His boots kicked off, coat and cravat discarded, he stared blankly into the empty hearth. “I want her, Ned,” he said. “My bloody bollacks ache for want of her.” Ned poured them both a drink, replying without the least compassion, “If you refer to Diana, my friend, you waste your effort sniffing about her skirts. She won’t have you. I’ve told you so before. She’s a virtuous woman, not a plaything. I’d advise you to slake your lust elsewhere.” “But that’s the damnable thing about it. Fucking is what I like best. It’s what I do best, and yet I can’t seem to summon any fucking enthusiasm for it. What the devil is wrong with me?” “When was the last time, DeVere?” “Damned near three weeks ago. I feel like a monk.” Ned arched a brow. “Dare I ask about your state of health?” “Hang you, Ned!” DeVere growled. “I don’t have the bloody pox! You know I always take precautions. It’s not that I can’t, it’s that I’ve lost the desire for any other woman.
