Page 22 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

She pressed her plump lips together and shook her head.

So he should not have said anything about her skin or her eyes. He had the damnedest time crossing one leg over the other. His cock was happy with this discussion, even if he was not. “You need them.”

“That’s expensive,” she groused.

“Look, mon petite chou, I am lending you money to bribe your solicitor, so I can afford to buy you gems.”

She put a hand to the valley of her chest.

He could imagine her hand on him.

“My dear sir, you do too much, and besides, the gossip.” She flared wide her brilliant eyes and batted her lashes.

One day, if in some other universe he were freed from these shackles that held him from her, he’d kiss those eyes. Her lips. And then… “No one will know.”

“You are certain?”

Enough of this pining like a schoolboy! “I am. Now smile at me, will you? We are home, and my staff are used to people who are pleasant with them. Be one of those, I urge you.”

She gave him the first warm regard toward him within days. “I promise.”

*

“I would like to see him as soon as possible,” Zeph told Rafe two mornings later over breakfast. She was not interested in waiting for acceptance. Yesterday, the first thing Rafe had done was write to the man that many said had been her father’s solicitor in the City. That was good enough warning to the man that she was coming.

Rafe pushed aside his newspapers. “I requested an appointment for today, but he may not have time for us.”

“We could go anyway.” She tipped her head and lifted her brows. Here at home in London, Rafe was even better dressed than in Brighton. His sartorial dignity in matching black frockcoats and trousers of dove gray, complemented by shades of blue and red waistcoats, transformed him into the most delicious creature. He became better looking, more tantalizing, each day. He drew her to him without a clue she was so smitten. The only thing she could do to keep from crawling into his lap was argue with him, make him notice her minute by minute. Luckily, she had topics of controversy to keep any debate lively.

“Zeph,” he sighed, “that is not the way to do business.”

“It is my way.”

“Barging your way into one’s domain is not the way to endear yourself.”

“Do I need to be endearing?”

He stared at her. “It helps.”

“Helps me do what?”

Rafe sighed.

“Helps me get my inheritance? My money? My lands? It is mine. They will not keep it from me. Papa may have disliked me, but he respected me. I was his blood.” She had moments alone when her anger over her father’s view of her enraged her. But her most violent anger came when she remembered what had happened to her in Paris. Then? She could tear the wallpaper from the walls. Over this, she would not act a madwoman. This discussion was about something else that belonged to her. Not her integrity or her body, but her rights, her money, her land, her keep. Here, for this, she found the means to soothe her outrage. “What is mine will be mine.”

“Let’s be clear, Zeph. I know you have not experienced much of it, but it always helps in this world to have other people’s goodwill.”

How did he take the sting from her wound? His voice? His smile? She met his kindness with less vitriol than before. “Is that how you have earned all this?” She swept a hand in the air to indicate the spacious house and its spectacular, lavish furnishings.

“Yes. My grandfather believed in goodwill toward men and so did my father. I am the same.”

She picked at her eggs. She was being a pest. She knew it. But this morning she had awakened, wanting action. “I apologize.”

“Let me write that down.” He raised a finger in the air and pretended to pull his newspapers toward him.

She stuck out her chin. “Is it not impolite to read while you are dining with another?”

He fixed her with his dark green stare and opened both hands, palms up, upon the small, circular table. “Yes. Now I offer my apologies. What else would you like to discuss?”