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 br**sts, 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 the matter with him was. 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.

CHAPTER 3

Hannah had never been so uncomfortable in her life. The man sitting next to her was a beast. He stared at her as if she were some carnival curiosity. And he had already confirmed much of what she had heard about American men. Everything about him advertised a brand of excessive masculinity that she found distasteful. The slouchy, informal way he occupied his chair made her want to kick his shins.

His New York accent, the flattened vowels and lax consonants, was foreign and annoying. However, she had to admit that the voice itself…a deep, polished-leather baritone, was mesmerizing. And his eyes were extraordinary, dark as pitch yet gleaming with audacious fire.

He had the sun-browned complexion of a man who spent a great deal of time out of doors, and his close-shaven jaw showed the grain of a heavy beard. He was an excessively, uncompromisingly masculine creature. Not at all a match for Natalie in any regard. He was not appropriate for the drawing room, or the parlor, or any other civilized surroundings.

Mr. Bowman addressed her with a directness that seemed nothing short of subversive. “Tell me, Miss Appleton…what does a lady’s companion do? And do you receive wages for it?”

Oh, he was horrid to ask such a thing! Swallowing back her indignation, Hannah replied, “It is a paid position. I do not receive wages, but rather an allowance.”

He tilted his head and regarded her intently. “What’s the difference?”

” ‘Wages’ would imply that I am a servant.”