Page 43 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

He loved her too deeply. Too dearly. That was wrong of him to care so much, after all he had kept so pure between them.

His age was not truly the deterrent to his wanting her, keeping her, having her as his own, his love, his partner. His wife.

That was how he should have her. Completing the wealth of affection he bore her, the admiration he heaped upon her, the desire he yearned to shower over her. The totality of what he felt for her, he knew, could be reciprocated by her for him. If he thought it fair to her.

But it was not and never could be.

He shot up from his chair and paced the room. The fire behind the grate was dead. Cold ashes on the heap of his despair.

He should have waited to tell her how she must address her future. He could have waited until she had gotten her first taste of the brutality of London Society.

But no and no. He was right to have told her. Explained it to her. Made her see she needed time to learn how to judge a good man, needed experiences to discover how wrongly some men presented themselves as kind or honest or truthful, loyal to good morals and right behavior. Then she would see how many better men there were than he. Stronger, wiser—hell, better looking and deserving of a beauty with a wild streak and a will that carried her from the depths of a dungeon to the pristine ballrooms filled with young women’s dreams of a man who could love and treasure his perfect match.

He was so very wrong for her. As a man to catch her up and abscond with her, yes, he was qualified to be that man. As one to nurse her and cajole her and pamper her toward better health and laughter, yes, he was that man. He’d had decades of saving others. His mother from a lover. His sister from another man, too. And one other he had loved with a young man’s erotic passions and whom he had saved from an evil marriage. But then, saved, she did not consider herself redeemed. And she left him. Left him of her own accord. Disappeared for years until he saw her on a street corner, and still, she walked away.

God help him. He was tied to his past, but also to his self-proclaimed mission, his future. He was a man of commerce, but more than that, he was a man dedicated to a glorious future for Britain. Out of power now that his dear friend William Pitt was no longer prime minister, he saw rascals in control who thought they could appease Bonaparte. He was no fool to think the world would not revolve. It would. And when it did, he would still be here. With his friends—Halsey, Carlisle, and their fine friend in Seven Dials, Dáire O’Neill—he would build their new alliance with the agents of Scarlett Hawthorne.

He would not be abandoning Britain to idiots. He had agents to call to him. Runners to set out to find all the French spies in this country, especially this evil Faucon who was so elusive. It was good work and difficult, needing his focus. All tasks steeped in his blood. Borne by his bones. He had to save the British from themselves.

Ahh!

He ran both hands through his hair and strode once more to the window over his garden and stared down into the pitch-black void, then up into the twinkling, starry night.

What a fool he was to try to justify his inability to become her man, her lover, her husband, with trifling excuses like age and charm.

He was a man who rejoiced that, in this world, strong and daring women lived and laughed and loved. Their numbers seemed to be few—but increasing. Still, he was a man who had spent his life, by accident and by choice, helping women unable to break the bonds that held them from freedom and renaissance. He had not been honest with Zeph, and he owed her the full explanation. He doubted, however, she would want it or need it. He would not look for an opportunity.

He had so far searched for a woman whom he could admire and applaud, a spirit who wished for a fellow traveler, a companion, a lover. He had never found one with whom he wished to share his every intimate moment.

Zephora Butler was that woman. One who had come to him by chance and hideous circumstance. One who had accepted all his help and never flinched, never shied from him, but accepted all he had to give. And then she challenged him. Defied him. Repudiated him.

She was meant for a finer man than he. Though he craved her, needed her—the shining example of what he could save and what he wanted in spite of his knowledge—he could never possess her.

And he would forever hold his peace about that.

Forevermore.

It must be so.

But now he had to find a way to live with himself. Alone.

For how could he live without her?

Chapter Eleven

20 Grosvenor Square

Mayfair, London

Before seven the next morning, Zeph sank back into her public carriage. She avoided the window and the gratifying view. Someone chased her. Not the right one, but one. She took pleasure in that at least. James, her footman and guard, was running out the front door of Rafe’s house, tearing at the serviette stuck in his neckcloth and frantically waving his arms to catch another hack and follow her. Devoted, the footman definitely was.

But at this ridiculous hour of the morning, clouds cluttered the gray sky. Few pedestrians braved the chilly weather. And she was on a mission. A new one.

She allowed herself a grim smile of satisfaction. She had escaped without bother or confrontations. The upstairs maid had not argued with her, but busily complied to fill a reticule and one trunk. Then Rafe’s butler Simpson had wrung his hands that she would go without breakfast or even her vital morning necessity—a large, strong coffee.

So much for a speedy departure.

James could follow along as he wished, but she would not be needing him. She wanted nothing of Rafe Durham this morning. Perhaps another time when she was more circumspect, she could think of him, and this conundrum he had put them in. But this morning, if he had come and niggled her, she could have breathed fire and burned his house down. His very devoted footman, James, included.