“Then logic be damned,” Devon replied, “along with the ton, the local gentry, and anyone else who decries our joining. For there is nothing logical about love, my love.” With that, he took her in his arms and kissed her so fiercely, she felt as if tongues of fire were racing through her veins.
“But love is stronger than all the logic of Plato and Aristotle, and it bloody well makes more sense to me than the foolish arguments you raise against our becoming man and wife.”
He kissed her again—deeply, passionately, and his lips were sweet with the taste of brandy…or was it honey?
“A drop of honey to sweeten the bitter brew of life” her grandmother had called their love. Why had it taken her so long to see that all the reasons why they should not marry paled before that one pure drop of golden honey which only Devon’s lips could impart?
“Very well, my lord,” she said. “A compromise. I will rescind my vow to never marry you under English law. But you, too, must be willing to rescind your vow.”
“My vow?” Devon’s brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “What vow was that, my love?”
“Why the one about never again granting me your favors until we were legally married under British law.” She sighed. “For I fear that our joining must wait until the morrow. It is well past the hour when Vicar Kincaid retires.”
Devon’s mouth curved in a wicked smile that made Moira’s knees so weak they fairly collapsed beneath her. Just in time, he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the wide canopied bed in the far corner of the room.
“Now that,” he said, laying her tenderly atop the coverlet and stretching out beside her, “is what I call logical thinking.”
The Gypsy Duchess Page 26
