by Lisa Kleypas
“You’ve always thought I owed you my approval merely because you were born a Bowman.”
“I don’t want it any longer,” Rafe said through gritted teeth, vaguely surprised to discover that the velocity of his own temper wasn’t far behind his father’s. “I want—” He checked himself and tossed back the rest of his whisky, swallowing hard against the velvety burn. When the glow had faded from his throat, he gave his father a cool, steady look. “I’ll marry Lady Natalie, since it doesn’t matter in any case. I was always going to end up with someone like her. But you can keep your damned approval. All I want is a share of Bowman’s.”
In the morning the guests began to arrive, an elegant clamor of well-heeled families and their servants. Trunks, valises, and parcels were brought into the manor in an unending parade. Other families would stay at neighboring estates or at the tavern in the village, coming and going to the various events that would take place at the manor.
Once Hannah was awakened by the muffled, busy sounds beyond the room, she couldn’t go back to sleep. Taking care not to wake Natalie, she rose and took care of her morning ablutions, finishing by braiding her hair and pinning it in a knot at the base of her neck. She dressed in a gray-green wool gown trimmed with kilt pleating and closed in front with gleaming black buttons. Intending to go for a walk out of doors, she donned a pair of low-heeled boots and picked up a heavy plaid shawl.
Stony Cross Manor was a labyrinth of hallways and clustered rooms. Carefully Hannah made her way through the bustling house, pausing now and again to ask directions from one of the passing servants. She eventually found the morning room, which was stuffy and crowded with people she didn’t know. A large breakfast buffet had been set out, featuring fish, a flitch of fried bacon, breads, poached eggs, salads, muffins, and several varieties of cheese. She poured a cup of tea, folded a bit of bacon in some bread, and slipped past a set of French doors that led to an outside terrace. The weather was bright and dry, the chilled air fomenting her breath into white mist.
Gardens and orchards spread before her, all delicately frosted and clean. Children played across the terrace, giggling as they raced back and forth. Hannah chuckled, watching them stream across the flagstones like a gaggle of goslings. They were playing a game of blow-the-feather, which involved two teams trying to keep a feather aloft by turns.
Standing to the side, Hannah consumed her bread and tea. The children’s antics grew ever wilder as they hopped and blew at the feather in noisy gusts and puffs. The feather drifted to her, descending lazily.
The little girls screamed in encouragement. “Blow, miss, blow! It’s girls against boys!”
After that, there was no choice. Fighting a smile, Hannah pursed her lips and exhaled sharply, sending the feather upward in a fluttering eddy. She did her part whenever the feather drifted to her, running a few steps here and there, heeding the delighted cries of her teammates.
The feather sailed over her head, and she backed up swiftly, her face upturned. But she was startled to feel herself crashing against something behind her, not a stone wall but something hard and pliant. A man’s hands closed around her arms, securing her balance.
From over her head, the man blew a puff that sent the feather halfway across the terrace.
Hooting and squealing, the children raced after it.
Hannah remained still, stunned by the collision, but even more so by the realization that she recognized the feel of Rafe Bowman. The grip of his hands, the tough-muscled length of him along her back. The clean, pungent spice of his shaving soap.
Her mouth had gone dry—probably the effects of the feather game—and she tried to moisten her inner cheeks with her tongue. “What a remarkable amount of air you are able to produce, Mr. Bowman.”
Smiling, he turned her carefully to face him. He was large and dashing, standing with that relaxed looseness that bothered her so. “Good morning to you, too.” He looked her over with an insolently thorough glance. “Why aren’t you still abed?”
“I’m an early riser.” Hannah decided to throw the audacious inquiry right back at him. “Why aren’t you?”
A playful glint shone in his eyes. “There’s no point in lingering in bed when I’m alone.”
She glanced at their surroundings to make certain none of the children could overhear. The imps had tired of their game and were filing inside the house through doors that led to the main hall. “I suspect that is a rare occurrence, Mr. Bowman.”
