Page 67 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

Gus agreed.

“Of course,” said Zeph as the three of them watched her go.

“She adored her husband,” Fee offered in sympathy. “His death was a shock. We’ve all persuaded her to come out into Society, but she finds no one.”

“She loved well once, Fee,” said Gus. “She knows the value of choosing the right man.”

Zeph smiled at that. She knew that value. If only he will relent and have me.

*

Zeph curtsied to her last partner and escaped to the far wall and chairs. She sat and toed off her dance slippers. She closed her eyes, sighing in relief.

“That is not a good idea.” The rough, dark voice of the man she wanted reached out to her.

“Who will care?” She gave a laugh and arched a brow.

“I do. I do not wish to crush your toes.”

“Such a poor dancer, are you?”

With a wicked scold in his eyes, he held out his hand.

She pulled off her finely worked stockings. Put them to the floor. Then she went. Barefoot.

Why not? She had to show him she was herself, always, alive and as daring as she wished to be. That would spark his motivation.

She and he took up their positions on the chalked floor. A few noticed her bare toes. A few commented. Two giggled.

Let them. She arched a brow at Rafe. It is you, sir, that I wish to startle.

The dance was one where couples faced each other four square. She knew it, had danced it earlier with another man. Zeph let her mind fill with the beauty of the man before her, the warmth swirling in her. Her breath rose in heavy drafts, and his gaze—thank heaven—fell to her low, low, low bodice. With more appreciation than censure, he caught her gaze.

She smiled and licked her lower lip.

He looked away.

Oh, wonderful.

Then he returned to her, cautious, stolid fellow, and said, “I read a rumor that Rothschild has authorized a monthly amount to you.”

“I requested it,” she said, and began the formation that allowed his hand to keep hers as they walked.

It was several steps later before he spoke again. “Do you plan to create your own household?”

She took her time responding. “No.”

“Go to America?”

“No.”

He set his jaw.

Frustrated, is he? Good.

At the next turn, his face was stiff with anger and something else she would have liked to call jealousy. “Do you like Lord Islington?”

She had danced with the man once tonight and once at each of the other balls she had attended. She liked him. He made her laugh, a much-needed relief between her daily bouts of translating her little red book and her irritating desire for the man with whom she now danced. Truly, the Viscount Islington was a gorgeous man. With brown hair that glowed auburn in the candlelight, broad shoulders a woman could get lost in, and a mouth…a mouth with the most sensuous lips, even if they were not the ones she wished to savor.