He gave her a rakish grin. “If you will promise to continue petting me, I will happily feign sleep.”
A startled peal of laughter tore from her, welcome after the weightiness of her thoughts. “I was not petting you.”
“Whatever you wish to call it, love.” He punctuated the teasing in his tone with a wink. “I liked it.”
Her heart beat faster, seemingly tripping over itself.
This man.
This wonderful, witty, handsome, sinful, delectable, caring, delicious, forbidden man. How could she ever say goodbye to him? How could she leave him tonight and never see him again? It seemed an impossibility. A betrayal of the worst order. But she must not think of that now.
“If you liked it,” she said slowly, sending him a wicked grin of her own, “then I have no choice but to continue. Have I?”
She ran her fingers through his hair once more.
“No choice at all,” he affirmed, shifting his head on the pillow so he could study her more fully.
“How is your head?” she asked, realizing far too late that she had not inquired after his welfare. She had been so caught up in the sight of him, vital and potent and masculine striding over the threshold to take her in his arms and make her mindless with his kisses, that she had not thought to ask until now. “Forgive me for not asking sooner.”
“It is perfect now that I have you here with me.” His arms tightened around her waist, anchoring her to him more firmly. “Why are you so serious tonight, Mira?”
Curse him for being so dratted observant.
She had hoped she was not allowing the malaise within her to show.
“You were attacked,” she said, which was certainly part of her solemnity, if not all.
“But I lived to see another day. I’ll not have it concerning you. What happened was an accident, nothing more. I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. The charleys say someone had a vendetta against the wine merchant, and that is all.”
The furrow between his brows suggested he was not being entirely truthful to her. Even his voice held a tinge of worry. But Mirabel could hardly blame him. There was much she had kept from him. Not just her identity, but also her intention that this night would be their last. Looking at him now—the earnestness of his gaze, the open concern and caring in his countenance—she did not think she could reveal the latter to him.
It would hurt too much.
And he would tempt her too much.
She would give in.
For the moment, she allowed her fingertip to trail over the divot in his otherwise smooth forehead. “You are certain that is all it was?”
She hated the thought of anything ill befalling him. Hated, too, the thought that she would no longer know if it did. After this evening, she would be relinquishing her membership at Lady Fortune. She would return to living the life of the circumspect widow. No matter how much the prospect left her feeling cold and unhappy.
“Certain. You needn’t worry yourself, love.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “What has put the shadows in your eyes?”
Tell him, urged the voice within.
She could not. He was so near. So earnest. So…
Dear heavens.
Sobeloved.
But that could not be, could it? She could not have fallen in love with Damian Winter, the least suitable man in London, one born on the wrong side of the blanket, the owner of a gaming hell, unrepentant rogue who had offered to be her lover…
She swallowed. “I am reluctant to leave you.”
Mirabel could scarcely believe she had said it. And though she knew quite well he would assume she meant for the evening, the words were no less true. She was a coward, it seemed. A coward who was falling in love with him. A coward who was about to leave him.
“Then stay,” he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek, her ear, her jaw. “Stay as long as you like, Mira. Stay forever.”
