hile 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 wild-flowers. 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 against 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."

"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 awaiting 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 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—"

"Stop it!"

"A wife for convenience and a mistress for pleasure. Isn't that how the peerage does it?"

Hannah stiffened all over, gasping, as Bowman brought her against his large, powerful form. She stopped struggling, recognizing that such efforts were useless against his strength. Her face turned from him, and she jerked as she felt his warm mouth brush the curve of her ear.

"I should make you my mistress," Bowman whispered. "Beautiful Hannah. If you were mine, I'd lay you on silk sheets and wrap you up in ropes of pearls, and feed you honey from a silver spoon. Of course, you wouldn't be able to make all your high-minded judgments if you were a fallen woman... but you wouldn't care. Because I would pleasure you, Hannah, every night, all night, until you forgot your own name. Until you were willing to do things that would shock you in the light of day. I would debauch you from your head down to your innocent little toes—"

"Oh, I despise you," she cried, twisting helplessly against him. She had begun to feel real fear, not only from his hard grip and taunting words, but also from the shocks of heat running through her.

After this, she would never be able to face him again. Which was probably what he intended. A pleading sound came from her throat as she felt a delicately inquiring kiss in the hollow beneath her ear.

"You want me," he murmured. In a bewildering shift of mood he turned tender, letting his lips wander slowly along the side of her throat. "Admit it, Hannah—I appeal to your criminal tendencies. And you definitely bring out the worst in me." He drew his mouth over her neck, seeming to savor the swift, unsteady surges of her breathing. "Kiss me," he whispered. "Just once, and I'll let you go."

"You are a despicable lecher, and—"

"I know. I'm ashamed of myself." But he didn't sound at all ashamed. And his hold didn't loosen. "One kiss, Hannah."

She could feel her pulse reverberating everywhere, the blood rhythm settling hard and low in her throat and in all the deepest places of her body. And even in her lips, the delicate surface so sensitive that the touch of her own breath was excruciating.

It was cold everywhere they pressed, and in the space between their mouths where the smoke of their exhalations mingled. Hannah looked up into his shadowed face and thought dizzily, Don't do it, Hannah, don't, and then she ended up doing it anyway, rising on her toes to bring her trembling lips to his.

He closed around her, holding her with his arms and mouth, taking a long hungering taste. He pulled her even closer, until one of his feet came between hers, under her skirts, and her breasts urged tight and full against his chest. It was more than one kiss... it was a sentence of unbroken kisses, the hot sweet syllables of lips and tongue making her drunk on sensation. One of his hands moved up to her face, caressing with a softness that sent a fine-spun shiver across her shoulders and back. His fingertips explored the line of her jaw, the lobe of her ear, the color-scalded crest of her cheek.

The other hand came up, and her face was caught in the gentle bracket of his fingers, while his lips drifted over her face... a soft skim over her eyelids, a stroke over her nose, a last lingering bite of her mouth. She breathed in a gulp of sharp winter air, welcoming the snap of it in her lungs.

When she finally brought herself to look up at him, she expected him to look smug or arrogant. But to her surprise, his face was taut, and there was a brooding disquiet in his eyes.

"Do you want me to apologize?" he asked.

Hannah pulled back from him, rubbing her prickling arms through her sleeves. She was mortified by the intensity of her own urge to huddle against the warm, inviting hardness of him.

"I don't see the purpose in that," she said in a low voice. "It's not as if you would mean it." Turning from him, she walked back to the manor in hurried strides, praying silently that he wouldn't follow her.

And knowing that any woman foolish enough to become involved with him would fare no better than the shattered teacup on the terrace.