“What, curse you?” he demanded, tugging once more on his cravat.Stupid bloody knot.
“I never thought I’d see it.” She shook her head, her voice tinged with awe.
He glared at her, although it hurt his damned head to do so. “Never thought you’d see what, Gen?”
“Demon Winter in love.” She grinned. “You love this woman, this Mira of yours.”
Her words were akin to a pail of ice water being dumped over his head. “I do not.”
Love was…impossible, weak, wrong, ludicrous, foolish.
Love was an illusion. A game.
And if he had fallen prey to it, he would certainly never be stupid enough to lose his heart to a woman who was so woefully beyond his reach that there was no possibility of ever making her truly his.
“She is not mine.”
Nor would she ever be.By God, she did not entrust him with her own name. She would never give him herself. Not truly, not in any way beyond the physicality of their union. She offered him her body, but nothing more.
“You want her to be yours,” Gen said softly.
And damnation, maybe the blow he had taken to his head the day before had rattled his brains loose, because here and now, as he stood before his sister, realization hit him square in the gut.
He did want Mira to be his. Forever.
Mother of all saints.
“I ain’t in love with her,” he muttered.
But as he issued the denial, he knew the words for a lie.
* * *
Mira had vowedshe was not going to return to Lady Fortune.
After sacking the governess, arranging inquiries for a replacement, and commiserating with her children—whilst sternly reprimanding Gideon for his vulgar choice of words—she had sat alone for some time, writing in her journal. It had become a habit of hers during the beginning of her marriage to Stanhope, a means of pouring all her misery into words and thus rendering the unhappiness of her marriage somehow bearable. Without her sister’s company and the lively squabbling of her children, Mira had made a realization.
She was not ready to sever ties with Damian Winter so abruptly. Her heart, her body,everythingwithin her called for one more night. In her journal, she crafted a list of reasons why she could not simply end her affair without seeing him again. He had been injured. She was still fretting over his condition. She needed the chance to say a proper farewell. Their time together had been too brief. She was not yet ready for it to end.
And so, her decision had been made. Just as she had every evening for the last fortnight, she readied herself for a trip to Lady Fortune. This time, she had taken additional care with her toilette. Her lady’s maid had spent extra time on her hair, fashioning ringlets which framed her face. Her gown was a deep shade of blue to complement her eyes, because Damian had once said her eyes were his favorite color.
She had arrived at the private entrance to Lady Fortune and had been instantly shepherded to Damian’s apartments. She had awaited him there, tense and uncertain. But then, he had opened the door and crossed the threshold, more handsome than any man ought to be, and he had looked at her as if she were the most glorious woman he had ever beheld.
All her misgivings had fled. They had wound up in a tangle on his bed, equally eager for each other. And she had gotten her wish. One more night in his arms. One more night of his kisses and caresses. One more night of surrendering to sin.
The trouble was, it hardly felt like sin now when she was wrapped in his heat and strength, naked with him beneath the bedclothes, watching him sleep. In slumber, his face was smooth, almost angelic.
Her fingers itched to stroke the lock of hair that had fallen over his brow, just as her lips burned to kiss his. But she was hesitant to wake him. Reluctant to end this moment of peace. Because all too soon she would leave him, and this time, she would not return.
In the frenzy of their lovemaking, she had found neither the mental clarity nor the opportunity to speak to him about putting an end to their arrangement. And as she lay surrounded by his warmth, his scent curled around her, the haven of his bed a paradise she could not bear to leave, Mirabel did not think she could.
Her heart ached at the notion of never seeing him again, never knowing his touch, his kiss, the feeling of him deep inside her. Tears rose, stinging her eyes, but she bit her lip, sending them away, tamping down the emotion. Her years as the Duchess of Stanhope had taught her all too well how to harden herself. How to pretend she did not care.
Instead, she stroked his hair. Softly at first, hesitantly, lest she wake him up. Then with greater confidence, enjoying the texture of the tousled mahogany waves beneath her fingers.
“Mmm.” He inhaled deeply, then sighed, his eyes opening to reveal a surprisingly alert gaze.
“Scoundrel.” Although her tone was soft and teasing, taking the sting from her accusation, she pulled back her hand as if it had been seared, embarrassed to have been caught caressing him outside the act of lovemaking. That was what their relationship had been built upon—their mutual desire—had it not? “I thought you were asleep.”