His bland tone disguised all sincerity. “Rare, yes. Most of the time my bed is busier than a sheepfold at spring shearing.”
Hannah viewed him with patent distaste. “That doesn’t speak well of the women you associate with. Or of you for being so indiscriminate.”
“I’m not indiscriminate. It just so happens that I’m good at finding women who meet my high standards. And I’m even better at persuading them to come to my bed.”
“And then you fleece them.”
A rueful smile crossed his lips. “If you don’t mind, Miss Appleton, I want to retract my sheep analogy. It’s becoming disagreeable even to me. Would you like to take a morning stroll?”
She shook her head in puzzlement. “With you?…Why?”
“You’re wearing a walking dress and boots. And I assume you want to find out what my opinion of Lady Natalie is. Keep your enemy close, and so forth.”
“I already know what your opinion of Lady Natalie is.”
His brows lifted. “Do you? Now I insist that we walk together. I’m always fascinated to hear my opinions.”
Hannah considered him sternly. “Very well,” she said. “First I’ll take the teacup in, and—”
“Leave it.”
“On an outside table? No, someone will have to tidy up.”
“Yes. That someone is called a servant. Who, unlike you, will get a salary for it.”
“That doesn’t mean I should make more work for someone else.”
Before she could retrieve the cup, Bowman had taken it up. “I’ll take care of it.”
Hannah’s eyes widened as she saw him stroll nonchalantly to the stone balustrade. And she gasped as he held the teacup over the side and dropped it. A splintering crash sounded from below.
“There,” he said casually. “Problem solved.”
It required three attempts until Hannah could finally speak. “Why did you do that? I could easily have carried it inside!”
He seemed amused by her astonishment. “I would have thought my lack of concern for material possessions would please you.”
Hannah stared at him as if he had just sprouted horns. “I wouldn’t call that a lack of concern for material possessions, but rather a lack of respect for them. And that’s every bit as bad as overvaluing them.”
Bowman’s smile faded as he comprehended the extent of her ire. “Miss Appleton, Stony Cross Manor has at least ten different sets of china, each one with enough teacups to help caffeinate all of Hampshire. They’re not lacking for cups here.”
“That makes no difference. You shouldn’t have broken it.”
Bowman gave a sardonic snort. “Have you always had such a passion for porcelain, Miss Appleton?”
Without a doubt, he was the most insufferable man she had ever encountered. “I’m sure you’ll consider it a failing that I’m not amused by wanton destruction.”
“And I’m sure,” he returned smoothly, “that you’ll use this as an excuse to avoid walking with me.”
Hannah contemplated him for a moment. She knew that he was annoyed with her for placing such importance on the loss of a small item of china that would make no difference in the scheme of things. But it had been the boorish gesture of a rich man, deliberately destroying something for no reason.
Bowman was right—Hannah was indeed strongly tempted to cancel the proposed walk. On the other hand, the cool defiance in his eyes actually touched her. He had looked, for just a moment, like a recalcitrant schoolboy who’d been caught in an act of mischief and was now awaitin
g punishment.
“Not at all,” she told him. “I am still willing to walk with you. But I wish you would refrain from smashing anything else along the way.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing that she had surprised him. Something softened in his face, and he looked at her with a kindling interest that caused a mysterious quickening inside her.
“No more smashing things,” he promised.
“Well, then.” She pulled up the hood of her short cloak and headed to the stairs that led to the terraced gardens.
In a few long strides Bowman had caught up with her. “Take my arm,” he advised. “The steps might be slippery.”
Hannah hesitated before complying, her bare hand slipping over his sleeve and coming to rest lightly on the bed of muscle beneath. In her efforts to keep from waking Natalie earlier, she had forgotten to fetch her gloves.
“Would Lady Natalie have been upset?” Bowman asked.
“About the broken teacup?” Hannah considered that for a moment. “I don’t think so. She probably would have laughed, to flatter you.”
