculously raised from the dead?"

"Actually, he might as well have been," Ned declared. "I can hardly countenance it after all this time."

"You are trying my patience, Ned."

"It's Simon returned."

"Good God!" The glass slipped from his hand to shatter at Ludovic's feet. "You can't mean Sin is alive? He was pronounced killed in action six years ago."