“Thank you,” he said, sniffling in uncharacteristic fashion for Davy. “You ’ave paid me a great honor.”
Demon shook his head. “You have paid me a greater one, Davy. By far.”
* * *
As she had somany times before, Mirabel found herself at a ball.
This time, however, she had been eager to attend. She wanted to be here. And not because she wished to dance or watch the young debutantes and bucks swirling about on the dance floor. But because the man she loved was in attendance.
Damian was here.
The candles in the ballroom at Mr. Deveraux Winter’s townhome were blazing. A glittering crush of London’s finest had amassed for the impromptu masque he and his wife, the beautiful Lady Emilia Winter, were holding. The stage was set, and all the revelers in attendance were whispering about the mysterious man dressed in midnight black, his handsome face partially obscured by his silken mask.
The same mysterious man who bowed before her now as the orchestra struck up the strains of a waltz.
“Your Grace,” he said, his deep, beloved voice like velvet gliding over her.
She curtseyed. “Mr. Winter.”
“I believe this dance is mine?”
“This one and every other,” she said.
“For shame, Duchess,” he returned with a teasing air. “That sounds positively scandalous. You ought to know you cannot dance with the same gentleman all evening.”
“Of course I do.” She smiled as he led her to the dance floor, her heart feeling as if it glowed from within, beating with so much love. “You are the only man Iwantto dance with.”
Many curious stares were upon them, just as she had known they would be, for it was a well-known truth that the Duchess of Stanhope did not dance. Mirabel had taken great care in her toilette this evening, fastening the Stanhope sapphires at her throat and ears, her flaming hair on display in an elaborate coiffure. Her mask, too, was small, revealing almost her entire face. She wanted there to be no doubt about her identity, because after this evening, all London would know the Duchess of Stanhope had fallen in love with a dashing stranger.
Their whirlwind courtship was to begin this evening, thanks to the Herculean efforts of the Winter family. They had worked together, using their newly cemented society influence to pull together a masque ball in less than a week’s time and to ensure that all London would be desperate for an invitation. Mirabel was deeply grateful for the man taking her in his arms now, and for his siblings as well.
There would still be a great deal of whispers surrounding the Duchess of Stanhope’s hasty nuptials to Mr. Damian Winter. Indeed, she was certain there would be several scandalmongering broadsides bearing her likeness in the weeks to come. However, planting the seed of their love story this evening would go a long way to blunt the worst of the gossip.
Their hands entwined over their heads, and the warmth and strength of his arm around her was so wonderful. As they began to whirl about the dance floor, she was mesmerized by his dark stare locked on hers, by his fluid, masculine grace. They had been practicing this waltz ever since Devereaux and Lady Emilia had decided upon hosting this ball as a means of providing Mirabel and Damian with a proper introduction.
And the practice was certainly reaping its rewards now.
He had her breathless. Speechless.
“I could not bloody well wait to have you in my arms tonight, love,” he said as he led them through a series of steps. “I have missed having you in my bed.”
Her cheeks went warm. “Now who is being scandalous, Mr. Winter?”
He grinned. “I never said I wasn’t scandalous.”
They twirled together in perfect harmony.
“Thank you for going to so much effort to protect me and the children,” she said softly, feeling dizzied from the combination of the dance and the elation rising within her.
“I would do anything for you, Mira mine. Even if it means learning how to keep from tripping over my own bloody feet and spinning all over ballrooms. Even if it means living in a palace and trying not to break all the damned china.” He paused, wincing. “And even if it means I need to make an extra effort to control my tongue.”
“I like your tongue. Never change it.”
His grin deepened. “Good to know, love. I shall reacquaint you with it soon.”
They whirled about some more.
“Wicked man.”
