A Wallflower Christmas (7 page)

“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—”

“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 whis
pered. “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 surged 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 prick
ling arms through her sleeves. She was mortified by the intensity of her own urge to huddle against the warm, inviting hardness of him.