A Wallflower Christmas (2 page)

“
Acceptable
means,” Blandford corrected quietly. “Not generous. And nothing close to what Bowman has now, not to mention his future inheritance.”

Hannah was bewildered. In all the years she had known Lord Blandford, he had never displayed an outward concern for wealth. It was not done among men of his station, who disdained conversations about finance as bourgeois and far beneath them. What had prompted this worry over money?

Reading her expression, Blandford smiled morosely. “Ah, Hannah. How can I explain adequately? The world
is moving altogether too fast for men like me. Too many new ways of doing things. Before I can adjust to the way something changes, it changes yet again. They say before long the railway will cover every green acre of England. The masses will all have soap and tinned food and ready-made clothing, and the distance between us and them will grow quite narrow.”

Hannah listened intently, aware that she, with her lack of fortune and undistinguished birth, straddled the line between Blandford's own class and “the masses.”

“Is that a bad thing, Uncle?”

“Not entirely,” Blandford said after a long hesitation. “Though I do regret that blood and gentility are coming to mean so little. The future is upon us, and it belongs to climbers like the Bowmans. And to men like Lord Westcliff, who are willing to sacrifice what they must to keep pace with it.”

The earl of Westcliff was Raphael Bowman's brother-in-law. He had arguably the most distinguished lineage in England, with blood more blue than the Queen's. And yet he was known as a progressive, both politically and financially. Among his many investments, Westcliff had garnered a fortune from the development of the locomotive industry, and he was said to take a keen interest in mercantile matters. All this while most of the peerage was still content to garner its profits from the centuries-old tradition of maintaining tenants on its private lands.

“Then you desire the connection to Lord Westcliff, as well as the Bowmans,” Hannah said.

“Of course. It will put my daughter in a unique position, marrying a wealthy American
and
having a brother-in-law such as Westcliff. As the wife of a Bowman, she
will be seated at the lower end of the table…but it will be Westcliff's table, and that is no small consideration.”

“I see,” she said pensively.

“But you don't agree?”

No. Hannah was far from persuaded that her beloved Natalie should have to make do with an ill-mannered boor as a husband, merely to have Lord Westcliff as a brother-in-law. However, she was certainly not going to impugn Lord Blandford's judgment. At least not aloud.

“I defer to your wisdom, Uncle. However, I do hope that the advantages—or disadvantages—of this match will reveal themselves quickly.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “What a diplomat you are. You have a shrewd mind, my dear. Probably more than a young woman has need of. Better to be pretty and empty-headed like my daughter, than plain and clever.”

Hannah did not take offense, although she could have argued both points. For one thing, her cousin Natalie was anything but empty-headed. However, Natalie knew better than to flaunt her intelligence, as that was not a quality that attracted suitors.

And Hannah did not consider herself plain. She was brown-haired and green-eyed, and she had a nice smile and a decent figure. If Hannah had the benefit of lovely clothes and adornments, she thought she might be considered very appealing. It was all in the eye of the beholder.

“Go to tea at Marsden Terrace,” Lord Blandford told her, smiling. “Sow the seeds of romance. A match must be made. And as the Bard so aptly put it, ‘The world must be peopled.'” He glanced at her significantly. “After we manage to marry off Natalie, you will no
doubt find your own suitor. I have my suspicions about you and Mr. Clark, you see.”

Hannah felt color rising in her face. For the past year she had undertaken some minor secretarial duties for Samuel Clark, a close friend and distant relation of  Lord Blandford's. And Hannah entertained some private hopes regarding the attractive bachelor, who was fair-haired and slim and not much older than she. But perhaps her hopes were not as private as she had thought. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Uncle.”

“I'm sure you do,” he said, and chuckled. “All in good time, my dear. First let us secure a satisfactory future for Natalie. And then it will be your turn.”

Hannah smiled at him, keeping her thoughts private. But inwardly she knew that her definition of a “satisfactory future” for Natalie was not quite the same as his. Natalie deserved a man who would be a loving, responsible, trustworthy husband.

And if Rafe Bowman were that man, he would have to prove it.

“At the risk of sounding arrogant,” Rafe said, “I don't think I need advice about how to court a woman.”

Rafe had arrived in London the day before. Today, while Westcliff was off visiting the locomotive works in which he had a share, Rafe gathered he was supposed to have tea with Lillian and her friends.

Rafe would have preferred to tour the locomotive works. He was a manufacturer's son, and the lure of new machines and gadgetry held an unending fascination for him. On the other hand, Lillian had asked him to stay, and he had never been able to refuse her anything. He adored his sisters, who in his opinion were the best things his parents had ever accomplished.

