by Lisa Kleypas
Lady Blandford appeared in the doorway, looking refreshed and poised. “Come, girls,” she said serenely. “It is time for us to join the company downstairs.”
“A few more minutes, Mama,” Natalie said. “Hannah hasn’t yet changed her dress or tidied her hair.”
“We mustn’t keep everyone waiting,” Lady Blandford insisted. “Come as you are, Hannah. No one will notice.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hannah said obediently, concealing a pang of dismay. Her traveling clothes were dusty, and her hair was threatening to fall from its pins. She did not want to face the Bowmans and the Westcliffs in this condition. “I would prefer to stay up here and help the maids to unpack the trunks—”
“No,” Lady Blandford said with an impatient sigh. “Ordinarily I would agree, but the countess requested your presence. You must come as you are, Hannah, and try to be unassuming.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hannah pushed the straggles of loose hair back from her face and dashed to the washstand to splash her face. Water spots made little dark patches on her traveling gown. Groaning inwardly, she followed Natalie and Lady Blandford from the room.
“I’m sorry,” Natalie whispered to her, frowning. “We shouldn’t have taken so much time getting me ready.”
“Nonsense,” Hannah murmured, reaching out to pat her arm. “You’re the one everyone wants to see. Lady Blandford is right—no one will notice me.”
The house was beautifully ornamented, the windows swathed in gold silk edged with dangling gold tinsel balls, the doorways surmounted by swags of beribboned evergreens and holly and ivy. Tables were loaded with candles and arrangements of everlasting flowers such as chrysanthemums and Christmas roses and camellias. And someone, slyly, had adorned several doorways with kissing balls hung with evergreen ropes.
Glancing at the bunches of mistletoe, Hannah felt a stab of nervousness as she thought of Rafe Bowman. Calm yourself, she thought with a self-deprecating grin, glancing down at her disheveled dress. He certainly won’t try to kiss you now, not even beneath a cartload of mistletoe.
They entered the main parlor, a large and comfortably furnished room with a game table, and piles of books and periodicals, a pianoforte, a standing sewing hoop, and a small secretary desk.
The first person Hannah noticed was Marcus, Lord Westcliff, a man with an imposing and powerful presence that was unusual for a man still only in his thirties. As he stood to meet them, Hannah saw that the earl was only of medium height, but he was superbly fit and self-assured. Westcliff carried himself with the ease of a man who was entirely comfortable with his own authority.
While Lillian made the introductions, Hannah shrank back into the corner of the room, observing the scene. She stared discreetly at the Bowmans as they met the Blandfords.
Thomas Bowman was stout, short, and ruddy, his mouth overhung with a large walruslike mustache. And his shining head was adorned with a toupee that seemed ready to jump off his scalp and flee the room.
His wife, Mercedes, on the other hand, was whippet-thin and brittle, with hard eyes and a smile that fractured her face like cracks in a frozen pond. The only thing the pair seemed to have in common was a sense of dissatisfaction with life and each other, as if it were a blanket they both huddled under.
The Bowman children resembled each other far more than either parent, both of them tall and irreverent and relaxed. It seemed they had been formed by some magical combination of just the right features from both parents.
Hannah watched covertly as Lillian introduced Rafe Bowman to Natalie. She could not see Natalie’s expression, but she had an excellent view of Bowman. His strapping form was clad in a perfectly fitted dark coat and gray trousers, and a crisp white shirt with a neatly knotted black cravat. He bowed to Natalie and murmured something that elicited a breathless laugh. There was no denying it—with his unvarnished masculinity and bold dark eyes, Rafe Bowman was, to put it in a popular slang term, a stunner.
Hannah wondered what he thought of her cousin. Bowman’s face was unreadable, but she was certain that he could find no fault with Natalie.
As everyone in the room made small talk, Hannah inched toward the door. If at all possible, she was going to slip from the room unnoticed. The open threshold beckoned invitingly, promising freedom. Oh, it would be lovely to escape to her room, and change into clean clothes and brush out her hair in privacy. But just as she reached the doorway, she heard Rafe Bowman’s deep voice.
