Page 19 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

“That is wonderful.” She turned to Rafe, concerned he and she were leaving here. How much time did she have to prepare emotionally for crowds? “We are going to London soon?”

“Only when you say you are ready.” Rafe gave her his look of assurance.

Confident then that Rafe would go only if she wished it, she smiled at Halsey. “You will give your wife my congratulations, won’t you? And please forgive my faulty memory. I am not quite yet myself.”

“I understand.”

“Allow me to present this fellow here,” Rafe said of a congenial fellow with soft brown hair and a charming grin. “He is the Marquess of Carlisle, another friend of mine.”

She offered her hand. “How do you do, my lord? I am happy to meet you.”

“As I am happy to meet you. I hope to introduce you soon to my wife, Giselle.”

“Thank you.”

Rafe said, “Here now, this last gentleman is one we rely on for many tasks. I present Mr. O’Neill.”

This different sort of introduction had Zeph tipping her head and smiling at the broad-shouldered man with dancing black eyes and curly, dark hair. “I am intrigued, sir, at Sir Raphael’s definition of your actions.”

“I leave it to Durham to describe them, Miss Butler.”

His Irish accent had her turning her attention toward Rafe. “I came for only a moment or two.”

“What did you wish to discuss?” he asked her.

“It can wait.” I got what I came for. She flashed a wicked grin at him. “Pardon me, gentlemen. I excuse myself.”

Each visitor bade her adieu.

She smiled herself away and up the stairs. She heard the door close, their conversation one she was not invited to hear.

What did these men have in common? Most likely it was their status, their wealth, their place in Society, perhaps even their education. Except for O’Neill, who had no title, but the look and gravitas of a powerful man. What did he do for a living? Not what the others did.

But a new memory pierced her. A woman with pale hair and a sharp mind. Was this Halsey’s wife, Inès? Yes! And Inès was Luc Bechard’s sister! Luc was the one who had blocked her prison guards from repeatedly raping her.

Zeph stopped at the first-floor landing, pressed a hand to her chest, and sagged against the wall. She could not remember Halsey. Only his wife.

But another memory, recent and satisfying, worked its warm way into her heart. It was how Rafe had forgotten himself and allowed his eyes to absorb the delectable gown.

And me beneath it.

She grinned. So much for your façade, sir. I see you, and I call you on how you play your hand to win the day and walk away from me.

She continued back to her suite. She’d have this gown, thank you, and another of teal green. In silk. To dance in.

Some victories were small, but useful, weren’t they?

Chapter Six

No. 15 Queen Square

London

September 21, 1806

Zephora sat rigid in Rafe’s hired traveling coach, angry as he had never seen her before. Her outrage began two days ago, in his Brighton study, and she had poured it all over him in waves of disbelieving glares, haughty lifts of her chin, and curt words.

“I do not need a companion.” That had been her first response to his statement that, when they got to London, he would hire for her a woman to assist her in her entry into Society.