Octavia had not needed to explain who she was speaking of.
When Mirabel had returned home last night, flushed and disheveled and unable to keep from smiling, her sister had taken one look at her andknown. It was the sisterly bond they shared—an ability to communicate without requiring words. Also, the compassion to want the best for each other, without fear of guilt or recrimination. Octavia would never censure her for taking Damian Winter as a lover.
Still, despite Octavia’s urgings, Mirabel knew this madness she was engaging in could not last. It had been doomed from the start. But what was the harm in reveling in it, if just for the night? If just while it lasted?
Tonight, she wanted to take her time. To savor every moment, take note of each detail. Later, when this was over, she would be able to remember everything—the way he had made her feel, the way his scent had wafted over her, the feeling of his fingers entwined with hers, the pounding of her heart, the heady desire throbbing to life within. She cast her eyes about the chamber, taking note of the shelf of books, which pleased and surprised her, the writing desk in tidy order, the quill in its well.
“Does my lady approve?”
The low rumble of his voice sent a shiver down her spine.
She glanced back at him, thinking it unfair a man could be so wickedly handsome. “Of course.”
“You are cold?” he asked with a frown, as if the thought displeased him. “I’ll build the fire.”
“No.” She laid a staying hand on his coat sleeve, stopping him. “I am not cold.”
Indeed, she was quite the opposite. She was hot. And aching for him.
He studied her. “Tell me something, Mira.”
“What would you have me tell you?”
She waited, wondering what he would ask. Wondering if it was a question she dared answer.
“The first night you came here, looking for a lover,” he said. “Why did you do it? For a lady such as yourself, one with little experience, engaging the aid of a stranger seems a risk. Especially for a woman so concerned about maintaining her secrecy.”
He was not wrong.
Her cheeks were hot. “My sister suggested the madcap scheme. I cannot say I should have listened. Apparently, she based her knowledge upon caricatures, the scandal broadsides sold each day.”
“Octavia,” he said, startling her at the direct mentioning of her sister.
How alarming it seemed, coming from his lips. How personal in a way nothing they had shared thus far had been.
“How do you know her name?” she demanded, instantly pulling up her guard.
“You mentioned her that night.I told Octavia coming here was a mistake, you said.”
Her distrust deflated. Drat the man and his memory. So she had.
“I said I didn’t know who Octavia was but that I was sure you being here wasn’t a mistake,” he continued, untying the knot on his cravat as he watched her with that dark, intent stare of his. The one that made her feel all quivery inside. “Then you said—”
“Never mind who Octavia is,” she interrupted. “That is what I said. I recall now well enough.”
He pulled his cravat from around his neck and tossed it upon the carpets, then began shrugging out of his coat. “I offered to be your lover, and you told me to go to the devil.”
Shame stung her. “I never told you to go to the devil.”
“May as well have done.” His coat fell to the floor. “I ain’t holding it against you, love. You’ve recognized the error of your ways.”
Somehow, his suddenly rough speech, in such disparity with his often smooth, gentlemanly drawl, did not bother her. If anything, it heightened her longing. She watched, breathless, as he opened the buttons on his dark waistcoat. He shrugged the garment away, and she found herself mesmerized by the breadth of his chest in his crisp white shirt. By the expanse of his throat on display, the masculine prominence of his Adam’s apple. By his long fingers flicking open the line of three buttons at the neck of his shirt.
He had said something, had he not?
Oh, was it her turn to speak?
Any chance of her offering a response was severely diminished when he grasped his shirt and hauled it over his head. His chest was glorious. Yesterday, in their frenzy, she had not taken the proper time to admire him. They had been an eager tangle of limbs, and her recollections were a blur of passion and desire as the two of them had divested him of his garments. Now, she had the chance to take him in.
