Page 13 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

She told herself to bear it. He would come around. He was a man who had stirrings that showed he cared for her more than the friendship that separated them like walls of iron.

The end of August was suddenly hot again. They stayed to themselves, walking the beach at sunrise and sunset, strolling at the edges of the town. Rafe was less communicative, as if he had given himself a stern talking-to about how he viewed her. Hailing the neighbors to either side of Rafe’s townhouse with a smile and a nod, or going to dinner in the large hotel on the beach, they enjoyed each other’s company in quiet peace, as if they were a long-married couple.

One afternoon, she stared up at the sunny blue sky and closed her eyes in this dream of a day.

“You know what we must buy for you?” Rafe’s voice was soft as velvet.

She opened her eyes and grinned at him, but the sensuous velvet was gone from his demeanor. His caution was tempting her and eroding her willpower at the same time. “Rafe, I have so many clothes now, and we go nowhere for me to prance around in them.”

“You need a parasol, mon petit chou. Your skin demands it.”

It does, eh? Good to note you think so. “Thank you. And where do we acquire such an item?”

“Madame Clermont can make one for us or refer us on to one who can.”

“Good.” Zeph was ready for more exposure, but for this fine day, she wanted the security only of Rafe Durham’s fine company.

They strolled the main thoroughfare north, called the Steine, and she caught sight of the spires of the Prince Regent’s Pavilion.

“Why does it look like the palace of an Ottoman?”

Rafe clicked his tongue. “The prince wants the illusion of mystery and power.”

She huffed. “He is not the only one. Bonaparte wants the illusion that he is a master of all he surveys.”

“But it eludes him,” he said. “He tries to gain power with the German states to his east but faces problems.”

“Even in the north, in Holland, where he put his brother Louis, he faces dissent. Louis is a poor ruler. Even his wife Hortense complains of him.”

Rafe paused on the rocky beach. “How well do you know Hortense?”

Josephine Beauharnais’s daughter had been a good friend of hers at Madame Campan’s little school. One day, Zeph hoped to visit and laugh with Hortense again. The poor woman needed relief from a very bad marriage. “She does not love him. Dare I say it? She hates him. There is nothing worse in this world than two people who hate each other, tied to a bed and a social obligation.”

Rafe arched his brows in curiosity. “You sound as if you know of such disasters personally.”

She met his gaze with the memory of a thousand vicious arguments careening through her head. “My parents taught me that. Every day. More often at night. My mother was brave, strong, opposing him verbally.”

“And he?”

“He opposed her with his fists.”

Rafe groaned, repulsion in the downward curve of his mouth.

“My mother learned to hold herself up to him with the help of whiskey. Our slaves distilled a strong concoction of bourbon. My mother got a daily supply from them. Papa could never stop her—or them. Our servants favored Mama, and hated him.”

He took her arm. His concern for her was what the gentle Rafe would do. “And you? Did he hit you, too?”

“No. His assaults on me were in the cold derision of his gaze. I was too red-headed for him. Irish trash. He wanted a frilly little blonde thing to order around. I was also too educated for him. Too smart for a woman, he said. But I did his books, you see. Corrected his accountants’ work. For that, and only that, he valued me.”

“Ha!” Rafe was quick to counter her. “He should see you now. What you have done for me is an enormous service, finding four thousand pounds I seemed to have lost.”

“That took me a long time.”

“I care not for the days you worked at it. I care only for the results, my dear.”

“I am glad I gave you that service.”

“Who else could have?” He beamed. “Only you, my dear.”