“I have been studying birds all my life,” Gideon said with the sweet hyperbole of a child. It was apparent he wished to impress their visitor.
Gideon had hungered for interaction from Stanhope, from the time he had first been walking about on the unsteady legs of a newborn foal. Stanhope, however, had shown less interest in him than he had in Percy. Gideon was the necessary spare. How Mirabel’s heart ached to think of all her sons and daughter had missed.
“Indeed,” Damian was saying to her son, as if he, too, found birds an enrapturing subject of discussion. “Do tell me your favorites, Lord Gideon.”
Mirabel almost winced. Her son would happily chatter about birds for days. The only other subject which interested him was the asking of questions.
“There is the red-backed butcherbird,” Gideon began. “He snares his dinner on thorns. There is the common crow, which travels in pairs. The sandpiper, who prefers to be near water. The ring ouzel, the bunting—”
“Lord Gideon,” interrupted a flustered-sounding Clark, who appeared on the threshold of the salon, her cheeks flushed. “I was searching for you.”
It was a timely intervention save the manner in which Clark’s gaze traveled over Damian. With something more than curiosity, Mirabel swore. Appreciation? He was a ridiculously handsome man.
“Go with Clark now,” she urged her son. “I shall be along presently to see your progress with French.”
“I shall tell you more about birds later, Mr. Winter,” Gideon said, his tone hopeful.
Mirabel was about to interject when Damian spoke first.
“I should like nothing better, Lord Gideon,” he said.
When Gideon and Clark were gone, leaving Mirabel and Damian alone once more, she did not know whether to throw herself into his arms or berate him. Part of her told her to proceed with caution. This was dangerous, new, unexpected territory. The other part of her wanted to throw her arms around him and never let go this time.
“You are looking at me strangely, Mira.” His low, beloved voice cut through her inner tumult. “Have I overstepped? Was I not meant to speak with your son? Forgive me. I know I ain’t your social equal.”
His polish had slipped.
And she loved him for it all the more.
She loved the way he had held her in his arms, the way he had made love to her as if he savored every moment, as if he delighted in her in an elemental sense. She loved the way he kissed her. Loved the way he felt deep inside her. She loved the penchant he had for always making her smile, for finding the strangest, most delicious places on her body she had never known would adore being kissed. She loved his mahogany hair and stirring eyes and sinful lips. She loved his hands, his accent, his occasional dips into cant. She loved that he was himself, without apology.
Except in this instance. Only for her.
“You need not ask my forgiveness, Damian,” she said softly. “If anyone should require forgiveness, it is me.”
He moved toward her once more. “For tiring of me?”
Is that what he thought of her?
She shook her head, guilt twisting deep within that he could suppose her so fickle. But then, what choice had she given him?
“I never tired of you.” The admission spilled from her, making her a bit dizzy.
She should have tried to eat more than toast, but she had not been certain her unsettled stomach would allow it. Her lack of sustenance was wreaking havoc upon her now. But this was familiar territory. Each time she had been with child had been much the same, with the exception of the manner in which her belly had grown. She had been largest when she carried Joanna.
“Then why did you end us?” he asked, his warm, brown stare penetrating. “Could you not have met with me? Could you not have looked me in the eye and told me you wished never to see me again? You say you feared I would persuade you otherwise. If you are so easily persuaded, I reckon you did not want what you asked for.”
He was not wrong.
She searched for an explanation that would placate him, before it occurred to her that she was reverting to the Duchess of Stanhope once more. When she and her husband had been at odds, she always deferred to him. Surrendered. It had been easier, more peaceful, than testing him. If she bent and yielded, he would go away. That was not the way of it between herself and Damian. At least, it had not been, and she did not want to make it so.
There was only one answer she could give him: the truth.
“You are right,” she confessed, waving her hands about in her agitation. “I did not want to end our arrangement, but I felt that I must do so in the interest of my children. I have built a reputation, you see. All these years, I have been unimpeachable. I have followed all the rules, done everything I should. There has been nary a hint of scandal shadowing my name.”
She paused, gathering her courage before continuing. “I am the Duchess of Stanhope, always above reproach. I was being selfish, pursuing you, seeking something I had no right to claim. It was sinful and wrong of me. I am their mother before I am anything else, and I must put their needs, their futures, ahead of everything. Even if…”
Her words trailed off, and she found herself unable to finish them.
