With that thought came another that almost made her knees buckle. There was likely a child in her womb now, at this moment.
Tell him, urged a voice within.
Tell him now. Do not wait.
“I do not seek to hinder that duty,” he told her. “God, Mira. I’ve missed you.”
Her traitorous heart gave her away. He was ever a temptation she could not resist.
“I have missed you as well,” she said, swaying toward him, needing his touch, his embrace.
“Mama!”
She jumped back as if she had just been burned, jolting away from him in time to see Gideon bounding into the room with his usual boisterous enthusiasm. The lad could not be made to adopt the calm gait of a gentleman. Everywhere he went, he galloped like a horse.
“Gideon,” she said weakly. “Why are you not with Clark?”
The replacement of Walters had only just begun several days before, and poor Clark, while possessing a kinder demeanor than her predecessor and infinitely more tolerance for her charges, also seemed to be easily thwarted by Mirabel’s intrepid youngest child.
“I needed to ask you a question,” he said, studying Damian with open curiosity. “My apologies, Mama. I did not know you had a visitor.”
Mirabel was struck in that moment, caught between two worlds, between the Mirabel she wanted to be and between the Duchess of Stanhope she had always been. The Duchess of Stanhope would not introduce Mr. Damian Winter to her son. But then, neither would the Duchess of Stanhope have fallen in love with him.
Mirabel had.
And it was that part of her—the truest part—which was keenly aware of Damian’s gaze on her, searching. Waiting. He had to know the war she waged.
She hesitated a moment too long.
Damian took a step back, his countenance shuttering, and bowed. “I was just leaving.”
His bearing was stiff, his shoulders and jaw tense. Worst of all, she detected the naked hurt on his proud countenance. “You need not go yet, Mr. Winter,” she announced suddenly.
Too loudly.
Her voice was unnaturally high, almost shrill. Damian paused, cocking his head at her and scouring her with a searching glance. Her heart beat faster than the wings of a startled bird.
“Mr. Winter, my son, Lord Gideon Manners.”
Damian sketched another bow. “Lord Gideon.”
Gideon’s expression was curious. Mirabel could practically see the wheel of questions spinning in his mind. “Mr. Winter.”
The two stared at each other, as if assessing. Damian towered over Gideon, a stark comparison in appearance that was magnified by the darkness of Damian’s hair and eyes juxtaposed with Gideon’s shock of wheaten hair and the pale, freckled skin he had inherited from Mirabel.
“I was just telling Her Grace about the bird I saw on my way here,” Damian said to Gideon in conspiratorial fashion.
He had done nothing of the sort. Mirabel bit her lip.
“What did it look like, sir? I have memorized the names of at least one hundred different birds,” Gideon announced with pride.
“It was a fat gray bird with a black marking around his neck,” Damian replied with ease.
Mirabel wondered if he had truly seen such a fowl or if he had merely recalled her telling him that her son was fond of birds. Either way, her heart was heavier than it had ever been.
An enthusiastic grin lit up Gideon’s face. “That must have been the ring dove, sir. It stays with us the whole year long.”
“I do believe the black marking on the little fellow’s neck resembled a ring.” Damian stroked his jaw, as if in deep contemplation. “You must be correct, my lord.”