“Miss Appleton is not going to give you advice,” Lillian retorted, ruffling his hair fondly. “We've invited her to tea so that she can tell us more about Lady Natalie. I should think you'd like to find out as much as you can about your future bride.”

“That's still in question,” Rafe reminded her wryly. “Even if I want to marry her, it's still left to Lady Natalie to consider whether she'll have me.”

“Which is why you're going to be
so
charming that Miss Appleton will run back home to deliver a glowing report about you to Lady Natalie.” Lillian paused and gave him a mock-threatening glance. “Aren't you?”

Rafe smiled at his sister while he dandled her eight-month-old infant Merritt on his knee. The baby was dark-haired and brown-eyed like both her parents, with rosy cheeks and grasping little hands. After tugging off one of his waistcoat buttons with a determined yank, the baby attempted to put it in her mouth. “No, darling,” Rafe said, prying the button out of the wet clenched fist, and Merritt began to howl in protest. “I'm sorry,” he said contritely. “I'd scream too if someone took away something I fancied. But you might choke on that, love, and then your mother would have me shanghaied to China.”

“That's only if Westcliff didn't reach you first,” Lillian said, taking the squalling baby from him. “There, darling. Mommy won't let mean old Uncle Rafe bother you any longer.” She grinned and wrinkled her nose impishly at him as she soothed her daughter.

Marriage and motherhood became Lillian, Rafe thought. His sister had always been a headstrong creature, but now she seemed calmer and happier than he had ever seen her before. He could only credit Westcliff for that, although how such a proper and autocratic man could accomplish such a change in Lillian was a mystery. One would have thought the pair would have killed each other within the first month of marriage.

After the baby had quieted and Lillian had given her to a nurserymaid to take upstairs, Annabelle and Evie arrived.

Rising to his feet, Rafe bowed to the ladies as introductions were made.

Mrs. Annabelle Hunt, wife to the railroad entrepreneur Simon Hunt, was said to be one of the great beauties of England. It was difficult to imagine that any woman could eclipse her. She was the perfect English Rose, with honey-blond hair and blue eyes, and a pure, fair complexion. Not only would her figure have driven a saint to sin but her expression was so lively and beguiling that it instantly put him at ease.

Evie, Lady St. Vincent, was not nearly so approachable. However, Lillian had already warned Rafe that Evie's shyness was often mistaken for reserve. She was unconventionally lovely, her skin lightly freckled, her hair rampantly red. Her blue eyes contained a cautious friendliness and vulnerability that touched Rafe.

“My dear Mr. Bowman,” Annabelle said with an engaging laugh, “I should have known you anywhere, even without an introduction. You and Lillian share a distinct resemblance. Are all the Bowmans so tall and dark-haired?”

“All except Daisy,” Rafe replied. “I'm afraid the first four of us took up so much height, there was nothing left for her when she arrived.”

“What Daisy lacks in height,” Lillian said, “she makes up for in personality.”

Rafe laughed. “True. I want to see the little scamp, and hear from her own lips that she married Matthew
Swift willingly, and not because Father bludgeoned her into it.”

“Daisy truly l-loves Mr. Swift,” Evie said earnestly.

At the sound of her stammer, which was something else Lillian had warned him about, Rafe gave her a reassuring smile. “I'm glad to hear it,” he said gently. “I've always thought Swift was a decent fellow.”

“It never bothered you, the way Father adopted him as a
de facto
son?” Lillian asked acerbically, seating herself and gesturing for the others to do the same.

“Just the opposite,” Rafe said. “I was glad of anyone or anything that took Father's attention away from me. I've had enough of the old man's damned short fuse for a lifetime. The only reason I'm willing to put up with it now is because I want joint proprietorship of the company's European expansion.”

Annabelle looked bemused at their frankness. “It appears we're not bothering with discretion today.”

Rafe grinned. “I doubt there is much about the Bowmans that Lillian hasn't already told you. So by all means, let's dispense with discretion and move on to the interesting subjects.”

“Are the ladies of London a subject of interest?” Lillian asked.

“Definitely. Tell me about them.”

“They're different here than in New York,” Lillian warned him. “Especially the younger ones. When you are introduced to a proper English girl, she will keep her gaze fixed on the ground, and she won't chatter and gush on as we Americans do. English girls are far more sheltered, and not at all used to the company of men.
So don't even think about discussing business or political affairs, or anything of the sort.”

“What am I allowed to talk about?” Rafe asked apprehensively.