He sent her a sideways smile. “There’s nothing wrong with flattering me, Miss Appleton. It makes me quite happy and manageable.”
“I have no desire to manage you, Mr. Bowman. I’m not at all certain you’re worth the effort.”
His smile vanished and his jaw tautened, as if she had touched an unpleasant nerve. “We’ll leave it to Lady Natalie, then.”
They crossed an opening in an ancient yew hedge and began along a graveled path. The carefully trimmed bushes and mounded vegetation resembled giant iced cakes. High-pitched calls of nuthatches floated from the nearby woodland. A hen harrier skimmed close to the ground, its wings tensed in a wide V as it searched for prey.
Although it was rather pleasant to hold on to Bowman’s strong, steady arm, Hannah reluctantly withdrew her hand.
“Now,” Bowman said quietly, “tell me what you assume my opinion of Lady Natalie is.”
“I’ve no doubt you like her. I think you’re willing to marry her because she suits your needs. It is obvious that she will smooth your path in society and bear you fair-haired children, and she’ll be sufficiently well bred to look the other way when you stray from her.”
“Why are you so certain I’ll stray?” Bowman asked, sounding curious rather than indignant.
“Everything I’ve seen of you so far confirms that you are not capable of fidelity.”
“I might be, if I found the right woman.”
“No you wouldn’t,” she said with crisp certainty. “Whether or not you’re faithful has nothing to do with the woman. It depends entirely upon your own character.”
“My God, you’re opinionated. You must terrify nearly every man you meet.”
“I don’t meet many men.”
“That explains it, then.”
“Explains what?”
“Why you’ve never been kissed before.”
Hannah stopped in her tracks and whirled to face him. “Why do you…how did you…”
“The more experience a man has,” he said, “the more easily he can detect the lack of it in someone else.”
They had reached a little clearing. In the center of it stood a mermaid fountain, surrounded by a circle of low stone benches. Hannah climbed onto one of the benches and walked its length slowly, and hopped over the little space to the next bench.
Bowman followed at once, walking beside the benches as she made a circle around them. “So your Mr. Clark has never made an advance to you?”
Hannah shook her head, hoping he would ascribe her rising color to the cold temperature. “He’s not my Mr. Clark. As for making an advance…I’m not altogether certain. One time he…” Realizing what she had been about to confess, she closed her mouth with a snap.
“Oh, no. You can’t leave that dangling out there. Tell me what you were going to say.” Bowman’s fingers slipped beneath the fabric belt of her dress and he tugged firmly, forcing her to stop.
“Don’t,” she said breathlessly, scowling from her superior vantage point on the bench.
Bowman put his hands at her waist and swung her to the ground. He kept her standing before him, his hands lightly gripping her sides. “What did he do? Say something lewd? Try to look down your bodice?”
“Mr. Bowman,” she protested with a helpless scowl. “Approximately a month ago, Mr. Clark was studying a book of phrenology, and he asked if he could feel my…”
Bowman had gone still, the spice-colored eyes widening ever so slightly. “Your what?”
“My cranium.” Seeing his blank expression, Hannah went on to explain. “Phrenology is the science of analyzing the shape of someone’s skull and—”
“Yes, I know. Every measurement and indentation is supposed to mean something.”
“Yes. So I allowed him to evaluate my head and make a chart of any shapings that would reveal my character traits.”
Bowman seemed vastly entertained. “And what did Clark discover?”
“It seems I have a large brain, an affectionate and constant nature, a tendency to leap to judgment, and a capacity for strong attachment. Unfortunately there is also a slight narrowing at the back of my skull that indicates criminal propensities.”
He laughed in delight. “I should have guessed. It’s always the innocent-looking ones who are capable of the worst. Here, let me feel it. I want to know how a criminal mind is shaped.”
Hannah ducked away quickly as he reached for her. “Don’t touch me!”
“You’ve already let one man fondle your cranium,” he said, following as she backed away. “Now it makes no difference if you let someone else do it.”
