Page 42 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

“Oh, well!” She gave a laugh, insulted, then stepped back and rolled her eyes. “That will be such a blessing.”

He shook her a little. “I care for you.”

She yanked farther from his embrace. “How kind of you.”

“You must not confuse gratitude with—”

“Desire?” she taunted him—and, in truth, herself.

“No. Because only—”

“Because only silly young girls do that.” She grunted. “How many young girls have you known, eh, Rafe? Five? Ten?” She took hold of one of the ends of his cravat and pulled it loose. “How many women have you had?”

“That is irrelevant.”

“Is it?” She flipped the end of his silk against his silver waistcoat. “I would like to know the number of those you have taken to your bed.”

“Zeph—”

“Did you know their desires, each and every one, before you took them, before you had them?”

“I knew who they were, what they were.”

“Not all whores, I am certain.”

He shook his head.

“You would want a woman with some drama to her, some joy, some sorrow. All emotions for which you could show sympathy for her. Why am I different?” She shrugged a shoulder. Tears gathered on her lower lids. “Why?”

He took the inches separating them and hauled her against him. From breasts to belly to loins and thighs, she stood against him. She loved every inch—and would never tell him.

“You are a ray of sunshine,” he told her. “A glorious girl with golden tears in her eyes and a heart badly bruised by bastards who should never have touched you. I would have you like this, so near to me, if I could keep you. But I cannot. You deserve a young man, a man who is more handsome, more debonair, more joyous.”

“And what if age and appearance and charm were irrelevant to me? What would you say to me then? What would you do?”

He picked her up on her toes and pressed even more of her to his damnably hard length. “I would say you must learn for yourself. Learn, my darling torment.” He crushed her to him for so fleeting a second that she barely felt the iron satin of his flesh. “Learn! Find what you want. I venture that who you want is not here. Nor will he ever be.”

He set her away from him.

Forcing down tears, then outrage, she took her time and found words. They were not kind, not diplomatic, but hers. “Never in all the months we have been together, Rafe Durham, have you lied to me. You do it now, and I hate you for it.”

With her emotions wrinkling her nose and trembling her lips, she stepped backward to his door. She grasped the handle. “I will write to Gus immediately after I leave you.”

He nodded, silent and grim.

“I will be gone before noon.”

*

As Rafe watched her open the door and pick up her skirts, he knew she was already gone from him. She was that fast, her decision that final.

Now she was not even his friend. Not even the darling whom he had cherished in her sickness and yearned for in her health. She was not his, never had been nor could ever be his to have or hold for any day of his life.

Rafe sat in his chair. How could he move? How could he go to her? Talk to her? Save her from hating him?

He stared at the label of the bottle of whiskey on the table to his right. He could not open it. If he did, if he poured, he would drink it to the bottom. Then he would miss her leaving him.

He could not bear to leave the house. Could not stand to see her go. But he must.