Exquisite.
Her nipples tightened and the ache in her core would not be ignored. But now was not the time. Her stomach was every bit as needy as the rest of her.
“Your repast, such as it is, milady,” he intoned in mocking formal accents, as if he were attempting to imitate an august butler.
She took the plate he offered, unable to tamp down her smile. “Thank you, kind sir. However shall I express my gratitude?”
He winked. “I have a notion or two.”
As did she. Warmth suffused her, adding to the heat that always seemed to emanate from him. But she wanted to prolong their time together. She could not justify coming to him so early in the evening, for most days she did not have a ball with which she could disguise her nighttime visits. Her children needed her, especially Percy, who would soon be off to school.
How she dreaded the day when she would no longer call upon Damian. When she would have to put the inevitable end to this idyll they shared. But then she reminded herself sternly that when she had first come upon the notion of taking a lover, well before she had ever met Damian Winter, she had known her time of recklessness would have to be finite. One could not play with fire forever without getting burned.
She took a bite of her honey cake. It was crumbly, sweet, and divine on her tongue. Chef Armande was to be commended for his efforts. Mirabel could not quite suppress her moan of appreciation, impossibly dreadful manners though she knew such an act was. There was something about being with the man before her that set her free from all the damning strictures that had forced her to be so rigidly proper.
The years ceased to exist.
So, too, the loneliness.
How was it that he made her feel as if she had always known him, as if she could scarcely recall what her life had been like before he had been a part of it? And her having known him such a scant amount of time. It was unheard of.
“Does my lady approve?” he asked with a tender smile.
She approved of far more than the cakes and fruits. Far more than the wine.
Mirabel swallowed, mustering a smile of her own. “It is delicious. Thank you. It is not every day that a gentleman is so intent upon sating my hunger.”
The moment the words fled her, she realized the double entendre she had not intended. Her cheeks were scalding hot.
He flashed her a cocky grin, one that said he did not take offense to her words one bit. “Dare I hope I am the only gentleman so intent upon sating you?”
She bit her lip, struggling to regain her composure. “I was referring to the other sort of hunger, Mr. Winter.”
He raised a brow, so confident and handsome that it required all her self-restraint to keep from throwing herself into his lap and taking those sensual lips with hers.
“Is there another sort of hunger?” he quipped.
“There is and you know it.”
“Enlighten me.”
He was teasing her. Taunting her. The air in the room became suddenly heavy. Laden with desire. Their gazes clashed and held.
“Which hunger was ityouwere speaking of?” she asked.
“The pangs gnawing your stomach, of course,” he said with a gallant air. “I would like to think myself the only man concerned with whether or not you have dined.”
He was.
But he was also pushing her.
Making her feel flushed, vulnerable, and awakened.
“You are the only man,” she managed. “Just as I have promised. The only man who frets over my dinner and the only man who frets over my pleasure.”
His grin was wide and so attractive she forgot to breathe. “That is good to hear, love. But satisfy your stomach first. I’ll not pleasure you when you’ve an empty belly.”
Her stomach growled as if to concur. She sent him a small smile and returned her attention to the plate he had arranged, making short work of the consumption of her honey cakes and strawberries both, along with two glasses of wine along the way. Midway through their repast, they began a game in which they asked each other questions.
