Delicious, handsome, warm, seductive man.
Damian Winter, to be precise.
His dark gaze was on her through the low morning light filtering past the window dressing. She fell into that impenetrable stare, mesmerized, until she realized she had spent the night—the entire night—in his bed.
She had never returned home.
She shot into a seated position, guilt lancing her. “I must go.”
“Must you?” His voice was a low, haunting rumble that threatened to lure her back to his side.
“Yes.” She was wearing nothing but her chemise, which she had stripped to at some point in the evening. “Good heavens, I am going to have to return home in the same gown I left in yesterday.”
What would her children think?
What would her servants think?
This was the sort of scandal she could not afford to create. One wrong whisper could taint her reputation. Could ruin everything she had worked so hard to cultivate all these years for her children’s sake.
“I will have Davy fetch you a gown,” he suggested with a calm she wished she felt.
But this was urgent. She could not appear at Tarlington House dressed as she had been when she left. Moreover, her children and Octavia were surely wondering where she had gone. Although she had told her sister where she was headed and the necessity of her sudden departure, she had not intended to stay the whole night.
She glanced at him, finding him watching her from where he lay propped upon his pillows. The bandage on his head had been removed, and his mahogany hair was rakishly tousled, the gash he had suffered hidden by the thick waves. A shadow of whiskers shaded his jaw. He was alarmingly handsome.
And tempting.
She wetted her suddenly dry lips and gave in to curiosity. “Where would Davy find a gown?”
Had one of his paramours left her garments behind? The thought had her tensing more than she already was. It occurred to her suddenly how little she knew of this man she had spent the night with. This man to whom she had given her body.
“My sister,” he said, dispelling her concerns with ease.
“Oh.”
“I do not make a habit of keeping gowns of former lovers strewn about.” He grinned, then rubbed his head. “Christ, that hurts. When I find the bastard responsible, I’ve got something in mind for him.”
His words took her back to the danger surrounding him.
She frowned. “You are fortunate you are only suffering from an aching head this morning, Damian. It could have been worse. Far worse. You could have been…”
Her voice broke. She could not allow herself to finish the horrendous, terrifying thought. Mirabel did not know when or how, but this man had stormed past her defenses. He inspired a tenderness within her that she had never felt for any man.
And after such a short amount of time.
Pity he was too young.
And the owner of a gaming hell.
And a beautiful sinner who lived in the East End.
“We’ve been through this, love.” He reached for her, catching her around the waist and hauling her back to him. “You needn’t fret over me. I’m a Winter. We always land on our feet when we fall out of windows.”
She found herself clinging to him, absorbing his strength and vitality rather than withdrawing and rushing home as she had intended. The bed smelled like him. And he was rakish and charming and everything she should not want.
“How many windows have you fallen from?” she dared to ask.
“None.” He leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. “You are beautiful in the morning.”