“Miss Appleton. Surely you won’t deprive us of your charming company.”
Hannah stopped abruptly and turned to find the collective gaze on her, just at the moment she least wanted attention. She longed to glare at Bowman. No, she longed to kill him. Instead, she adopted a neutral expression and murmured, “Good afternoon, Mr. Bowman.”
Lillian called to her immediately. “Miss Appleton, do come forward. I want to introduce you to my husband.”
Repressing a heavy sigh, Hannah pushed back the locks that dangled over her face and came forward.
“Westcliff,” Lillian said to her husband. “This is Lady Natalie’s companion, Miss Hannah Appleton.”
Hannah bowed and glanced apprehensively at the earl. His features were dark and austere, perhaps a bit forbidding. But as his gaze rested on her face, she saw that his eyes were kind. He spoke in a gravel-in-velvet voice that fell pleasantly on her ears. “Welcome, Miss Appleton.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said. “And many thanks for allowing me to spend the holiday here.”
“The countess enjoyed your company at tea last week,” Westcliff replied, smiling briefly at Lillian. “Anyone who pleases her also pleases me.” The smile transformed him, warming his face.
Lillian spoke to her husband with breezy casualness, as if he were a mere mortal man instead of England’s most distinguished peer. “Westcliff, I think you will want to talk to Miss Appleton about her work with Mr. Samuel Clark.” She glanced at Hannah as she added, “The earl has read some of his writings, and quite enjoyed them.”
“Oh, I do not work with Mr. Clark,” Hannah said hastily, “but rather for him, in a secretarial capacity.” She gave the earl a cautious smile. “I am a bit surprised that you would have read anything by Mr. Clark, my lord.”
“I am acquainted with many progressive theorists of London,” Westcliff said. “What is Mr. Clark working on now?”
“Currently he is writing a speculative book on what natural laws might govern the development of the human mind.”
“I would like to hear more about that during supper.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Lillian proceeded to introduce Hannah to her parents, who responded with pleasant nods. It was clear, however, that they had already dismissed Hannah as a person of no consequence.
“Rafe,” the countess suggested to her brother, “perhaps you might take Lady Blandford and Lady Natalie on a walk round the house before supper.”
“Oh, yes,” Natalie said at once. “May we, Mama?”
“That sounds lovely,” Lady Blandford said.
Bowman smiled at them both. “It would be my pleasure.” He turned to Hannah. “Will you come also, Miss Appleton?”
“No,” she said quickly, and then realized her refusal had been a shade too forceful. She softened her tone. “I will tour the manor later, thank you.”
His gaze swept over her and returned to her face. “My services may not be available then.”
She stiffened at the feather-soft jeer in his voice, but she couldn’t seem to break their shared gaze. In the warm parlor light, his eyes held glints of gold and cinnamon-brown. “Then somehow I will have to make do without you, Mr. Bowman,” she replied tartly, and he grinned.
“You didn’t tell me that Mr. Bowman was so handsome,” Natalie said after supper. The hour was late, and the long journey from London, followed by a lengthy repast, had left both girls exhausted. They had retired to their room while the company downstairs lingered over tea and port.
Although the menu had be
en exquisite, featuring dishes such as roasted capon stuffed with truffles, and herb-crusted standing ribs of beef, supper had been an uncomfortable affair for Hannah. She was well aware of her own disheveled appearance, having found barely enough time to wash and change into a fresh gown before she’d had to dash to the dining hall. To her dismay, Lord Westcliff had persisted in asking her questions about Samuel Clark’s work, which had drawn more unwanted attention to her. And all the while Rafe Bowman had kept glancing at her with a kind of audacious, unsettling interest that she could only interpret as mockery.
Forcing her thoughts back to the present, Hannah watched as Natalie sat before the vanity and pulled the combs and pins from her hair. “I suppose Mr. Bowman could be considered attractive,” Hannah said reluctantly. “If one likes that sort of man.”
