Once more, a chorus of agreement rose from his siblings.
“Deuced hard to believe there are twelve of us,” he commented. “Even without Gav, this room is bloody well filled.”
“I wonder if there shall be any more,” Christabella said, grinning unrepentantly. “Our father seemed to be…prolific.”
The rest of them loosed a collective groan.
“I think twelve of us is all London can bear,” Demon said, smiling right back at his sister, who truly was a ray of sunshine in the gloom.
Then again, mayhap he had a special fondness for fiery-haired women.
Beginning with one in particular.
Which reminded him of the reason for this bloody meeting in the first place.
“I am going to be married,” he announced.
The room went silent.
Except for Gen, who hooted like a damned owl, clapping her hands and grinning. “I hesitate to say I told you so, dearest brother. However, I did tell you, did I not? You fell in love.”
His cheeks went hot. “Gen.”
“What?” She shrugged, looking like the cat who had ventured into the cream. “You are marrying your Mira, are you not?”
Now his ears were burning. He pinned his sister with a glare. “Yes. I am.”
And thank Christ for that. He could still scarcely believe his fortune. It had been days since she had agreed to marry him, and he felt as if he were walking about in a dream.
If it was a dream, he damned well did not want to wake.
A cacophony exploded in the drawing room as ten Winter siblings attempted to speak at once. Demon only caught snippets.
“Who is Mira?”
“When are the nuptials?”
“Another Winter falls.”
“Too much temptation at Lady Fortune?”
There was more, but Demon silenced them with a raised hand. “Quiet, if you please. The reason I have asked you all to assemble here is that I am aiming to marry the Duchess of Stanhope in the next month, and doing so will be a deuced delicate matter.”
Delicate matter.
He could scarcely believe his own tongue.
There were gasps.
“The Duchess of Stanhope?” Eugie asked. “I scarcely believe it. She is a notorious prude.”
He could attest to the fact that Mira was not, in fact, a prude. But he was a gentleman. Of sorts. And he would defend his future wife’s honor to the death.
“We are in love,” he said simply.
“The Duchess of Stanhope,” Christabella repeated.
He nodded. “There is only one, I trust.”
