“Have some.” He held up the bottle. “We can swill from the bottle like heathens if it won’t offend you.”
She joined him and took a pull from the bottle. “You are sworn to secrecy,” she warned him. “Mrs. Seaton does not tipple.”
“Neither does Westhaven.” He followed her example. “Heir to a bloody duke, you know.”
In that moment, she lost a piece of her heart to him. His hair was curling damply against his neck, his clothing was in disarray, and he was sitting cross-legged on the floor of an empty room, swilling champagne. In that posture, in his dishevelment, with grave humor dancing in his green eyes, the Earl of Westhaven was impossibly dear to her.
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