“You mean the tall, dark-haired, dazzling sort?”
“He’s not dazzling,” Hannah protested.
Natalie laughed. “Mr. Bowman is one of the most splendidly formed men I have ever encountered. What flaw could you possibly find in his appearance?”
“His posture,” Hannah muttered.
“What about it?”
“He slouches.”
“He’s an American. They all slouch. The weight of their wallets drags them over.”
Hannah couldn’t prevent a laugh. “Natalie, are you more attracted by the man himself or the size of his wallet?”
“He has many personal attractions, to be sure. A full head of hair…those lovely dark eyes…not to mention the impressive physique.” Natalie picked up a brush and drew it slowly through her hair. “But I wouldn’t want him if he was poor.”
“Is there any man you would want if he was poor?” Hannah asked.
“Well, if I had to be poor, I’d rather be married to a peer. That’s far better than being a nobody.”
“I doubt Mr. Bowman will ever be poor,” Hannah said. “He seems to have acquitted himself quite well in his financial dealings. He is a successful man, though I fear not an honorable one.”
“Oh, he’s a rascal, to be sure,” Natalie agreed with a light laugh.
Tensing, Hannah met her cousin’s gaze in the mirror. “Why do you say that? Has he said or done anything inappropriate?”
“No, and I don’t expect him to, with the betrothal still on the table. But he has a sort of perpetual irreverence…one wonders if he could ever be sincere about anything at all.”
“Perhaps it’s a façade,” Hannah suggested without conviction. “Perhaps he’s a different man inside.”
“Most people don’t have façades,” Natalie said dryly. “Oh, everyone thinks they do, but when you dig past the façade, there’s only more façade.”
“Some people are genuine.”
“And those people are the dullest ones of all.”
“I’m genuine,” Hannah protested.
“Yes. You’ll have to work on that, dear. When you’re genuine, there’s no mystery. And above all men like mystery in a woman.”
Hannah smiled and shook her head. “Duly noted. I’m off to bed now.” After changing into a white ruffled nightgown, she went into the little antechamber and crawled into the clean soft bed. After a moment, she heard Natalie murmur, “Good night, dear,” and the lamp was extinguished.
Tucking one arm beneath her pillow, Hannah lay on her side and pondered Natalie’s words.
There was no doubt that Natalie was right—Hannah had nothing close to an air of mystery.
She also had no noble blood, no dowry, no great beauty, no skill or abilities that might distinguish her. And aside from the Blandfords, she had no notable connections. But she had a warm heart and a good mind, and decent looks. And she had dreams, attainable ones, of having a home and family of her own someday.
It had not escaped Hannah that in Natalie’s privileged world, people expected to find happiness and love outside of marriage. But her fondest wish for Natalie was that she would end up with a husband with whom she could share some likeness of mind and heart.
And at this point, it was still highly questionable as to whether Rafe Bowman even had a heart.
Six
While Westcliff shared cigars with Lord Blandford, Rafe went with his father to have a private conversation. They proceeded to the library, a large and handsome room that was two stories high, with mahogany bookshelves housing over ten thousand volumes. A sideboard had been built into a niche to make it flush with the bookshelves.
Rafe was thankful to see that a collection of bottles and decanters had been arranged on the sideboard’s marble top. Feeling the need for something stronger than port, he found the whisky decanter. “A double?” he suggested to his father, who nodded and grunted in assent.
Rafe had always hated talking with his father. Thomas Bowman was the kind of man who determined other people’s minds for them, believing that he knew them better than they knew themselves. Since early childhood Rafe had endured being told what his thoughts and motivations were, and then being punished for them. It hardly seemed to matter whether he had done something good or bad. It had only mattered what light his father had decided to cast his actions in.
And always, Thomas had held the threat of disinheritance over his head. Finally Rafe had told him to cut him off entirely and be damned. And he had gone out to make his own fortune, starting with practically nothing.
Now when he met with his father, it was on his own terms. Oh, Rafe wanted the European proprietorship of Bowman’s, but he wasn’t going to sell his soul for it.
