The Virgin Huntress (The Devil DeVere #2)(35)

“Surely one can’t blame a man for wanting to ensure the continuation of his line,” Annalee remarked.

“It’s a damnable obsession,” DeVere said. “He’s bloody well fixated on his death, though he’s already managed to linger at its door far longer than is considered civil.”

“You really ought not to speak of your own father in such a way,” Annalee reproached.

“You might feel differently if ever you met the poxy, old bas—”

“He’s justifiably distraught, my dear,” Ned interjected with a gentle hand over his wife’s. “A gentleman needs to blow off steam in such circumstances as these. Why don’t I take you home?”

She arched a brow. “So you and DeVere can go back out and get thoroughly foxed?”

“Well, yes,” Ned confessed. “That’s generally how it’s done.”

Annalee gave them both a warning look. “Just promise me no fisticuffs, Ned.”

“Fisticuffs?” He appeared to be affronted. “Why the devil do you think I would engage in fisticuffs?”

“I’ve ears on my head. I know how you and DeVere were used to entertaining yourselves.”

“But that was long before I met you, my sweet.” Ned raised her hand to his lips.

She gave a disbelieving huff. “You shan’t bamboozle me, Neddie. I know leopards do not change their spots.” She looked to DeVere with a scowl. “I don’t relish the mortification of collecting my husband from the round house come morning. Do you understand me, my lord?”

DeVere smirked. “Absolutely, my lady.” He added to Ned in an undertone, “Since I don’t see the ring in your nose, I can only imagine she’s put one through your ba—”

“Ah! We’ve arrived!” Ned pronounced as the carriage lurched to a halt. “I’ll escort Annalee inside and return directly.”

Ludovic watched them depart arm in arm, musing how three short years of so-called connubial bliss had nearly emasculated his best friend. He pulled a flask of brandy from his breast pocket, upending it in a salute to the beneficent guardian angel who had allowed his own near escape from the same woeful fate.