He was playing with her, Hannah realized. Although it was altogether improper, she felt a giggle work up through the layers of caution and anxiety. “Examine your own head,” she cried, fleeing to the other side of the fountain. “I’m sure there are any number of criminal lumps on it.”
“The results would be skewed,” he told her. “I received too many raps on the head during my childhood. My father told my tutors it was good for me.”
Though the words were spoken lightly, Hannah stopped and regarded him with a flicker of compassion. “Poor boy.”
Bowman came to a stop in front of her again. “Not at all. I deserved it. I’ve been wicked since birth.”
“No child is wicked without a reason.”
“Oh, I had a reason. Since I had no hope of ever becoming the paragon my parents expected, I decided to go the other way. I’m sure it was only my mother’s intervention that kept my father from tying me to a tree beside the road with a note reading ‘Take to orphanage.’”
Hannah smiled slightly. “Is there any offspring your father is pleased with?”
“Not especially. But he sets store by my brother-in-law Matthew Swift. Even before he married Daisy, Swift had become like a son to my father. He worked for him in New York. An unusually patient man, our Mr. Swift. Otherwise he couldn’t have survived this long.”
“Your father has a temper?”
“My father is the kind of man who would lure a dog with a bone, and when the dog is in reach, beat him with it. And then throw a tantrum if the dog doesn’t hurry back to him the next time.”
He offered Hannah his arm again, and she took it as they headed back toward the manor.
“Did your father arrange the marriage between your sister and Mr. Swift?” she asked.
“Yes. But somehow it seems to have turned into a love match.”
“That happens sometimes,” she said wisely.
“Only because some people, when faced with the inevitable, convince themselves they like it merely to make the situation palatable.”
Hannah made a soft tsk-tsk with her tongue. “You’re a cynic, Mr. Bowman.”
“A realist.”
She gave him a curious glance. “Do you think you might ever fall in love with Natalie?”
“I could probably come to care for her,” he said casually.
>
“I mean real love, the kind that makes you feel wildness, joy, and despair all at once. Love that would inspire you to make any kind of sacrifice for someone else’s sake.”
A sardonic smile curved his lips. “Why would I want to feel that way about my wife? It would ruin a perfectly good marriage.”
They walked through the winter garden in silence, while Hannah struggled with the certainty that he was even more dangerous, more wrong for Natalie, than she had originally believed. Natalie would eventually be hurt and disillusioned by a husband she could never trust.
“You are not suitable for Natalie,” she heard herself say wretchedly. “The more I learn about you, the more certain I am of that fact. I wish you would leave her alone. I wish you would find some other nobleman’s daughter to prey upon.”
Bowman stopped with her beside the hedge. “You arrogant little baggage,” he said quietly. “The prey was not of my choosing. I’m merely trying to make the best of my circumstances. And if Lady Natalie will have me, it’s not your place to object.”
“My affection for her gives me the right to say something—”
“Maybe it’s not affection. Are you certain you’re not speaking out of jealousy?”
“Jealousy? Of Natalie? You’re mad to suggest such a thing—”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said with ruthless softness. “It’s possible you’re tired of standing in her shadow. Watching your cousin in all her finery, being admired and sought after while you stay at the side of the room with the dowagers and wallflowers.”
Hannah sputtered in outrage, one of her fists clenching and rising as if to strike him.
Bowman caught her wrist easily, running a finger lightly over her whitened knuckles. His soft, mocking laugh scalded her ears. “Here,” he said, forcibly crooking her thumb and tucking it across her fingers. “Don’t ever try to hit someone with your thumb extended—you’ll break it that way.”
“Let go,” she cried, yanking hard at her imprisoned wrist.
“You wouldn’t be so angry if I hadn’t struck a nerve,” he taunted. “Poor Hannah, always standing in the corner, waiting for your turn. I’ll tell you something—you’re more than Natalie’s equal, blue blood or no. You were meant for something far better than this—”
