“You are offering yourself?” she asked.
His lips twitched, as if he found the situation—mayhap Mirabel—amusing. “Aye. Myself.”
What was she thinking? This man would never do for what she wanted. He was too strong. Too virile. Too handsome. Too…everything.
She shook her head. “No.”
His brows rose. “Why not, madam?”
“You are too young,” she said. “You look to be no more than five-and-twenty.”
“Eight-and-twenty,” he countered.
Ten years her junior and a rake by the look of him, she had no doubt.
“Near enough,” she said dismissively. “Thank you for the offer, sir, but I must decline. I would also beg you to keep this matter between the two of us.”
But still, he had not released her. Instead, his fingers circled the back of her neck, cupping her in a manner that was possessive and yet gentle.
“Why must you? Decline, that is?”
Why indeed? His head had dipped toward hers, bringing their mouths perilously close. And she was once more ensnared. Physically, she could escape him with ease, she knew. He was not holding her tightly, nor forcing her in any fashion. The trouble was, she had no wish to flee. She was complicit. Every wicked urge she possessed was exhorting her to stay where she was.
“I was given to understand that clubs for gentlemen offered companionship of a certain nature for their patrons. I assumed Lady Fortune to operate in the same manner for its female members. But this…you…I cannot.”
“I assure you that you can.” His gaze searched hers.
“I do not know your name.” Her voice was breathless, and her protest was a blatant attempt at removing herself from this man’s intoxicating presence.
“Demon Winter.” He smiled.
Everything inside her turned to liquid.
What a name.
The personification of everything dangerous and forbidden.
“Demon?”
His lips drew nearer, almost grazing hers. “Aye. ’Tis me.”
“You do not know my name.” After this bit of nonsense emerged from her, she wished she could rescind the words. What foolishness. Of course this man did not know her name. Nor would she wish him to. That was the beauty of Lady Fortune—anonymity. And that was what she required, complete and utter discretion.
“Do youwantme to know it,number one hundred four?” he asked.
What would be the harm, she reasoned, in the revelation of just her given name, nothing more?
“No,” she blurted, out of her depths and unprepared for this meeting in more ways than she had ever anticipated. “The less you know of me, the better.”
“Or the more of you I know, the better,” he suggested.
She liked his deep baritone. It washed over her like a caress. There was nothing polished or polite or aristocratic about this man. He was bold and roguish and rugged. A different kind of longing speared through her.
Wrong, cautioned the voice within, the one which had rigidly ruled her life for the last fifteen years. The one which sounded a great deal like Stanhope’s.
This is wrong.
She had been tempted to reveal her given name. Had allowed him to touch her. What had she been thinking?
