“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 fa?ade,” Hannah suggested without conviction. “Perhaps he’s a different man inside.”

“Most people don’t have fa?ades,” Natalie said dryly. “Oh, everyone thinks they do, but when you dig past the fa?ade, there’s only more fa?ade.”

“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 rightHannah 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.

CHAPTER 6

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.