Chapter Three #2
“No.” He unbuttoned his frockcoat and fingered the tin buttons on his very ugly navy waistcoat. “A nephew.”
He had always been so cryptic and told her little of his personal life. She must draw him out. “You have a brother, then?”
“Had. He passed away. Loved his wine more than life itself. I am left with his son, my nephew, whom I try to raise to behave with a modicum of good sense.”
“I have all reason to believe that he will be a model man.”
Rafe burst out in laughter. “You think highly of me, Miss Butler.”
She let her eyes rest on his. “Give me one reason why I would not, Sir Raphael?”
“You caught that title, I see.”
“You not only change the subject, you try to evade me. I did not know you were knighted.”
“You did not need to know.”
“What else do I not need to know?” She would be dogged in the matter of learning about his marital status.
He wore no wedding ring, but then, what had he done for his personal needs all these years?
She could see the few strands of gray at his temples, the lines fanning from his gorgeous black eyes. “Were you ever married?”
“I thought of it…once. Never signed the papers.”
“The lady did not suit?”
“Not at all.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “You are picky.”
His green eyes turned to obsidian stone as they locked on hers. His smile held the heat of a thousand suns. “Very.”
Mrs. Pratt approached with a tray of cups and saucers, pots, and a pile of scones. “Cook is working the eggs for you. It will be only a moment. If you will excuse me, I will get Lucy to make the beds.”
At the word “beds,” Zeph met Rafe’s gaze.
Part of her was thrilled that she would have more privacy than she’d had heretofore.
Yet part of her yearned for Rafe’s arms around her at night, iron bonds against the cruelty of the world.
His whispered words soothing her to dreamless sleep. Awakening to find him near.
The housekeeper understood that Rafe and she would not sleep together. She did not question it. She did not look amiss. Had he saved other women? Hot jealousy set Zeph’s teeth on edge.
Well…that was new. She fought down her sudden and unusual envy that he might have aided another woman, held another, kissed another’s ear and whispered of bright tomorrows.
She wanted him for herself, but rampant desire had her body tingling with warmth as she watched Mrs. Pratt pour her a cup of tea.
Rafe paused, as if he held his breath, then scraped his forefinger over his lips.
Zeph had never seen him do that before.
Interesting. I will remember that.
“One thing before I go to Lucy…” The housekeeper turned back to them. “Tell me what else I can do for you both today.”
Rafe swallowed his coffee and regarded his servant with a strained smile. “I want patisserie from the French chef in the Lanes. Make it the cream and chocolate.”
Zeph stopped chewing the bite of her flaky lemon scone. Pastry made her mouth water as much as the novel idea of having Rafe to herself, for herself alone, wrapped in more than this cloak of friendship.
Oh, that is shocking. Isn’t it, Zephora Butler? You have told yourself you do not want a man. Not after…that. Perhaps not for a long time. Maybe never. So why would your instinct rise up to imply that the man who has saved you from death would be a smashingly good lover?
“Also, I think we would like…” Rafe continued to Mrs. Pratt, his gaze devouring Zeph and leaving her wondering if he recognized that she would like him.
“Yes, I think we should have you go to the Steine and bring back Madame Clermont with her samples.” He waved a hand at Zeph to indicate her poor attire.
“We need all her skills, and every silk and velvet the woman has in her store.”
*
What in hell happened there?
Rafe stalked around his garden like a man possessed.
His heart had stopped. The look on Zeph’s face was enough to fire every nerve in his body to high alert.
Bed her? Ridiculous. That she could want him, physically, was absurd.
She wanted no man that way. Not yet. Not for a long time. And with good reason, too.
Not him, certainly.
He had never touched her in that way. Never looked at her with devouring eyes. So why had she gazed at him with glistening golden eyes and parted lips?
He was crazed, trying to figure it out. But he knew her. Didn’t he? Her every move, her shrugs, her frowns, the pursing of her lips, the lift of her chest and the heave of her breasts when she was delighted.
He grew hard at the possibility that he could want her…
No. He would not.
He found the garden chair and plunked down in it.
He had to be firm with himself. He must be more cautious now.
No touching her hand. No reaching for her in carriages. No cuddling. No whispers. None.
He steepled his hands and rubbed his lips with one fingertip.
His heart gave a flip-flop.
She was his ward. His charge. Nothing more. Nothing ever more.
With one new realization, he shot to his feet.
One sweep of his hand before him and he knew he was right to feed his soul and wrong to feed the evils of gossip.
Still, he dashed the absurd idea that he would take a room and leave her here.
If he did that, then she would be alone—and he would have given her up before he must.