Page 64 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

He went down to the kitchen to tell her he did enjoy her scones, her pies, and all her sauces. If he kept eating everything she produced, he’d have to take to the St. Katherine docks to work with his men offloading ships from the Americas.

“Ye look well enough to me, sir,” the roly-poly lady said, hands on her hips, one side of her pretty mouth hooked up in speculation. “But I regret Miss Butler is not here to sample me wares.”

Cheeky of her to say that, but Cook was perceptive. “She would like that, Mabel.” Why not admit it? His staff knew of Zeph’s presence here. Knew how close they had been—and how distant.

He had turned for the hall and stairs when Cook said, “She’ll always come back, sir.”

He halted and looked at her over his shoulder. “I am not sure of that, Mabel.”

And why should she return to me? I reject her every time.

“Ah, sir.” Cook smacked her lips. “She’s different.”

That he understood.

This was the one woman he could not will away.

*

Zeph spent her days having tea with little Victoria, going with Gus or Amber to afternoon parties, or attending supper parties.

In her free hours, decoding pages in the red book became her occupation. Suddenly, she had a problem. After the third page, her analysis of his code no longer worked. Vaillancourt had changed his method. She could not figure it out, and it had driven her to long hours of study and frustration.

One afternoon, she went walking in Hyde Park with Liesel. As they strolled, Zeph thought she spied the dashing figure of Rafe on horseback. But the man and his horse paused too far off for her to identify the fellow. Then, before she could be positive, he turned away and she directed her attention back to her friend. The baroness had recently announced she was pregnant with her second child, and she dared not go riding on horseback.

“I do love it,” she said as they walked along a path one bright, sunny November day. “But I dare not chance that it may hurt the baby.”

“I don’t blame you for taking care.”

Liesel cocked a finely arched brow. “How are you? In regard to your monthlies?”

Zeph was used to her friends’ regular inquiries into her health. More than asking her questions, they had provided her with assurances about the functioning of her body. When she desired a man, they assured her, she would have pleasant and often overwhelming sensations of her body to his presence, his appearance, and his words. She wanted the one man who engendered a rush of wet, warm need, a flowing desire for his arms and his body. It was normal. It would be the finest pleasure she could ever expect. That Rafe refused to acknowledge he wanted her confounded her.

To Liesel’s question, she smiled and said, “I am regular every twenty-six days.”

“That is such good news. I hope you have managed to put the images of your time in Paris behind you.”

Zeph nodded. “I try. And I do well. But many scenes come back to me without warning. I must pause, and stop to think my way out of any fear or remorse.” I breathe, as Rafe taught me. I think of him and what we might have together. “I think of what I want now.”

Liesel smiled at her. “And I would guess you think of whom you want.”

Zeph stared into her friend’s twinkling amethyst eyes. “You want me to say his name?”

The lady gave a laugh. “No need for that! I know it.”

Zeph had a certain satisfaction that her love for Rafe was so apparent. “Obvious, is it?”

“When you look at him. When he comes into a room. When he smiles at you. Ja, meine gute Freundin. You are a different woman.”

“I want him,” she confessed. “I cannot stop wanting him.”

“In your arms?”

“In my bed.”

Liesel nodded. “He is…um…how do you say? Reluctant?”

“Very.”