Chapter Seventeen
For days, Rafe saw no one, avoided work and his accounts, and went nowhere of any import.
He received Carlisle and Halsey, O’Neill too.
They reported on their hunt for Faucon. They had combed the southern coast, but could not find him.
Rafe, his mind consumed with Faucon and the threat to Zeph, refused all invitations.
But one night, driven by the need to put his eyes on Zephora, he went to a ball given by the Applebys.
What a mistake that was!
Zeph was there, escorted by Gus and Kane. As the orchestra struck up each new song, Zeph took the floor with a different man.
Rafe left early, unable and unwilling to admit to himself that he was a jealous monster who needed her all to himself.
He gave up on the world once more and each day, in solitude, walked along the Thames or rode in Hyde Park.
His butler, Simpson, asked after his health. He was fine, he told the man.
His cook, evidently hearing from the butler about Rafe’s state of mind, made his favorite meals.
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.”
“What is it about you that he loves?”
Zeph would have to ponder that. But to Liesel, she asked, “Do you think he does?”
Liesel put a hand to Zeph’s arm and they paused on the path together. “The other night at the Applebys’ ball, he saw no one else in the room but you.”
Zeph debated what to reveal about Rafe’s character. “He thinks I am…”
“Too young? Too hurt?”
Zeph frowned. “As if I cannot recover from the past!”
“Oh, well, then.” Liesel rolled a shoulder, confidence in her gaze. “The solution is simple.”
Zeph felt a swell of triumph in her soul. “It is.”
“You know what you will do?”
“I know I must display what I am. But I do not know the venue. Nor the day.”
“Wunderbar! The moment will present itself. Do not let it pass you by.”
*
Five evenings later, Zeph descended the stairs of Ashley House to join Gus and Kane. They were to attend a ball given by the Ramseys.
Ten days ago, Zeph had gone to a modiste in Half Moon Street whom Gus patronized.
For this particular event, Zeph wanted a new gown, something ineluctably delicious.
She had chosen an Italian silk from Lucca.
The bolt of cloth that Mademoiselle Fabre had in stock was one that, the seamstress said, had languished on her shelves for three years.
“It is very expensive, Miss Butler.”
“I will have it, mademoiselle.”
A sinuous, shining silk of rich royal purple, the fabric seemed too ethereal to be real. Zeph had only to hold up the bolt, and it swirled at her slightest breath. With her red hair, the color would contrast as if she set the world afire in mad vibrance.
That night, she’d had her maid dress her hair in a loose coiffure that allowed for long strands over her ears and a heavy sweep of her red tresses at her nape.
She felt like a courtesan, ready for an evening with her lover.
If Rafe did not attend, she would wait for him at some future event.
If he did appear tonight, but did not glance at her, nor ask her to dance, she would stand before him and demand he look at her, talk to her, and she would make a scene to compel him. She would.
“That,” said Gus as Zeph had reached the bottom step, “is the most sensual gown I have seen in years.”
Zeph had put her fingers to the daring décolleté. The gown dipped low, nearly to an indecent level over her breasts. It flowed like water over her hips and down her thighs. She felt elated, sinfully erotic, and very naughty. “Do you think I might have success with this?”
Kane had burst into a laugh. “Zephora Butler, you will have ten proposals before the evening is out.”
She could not contain her skepticism and caught Kane’s amused eyes, then Gus’s sweet green ones. “I want only one.”
Gus winked at her husband. “You can want a man, but until you show him you need him, he may not come up to the mark. A gentleman can have so many reasons not to admit he is in love. A little persuasion is a fine thing.”
And so here Zeph was, nights later, ready for this ball, donning her evening coat of padded vermilion satin. She planned to stop Sir Raphael Durham in his tracks, no matter when or where he might cast his eyes on her.
I am tired of wanting—and waiting.