Page 8 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

And she had survived the very worst a man can do to a woman. For that alone, Durham could say he would fight to his last breath to save her health, her dignity, and her sense of self.

He ran his fingertips through the crop of curls along her cheek. Her hair that he had chopped off grew back each day to frame her delicately boned face. Not once had she complained of his ministrations, even when he cut all the hair from her head. Nor had she objected to his bathing her daily. Not until she had awareness of her feminine assets had she refused his care. But baring her thin, pale, perfect skin had been vital to her health. Seeing what deprivation of food and water and sunlight had done to her natural beauty had torn at his knowledge that revenge against aggressors never paid. He bided his time. The day would come. He would seek his retaliation.

And in the meantime, the charm of her youth—porcelain skin, cute freckles, the light in her golden eyes—returned to her day by day, little by little. The fullness of her breasts, the swell of her hips, and the curve of her upper thighs now came slowly to her, redefining her into a gorgeous woman whom every British man with eyes to see would crave. Rafe was glad she had stopped him from the daily act. He could bear no more to wash beneath the heaviness of her growing breasts or between the plumpness of her thighs. She was better. She had strength to bathe herself. He had gazed at her once, perhaps twice, with full recognition of her flowering. Her feminine allure had sapped his strength. He had little willpower left.

He could not wait to arrive in Brighton. He had a house in that small town, but he would take a suite, live apart from her and ensure she appeared as his ward, not his mistress. He wanted her accepted, celebrated. She was an heiress. Heaven knew how much she was worth, but he would help her learn. In Brighton, as in London, she would be regaled for her looks, but just as much, perhaps more, for her wealth. Too many men needed blunt for their habits, if not their estates. He would make known that she was not to be courted for anything other than her enchanting self.

So, yes, he would devote a few more weeks, or even months, to helping her transform into one who would have the confidence and swagger to take on Society. Then, if she wished, he would help her navigate the Marriage Mart to find only the finest gentleman. On the contrary, if she wished to fly to her savage American homeland—or to climb mountains in Kathmandu—he cared only to hear her word. He awaited her every pleasure. She deserved the best of everything in this world.

I see you’ll get it, too.

No matter that you fill my days with your need of me—and I…? I fill your days with this devoted man who sets you on the path to joy somewhere else…or perhaps with someone else.

Chapter Three

Brighton, England

Zephora stared out the grimy window of their traveling coach. She sat so still that Rafe wondered if she breathed. Yet the rise and fall of her chest assured him of her health.

God help him. He must not examine the curve of her charms or the points of her nipples. He looked away and inhaled. “You never went to Brighton with your father?”

“He came here alone after he left me in Paris.” Her voice was a low rasp on his heartstrings.

“Not a loving father.” Rafe had met the man twice and knew of his reputation as a cold, stubborn bugger.

She considered the scenery and sniffed. “He cared for money. Never my mother. Never me.”

“I met him a few times for business.”

Rafe’s shipping company, begun by his grandfather, had afforded him the opportunity to meet many men of business—Thomas Lee Butler, her father, among them. He had not cared for the man’s sharp actions and rude words. A reptile, her father nonetheless claimed solid political influence with the Virginia planters who became the leaders of that new country. And like most of them, he owned slaves. Worse, he imported the black Africans on his own ships and sold them on his Alexandria, Virginia slave block.

Zeph turned to him and a ghost of a smile graced her full lips. “You did not like him, either.”

“He drove such a hard bargain on his indigo and tobacco that I never bought from him.”

“Smart of you.” She shook her head. “He treated Mama and me as if he had bought us. For the gifts of a house, clothes, money, and slaves, we were to be obedient and silent.”

“He is gone now, and you are free.”

“Thanks to you, I am,” she said with a gleam in her golden eyes.

“When we go to London, we will go to a solicitor to have him search for your father’s will and accounts.” She had told him repeatedly that she could not recall the name of her father’s solicitor or banker in London. Rafe had hoped the names might spring to her mind with time and her return to health. “We do need to establish your claims to his business and his property.”

“I know, you have said that repeatedly.” She crossed her arms around her chest. Her breasts plumped up.

He swallowed and dropped his gaze to her sleek, silken slippers. Even her feet, long and slim, appealed to him.

“I always told my father,” she said as she looked out the window, “that I did not want to inherit his plantation. I did not want to deal with his reputation. But now…”

He caught her gaze. “You deserve to know whatever has happened to his money, his company and his land.”

“And to his blacks, too.”

Her expression now was one of harsh determination. It was a new emotion that he was proud to see she summoned. Someone—was it Cecily, Countess Nugent?—had said Zeph was a wild American. All these weeks, Rafe had longed to see it develop in her. And here she was: bold and bright…and becoming so very beautiful that her new glory hurt his eyes.

He crossed his legs and ran a hand down his trousers. “We shall see what he ordered for them. I know not American law on ownership of slaves, but we will learn.”

“I will free them all.”