Tears for what she longed for so desperately.
Tears for what she could never have.
The Duchess of Stanhope had never been meant to experience love. Hers was an existence mired in duty and propriety. She lived above reproach. Damian Winter must never discover who she truly was.
He was too perceptive, and far too much a danger.
She could never see him again.
Tomorrow, she promised herself grimly. She would send him a note as soon as she could bring herself to write one, explaining as best as she could. It was wrong, and she would hate every moment of writing the words which would ultimately tell him goodbye, of abridging their passion into a tidy, finished volume.
But it was what she had to do.
If there was anything Mirabel knew, it was duty. She had always done that. Nothing would change now. Her children had to come first.
Chapter 10
Demon was restless.
On edge.
Angry.
Nay. To the devil with angry. He was bloody well outraged. Furious. Irritated. Nettled. Annoyed.
Frustrated.That was what he was.
He was seated in Gen’s office, trying not to think about the fact that days had passed since he had last seen—and bedded—Mira. Three, to be precise. Also trying not to think about the note she had sent him the day after he had last seen her, one which he had been reluctant to believe meant what he had suspected it did.
That she had put an abrupt end to their arrangement.
A fortnight of clandestine meetings, of bedding her everywhere and anywhere he could at Lady Fortune, of losing his heart to her, had been reduced to a dismissive note. He still did not know her true identity beyond her first name, and she had already decided they were at an end.
He pulled the scrap of paper from the desk, the words already seared upon his memory.
Thank you for all you have done. I shall always remember our time together fondly.
Respectfully yours,
Mirabel
She had not signed the letter as Mira, but used her full name instead. After spending each evening together—nights of lovemaking unlike any he had ever experienced in his life—she had sent him two cursed sentences.
He ground his molars. The urge to crumple the paper was strong. To toss it into the grate and watch it catch flame. But it had come fromher, and because he was a stupid, hopeless sod, he was loath to destroy it. It also held the faintest hint of her exotic floral scent. Not that he had held it to his nose, desperate for a hint of her.
Who was he fooling? Of course he had done so, and more than once.
That was how much the woman had crept past his defenses, infecting his blood as surely as any poison. The question now was what was he to do about it? Find another lover? Forget about the woman who had destroyed him with her passion this last, charmed fortnight?
Christ.There was no easy answer to his dilemma. Nor was there a good one. He could not deny; this ending nettled.
A knock sounded on the office door, startling him from his ruminations. He stuffed the note into a pocket in the breast of his coat.
“Come,” he called, thinking it must not be Davy on the other side, for the lad tended to simply appear without warning.
The better he could hear Demon talking to himself, he supposed.
The portal opened to reveal his half brother Gavin, who sauntered in with the self-assured gait of a man who knew he had the world by the ballocks. And so he did. Gav was a champion prizefighter the likes of which London had never seen. He had never lost a match. The wenches loved him, and so did the lords who wagered on his bouts. A Gavin Winter match was guaranteed to be a square thing.
