A Wallflower Christmas (6 page)

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 been 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.

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 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 ex
tent 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.