Chapter Two #2
“No reliable news about Luc yet.” Rafe had told her that he had heard from a local fisherman in St. Nazaire that a young French man of Luc Bechard’s description had made his way from there to English shores weeks ago.
That filled her with happiness. Luc had been so strong, accepting beatings from the guards that were meant for her.
If Rafe and his friends had not come that day, Luc might be dead at the hands of those furious, unprincipled men.
“I expect Inès and Halsey are in London.” Rafe shook his head. “But in Brighton, you and I will pause. We will enjoy the sea air that you love so much during a nice, hot summer. We will get you even healthier. We will also prepare you to meet the world.”
“I don’t care for any of that.”
“Not now, perhaps. But you are young, and Society loves a lovely lady who likes to laugh.”
“I don’t feel like laughing.”
“You will, chouchou.”
She purposely pouted. “I want to stay at home and sit in a garden and read good books.” And see if I can reclaim the one I sent to London with my friend.
“What a bore! You will soon want to go to parties and balls.”
“If you come with me, I will.”
“Ah, yes. To be discussed, my dear.”
“Why? Don’t you like Society?” She widened her eyes, toying with him.
“It is useful.”
“How?”
“How useful?” he asked. “Well, when you wish to invest in a new company or buy a new schooner, you need information.”
“I would like to make money.”
“Is that so?” He laughed.
“Someday I will have a company, a business of my own.” Playfully, she narrowed her golden eyes on him. In the confines of the cab, the moonlight shone brightly in her gaze. “Have you earned your fortunes going to parties and balls?”
“Some. Indeed, I have.”
She considered him and twitched her brows. “Something tells me you have done more than that.”
He sniffed. “I used to.”
“What happened to stop you?”
At once, he looked forlorn, his green eyes black as night. “My friend died.”
“I see. And who was he that he had such power to change your views of parties and balls?”
“He was the prime minister, and I was his close confidant.”
Her mouth fell open. “And what did you confide?”
“News of traitors and spies.”
She sat, no words useful to his revelations. “Have all those traitors and spies been caught?”
“No.”
“Do you pause then because your friend is not with us?”
“No. I continue in hope that I may one day again be useful to a new prime minister.”
“The one in power does not please you?”
“He negotiates with Bonaparte.”
She inhaled. “I see. I am not pleased either. Not for you. Not for me.”
“Wise woman.”
“Thank you.” She watched him retreat into his thoughts. “So will you and I go to parties and balls?”
“We will.”
“So then I see that I must learn how to be a social cat.”
He winced. “Nothing too feral.”
Though I used to be, and that’s why Vaillancourt threw me in the Conciergerie. “I must. After all, I have done nothing except be the invalid to your nurse!”
“Ouch! Insult me not, please! I think of myself as your helper, your friend.”
She laughed.
“You see?” he crooned as he lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. “You must do that more often.”
She snuggled against him, affectionate creature that he was. “You must promise to teach me.”
“Why not?” He curled her closer against the wall of his massive chest. “A smile is more useful than a frown.”
*
He shifted, the weight of his bewitching charge in the fullness of his embrace. Teach her to laugh? Ha! What a delight that would be. But she had known. He saw in her—lately only shrouded—her elan.
She had suffered so much, more than any woman he had ever known to survive such dastardly treatment.
How she had done it was through her own determination.
Luc had told him how she had defied the guards, holding her tongue when they insulted her.
Swallowing her words when two came to rape her. How she had never shed a tear.
She was too lovely, too intelligent, to suffer such heinous indignity. But she lived. In spite of all their mistreatment, she lived.
He was not a religious man. God knew, he believed in the moral rectitude of some humans.
But he did notice—how could he not?—how Zephora Burton had endured because she knew how to seek fortitude within herself.
To withdraw from others. To ignore them, if need be.
To use her own self-righteousness to thwart aggression against her.
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.