He handed a whisky to his father and took a swallow, letting the creamy, sweet flavor of ester roll over his tongue.
Thomas went to sit in a leather chair before the fire. Frowning, he reached up to check the position of the toupee on his head. It had been slipping all evening.
“You might tie a chin strap on it,” Rafe suggested innocently, earning a ferocious scowl.
“Your mother finds it attractive.”
“Father, I find it difficult to believe that hairpiece would attract anything other than an amorous squirrel.” Rafe plucked the toupee off and dropped it onto a nearby table. “Leave it off and be comfortable, for God’s sake.”
Thomas grumbled but didn’t argue, relaxing in his chair.
Leaning an arm against the mantel, Rafe regarded his father with a faint smile.
“Well?” Thomas demanded, his heavy brows lifting expectantly. “What is your reaction to Lady Natalie?”
Rafe hitched up his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “She’ll do.”
The brows rushed downward. “‘She’ll do’? That’s all you can say?”
“Lady Natalie is no more and no less than what I expected.” After taking another swallow of whisky, Rafe said flatly, “I suppose I wouldn’t mind marrying her. Although she doesn’t interest me in the least.”
“A wife is not supposed to be interesting.”
Ruefully Rafe wondered if there wasn’t some hidden wisdom in that. With a wife like Lady Natalie, there would be no surprises. It would be a calm, frictionless marriage, leaving him ample time for his work and his personal pursuits. All he would have to do would be to supply her with generous bank drafts, and she would manage the household and produce children.
Lady Natalie was pleasant and beautiful, her hair blond and sleek, her manner remarkably self-assured. If Rafe ever took her to New York, she would acquit herself splendidly with the Knickerbocker crowd. Her poise, breeding, and confidence would make her much admired.
An hour in her company, and one knew virtually everything there was to know about her.
Whereas Hannah Appleton was fresh and fascinating, and at supper he hadn’t been able to take his gaze off her. She did not possess Natalie’s meticulously manicured beauty. Instead, there was a haphazard, cheerful bloom about her, like a fistful of wildflowers. Her hair, springing in little locks around her face, drove him mad with the urge to reach out and play with the shiny loose strands. She had a kind of delicious vitality he had never run up aga
inst before, and he instinctively wanted to be inside it, inside her.
The feeling had intensified as Rafe had witnessed Hannah conversing earnestly with Westcliff. She had been animated and adorable as she had described Samuel Clark’s work concerning the development of the human mind. In fact, she had become so absorbed in the subject that she had forgotten to eat, and then she’d glanced wistfully at her still-full soup bowl while a footman had removed it.
“You will offer for her, won’t you?” his father demanded, steering his thoughts back to Lady Natalie.
Rafe stared at him without expression. “Eventually. Am I supposed to get a ring, or have you already picked one out?”
“As a matter of fact, your mother purchased one she thought would be appropriate—”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Would you like to propose to her for me, and come fetch me when she’s given her answer?”
“I daresay I’d do it with a damned sight more enthusiasm than you,” Thomas retorted.
“I’ll tell you what I would do with some enthusiasm, Father: establish a large-scale soap manufacturing industry all over the Continent. And I shouldn’t have to marry Lady Natalie to do it.”
“Why not? Why should you be exempt from paying a price? Why shouldn’t you try to please me?”
“Why indeed?” Rafe gave him a hard look. “Maybe because I knocked my head against that particular wall for years and never made a dent.”
Thomas’s complexion, always prone to easy color, turned a dull plum hue as his temper ignited. “You have been a trial to me at every stage of your life. Things always came too easily to you and your siblings—spoiled, lazy creatures all of you, who never wanted to do anything.”
“Lazy?” Rafe struggled for self-control, but the word set his own temper off like a match held to a tinderbox. “Only you, Father, could have five offspring do everything short of standing on their heads to impress you, and say they weren’t trying hard enough. Do you know what happens when you call a clever person stupid, or a hardworking man lazy? It makes him realize there’s no damn point in trying to get your approval.”
