A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(5)

“How do you mean?” Ned asked.

“The burning question of Caroline’s capacity for fidelity no longer plagued my mind. But shortly after their marriage bed cooled, I ensured it plagued the good duke’s instead.” He laughed a low devious rumble.

“She became your mistress?”

DeVere smiled. “A mistress is a fine thing, Ned, but a married mistress with a complacent husband is the very best bargain. They cost far less to keep, make fewer demands, and should any inconvenient package arrive, it may easily be presented to the cuckold, an altogether neat arrangement. But I can see how in your case a comely young widow at a neighboring estate could very well answer. Just heed my advice, old friend, and take care how you...spend your assets.”

Ned slammed his fist on the table. “Pox on you, DeVere! I’ve already said I don’t harbor that kind of feeling for Diana.”

“Feeling?” DeVere looked aghast. “The only feeling I’m talking about is planting your long-deprived staff and in who better than a lonely grieving widow?”

“I’ve more pressing matters to worry about than my neglected staff,” Ned replied, snuffing his pipe and emptying his drink. “Diana has brought to my attention that my daughter is in need of a proper come-out. Thus, I am arrived in London to lease a townhouse for the season.”

“Then I perceive no conflict at all should you mix a bit of pleasure with your business. Indeed, I shall put my own agent at your disposal in this property matter, while you, my friend, will endeavor to catch up on lost time.”

Ned opened his mouth to protest and realized the futility. Although they’d maintained a firm friendship these many years since leaving Oxford, Ned couldn’t approve of DeVere’s wild, ungoverned lifestyle and the rakehell reputation he seemed to proudly foster rather than to check. DeVere was generous to his friends, vindictive to his enemies, imprudent in his words, and rash in his actions, but at six-and-thirty, the viscount was well-settled in his dissolute ways and unlikely to change.

“I won’t hear it, Ned!” DeVere said, rising abruptly and shaking out his lace cuffs. “You are to be my guest for the duration of your stay in town. I’ll brook no protest. I had rooms aired for you as soon as I got word you were coming, and my cook’s bill of fare is far superior to any public ordinary. I’ll pay the reckoning, and my man, Winchester, will collect your bags.”

***

Entering the apartments at DeVere House, Ned was struck by a scene of Oriental opulence that might have sprung from the pages of the Arabian Nights—the Turkish divan covered with colorful silk-tasseled pillows, the intricately patterned kalim rugs, and ornately wrought hanging lamps. “Damme, DeVere! It looks more like a Turkish seraglio than a respectable London townhouse.”

DeVere only chuckled as Ned wandered over to the bookcase teeming with embossed leather-bound volumes. Examining the titles, he was not much surprised to discover an impressive collection of classical erotology. Beside Ovid’s Ars Amatoris, a work they’d snickered over in their schoolboy days, sat a thin volume embossed with exotic symbols. Intrigued, Ned pulled it from the shelf. “Ananga-Ranga? Curious name.”

DeVere slouched in a great, leather chair, heels propped on the hearth. “Ah, an altogether interesting work, the translated title from the Sanskrit is The Hindu Art of Love. Dedicated to those seeking enlightenment and variety in the rapturous act of coition, it is a collector’s edition, printed for private circulation only.”

“Really?”

“Indeed.” DeVere rose and pulled another slim volume from the shelf. “Here is a little something I picked up in France.”

“Not the pox, I hope?”

DeVere scowled. “French pox is never a joking matter, my friend.” He handed the book to Ned.

“Cent Fa?ons de Plaisir, one hundred ways to pleasure,” Ned translated.

“It contains one hundred illustrations on how best to obtain sexual gratification. I credit the author with both imagination and artistic skill in his depictions.”

Ned affected urbanity as he flipped the book open to a shockingly graphic and equally fascinating depiction of mutual oral gratification. The image sent simultaneous heat to his face and groin. Damn, but it’s been a long time.

DeVere peered over Ned’s shoulder with a chuckle. “How apropos for page sixty-nine, though one would have to be rather a contortionist for that variation, I think. But then one must try it to know, eh?”

Refraining from comment, Ned snapped the book shut and moved to replace it.

“So fast, my friend?” DeVere took hold of the book. “This is a rare and expensive volume and surely worthy of further study. Tell you what; I shall make it my welcome gift to you.” Embarrassed, but not knowing how to graciously refuse, Ned pocketed the book with the warm awareness of an unmanly blush.

DeVere placed his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “You have yet to see my private apartments. I returned from my travels as much enamored with Constantinople as was my predecessor, Lord Baltimore, who built this house.”

“I think you’ve developed an unhealthy obsession in emulating him. It’s said the scoundrel kept a private harem in this very house. Is that next for you?”

“Why not?” DeVere grinned. “Baltimore only wished to live every man’s fantasy by recreating that land of erotic dreams with scantily clad, sweet-smelling women who are trained in the arts of pleasure, a place where a man might truly live as a king. Have you ever experienced a hammam?” he asked.