“Music, art, and horses,” Annabelle said. “And remember that English girls seldom offer their views on anything, but instead prefer to repeat their parents' opinions.”

“But after they are m-married,” Evie said, “they will be far more inclined to reveal their true selves.”

Rafe gave her a wry glance. “How difficult would it be to find out about a girl's true self
before
I marry her?”

“Almost imp-possible,” Evie said gravely, and Rafe began to smile until he realized she wasn't joking.

Now he was beginning to understand why Lillian and her friends were trying to find out more about Lady Natalie and her character. Apparently it wasn't going to come from Lady Natalie herself.

Looking from Lillian's face to those of Annabelle and Evie, Rafe said slowly, “I appreciate your help, ladies. It occurs to me that I may need it more than I thought.”

“The person who will be most helpful,” Lillian said, “is Miss Appleton. One hopes.” She parted the lace curtains at the window to glance at the street. “And if I'm not mistaken, she has just arrived.”

Rafe stood in a perfunctory manner while Miss Appleton came into the entrance hall. Lillian went to greet her while a servant collected her coat and bonnet. Rafe supposed he should be grateful to the old biddy for coming to visit, but all he could think of was how quickly
they might be able to obtain the necessary information and be rid of her.

He watched without interest as she came into the parlor. She wore a dull blue gown of the practical and well-made sort seen on retainers and the higher caliber of servants.

His gaze traveled up to the neat shape of her waist, the gentle curves of her breasts, and then to her face. He felt a little stab of surprise as he saw that she was young, no more than Daisy's age. From her expression, one could deduce that she wasn't any happier to be there than Rafe. But there was a suggestion of tenderness and humor in the soft shape of her mouth, and delicate strength in the lines of her nose and chin.

Her beauty was not cool and pristine, but warm and slightly disheveled. Her brown hair, shiny as ribbons, seemed to have been pinned up in a hurry. As she removed her gloves with a neat tug at each fingertip, she glanced at Rafe with ocean-green eyes.

That look left no doubt that Miss Appleton neither liked nor trusted him. Nor should she, Rafe thought with a flash of amusement. He was not exactly known for his honorable intentions where women were concerned.

She approached him in a composed manner that annoyed Rafe for some reason. She made him want to…well, he wasn't certain what, but it would begin with scooping her up and tossing her onto the nearby settee.

“Miss Appleton,” Lillian said, “I should like to introduce my brother, Mr. Bowman.”

“Miss Appleton,” Rafe murmured, extending his hand.

The young woman hesitated, her pale fingers making a slight flutter beside her skirts.

“Oh, Rafe,” Lillian said hastily, “that's not done here.”

“My apologies.” Rafe withdrew his hand, staring into those translucent green eyes. “The handshake is common in American parlors.”

Miss Appleton gave him a speculative glance. “In London, a simple bow is best,” she said in a light, clear voice that sent a ripple of heat down the back of his neck. “Although at times a married lady might shake hands, an unmarried one rarely does. It is usually regarded here as a lower-class practice, and a rather personal matter, especially when done without gloves.” She studied him for a moment, the hint of a smile curving her lips. “However, I have no objection to beginning in the American fashion.” She extended a slender hand. “How is it done?”

The unaccountable heat lingered on the back of Rafe's neck and crept across his shoulders. He took her slim hand in his much larger one, surprised by the needling sensation in his abdomen, the shot of acute awareness. “A firm grip,” he began, “is usually considered—” He broke off, unable to speak at all as she cautiously returned the pressure of his fingers.

“Like this?” she asked, glancing up into his face. Her cheeks had turned pink.

“Yes.” Dazedly Rafe wondered what was the matter with him. The pressure of that small, confiding hand was affecting him more than his last mistress's most lascivious caress.

Letting go of her, he dragged his gaze away and struggled to moderate his breathing.

Lillian and Annabelle exchanged a perplexed glance in the charged silence.

“Well,” Lillian said brightly as the tea trays were brought in, “let's become better acquainted. Shall I pour?”

Annabelle lowered herself to the settee beside Lillian, while Rafe and Miss Appleton took chairs on the other side of the low table. For the next few minutes the rituals of tea were observed. Plates of toast and crumpets were passed around.

Rafe couldn't seem to stop staring at Miss Appleton, who sat straight-backed in her chair, sipping carefully at her tea. He wanted to pull the pins from her hair and wrap it around his fingers. He wanted to tumble her to the floor. She looked so proper, so good, sitting there with her skirts precisely arranged.

She made him want to be very, very bad.