Page 12 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

Meanwhile, the summer sizzled. The sun delighted her, made her grin. She rejoiced to walk on the rocky beach in her bare feet. In the tide, as it rushed to the shore, she wiggled her toes and told him he must do the same. He refused, but finally, one morning, he grumbled, removed his shoes and stockings, and gave in.

She watched him wince at the chill of the sea and giggled at his grimace at her for demanding he do it.

He looked carefree as she had never seen him, his strong calves and big feet bare, covered with sand. He even withstood the chill of the sea without a shiver or complaint. He gazed at her with challenge in the jut of his square jaw. “Satisfied?”

She shrugged. “A little.” She winked at him and chuckled.

“I love to hear you laugh, mon petit chou.”

Had he just called her his sweet one? Where was “his cabbage,” eh? Was it merely a slip of his tongue?

“I feared I never would again.” She stared at him, her darkly handsome chevalier. Could she make him call her even more endearing things? How did a woman seduce a man who did not wish it? Comfort? Wit? Kisses? “You have made it so that I find humor in the world, dear sir.”

He waved away her compliment, and they strolled blithely along the beach.

Their afternoon and evening marched onward, peace their happy prize.

Another week passed. Zeph felt stronger, sturdier on her feet, more confident in shops and cafés. Remarking to their neighbors on either side came easily. Smiling at others in church was a normal expression. Zeph went out to shops more often.

But the modiste Madame Clermont came to her at home. That was a very good thing, and a regular occurrence now, because all the gowns that Madame Clermont had first sewn for Zeph strained the fabric in the sleeves, the hips, and definitely in the bodice. She asked for the lady to be summoned to do alterations. When she told Rafe, he scowled that there were problems with the construction of the clothes the woman had sewn.

Zeph told him the truth. With a flourish of one hand over her bodice, she smiled like a pampered girl and said, “I have gained weight in certain places.”

“Ah,” he said as—lo and behold—he locked his gaze on hers. Zeph watched his body slowly turn to stone. “I see,” he said, but he did not look. Instead, he merely shook out his newspaper and returned to his reading.

Zeph counted his reaction as a trophy she had won. She stored it in her memory for use someday, somehow.

August turned rainy. Rafe and she spent their days together, playing chess or cards or reading. For warmth, she usually wore a fichu over her bosom and throat. Suppressing concern that she could not tempt him as easily, she considered it a good trade-off for the chance to play with him in other, less sensual ways.

Then, one day, she found him in his small office, doing his books, cursing over them, until she asked if she could take a look.

“If you can help,” he allowed with frustration on his brow, “I will name you as my estate manager!”

“We need not be so dramatic!” So she went to work. But when she found the errors that he had not, he lifted a glass of brandy in her honor. “Is your man not proficient in numbers?” she asked.

“He was at one time. Age, I think, and the fact that I have not reviewed his mathematics in so many months, have presented the greater possibility of errors.”

“Ah, well, I apologize for being the reason you have not attended to your accounts, but I do accept your offer.” She drank her own draught, thrilled to mean more to him, even if it was a professional matter, not a private nor an intimate one. “Which means that if I am now your accountant, you will have to pay me a wage.”

He grimaced. Yet his starkly handsome face was filled with humor. “Is that so, Miss Butler? What is your asking price?”

She drank and toyed with her glass in midair. A kiss? “Ten pounds a week.”

“Robbery!”

“If I could still remember how to multiply, I would say I am worth twice that amount!”

“That will come back. You should be proud of your skills. Few can do estate books.”

She rolled her eyes at him. Few have the desire. But I have.

“Your skills will return to you. Give yourself time!” he urged her with a press of her arm to his solid chest. She caught her breath at the stalwart feel of him. “You must applaud yourself for the success you have had.” His laughter died into a mellow look of hot regard. “As for your worth right now? I’d say you are priceless.”

She giggled. That, or she would have thrown her arms around him and put her lips to his. He would have withdrawn from her, and she could not have borne it. “Now you have it right, sir.”

The following week, when the August clouds cleared away, Zeph noticed Rafe seemed relieved. But he was distant. She put it to the fact that he was not in such proximity to her, hour after hour. They shared each other’s company at meals and the occasional chess match. But he took himself away more frequently to visit friends or write instructions to his employees in the City or his manager on the London docks.

She mourned that she could not banter with him or win a game of cards and tease him for his loss. As he read his newspapers, he could be cranky if she interrupted him. She took up reading them, too. If she could no longer conduct extensive conversations with him, she’d put the newspapers to good use. She could look for mention of the young woman to whom she had given her priceless treasure stolen from Vaillancourt. Still, the urge to stroll over to Rafe and take his correspondence or his newspapers from him, then sit in his lap, had been a constant taunt to her self-control.