CHAPTER FOUR

“Hannah!”

That one word was all she said. But it was enough, Hannah judged. She watched her aunt standing across the room from her, one blue-veined hand on the doorknob, her other to her chest as her darting gaze slipped from Hannah’s face to the open desk drawers and back to Hannah’s face.

When the accusing silence descended like a pall, Hannah blurted out, “I’m looking for … for some writing material.”

“Oh?” With that, Aunt Patience pointed to the letterhead stationery and pen-and-ink stand clearly visible on the desktop. “Were these not satisfactory?”

Hannah stared at the blasted items and felt a guilty flush creeping up her neck and cheeks. She shifted her gaze to Aunt Patience’s face and made a self-deprecating gesture as she forced a smile, hoping it wasn’t as sickly as she felt. “Why, silly me. I completely overlooked them. What was I thinking?”

Aunt Patience didn’t even blink. “I’d like to know that myself. But, tell me, Hannah dear, to whom are you going to write? Not your parents?”

Hannah’s eyes widened as she suddenly recalled her own story of being estranged from her family. “No. No, of course not. I wish to write my…”—her gaze darted about as she thought desperately—“my friend. Yes, that’s it. My friend. I’m going to write my friend.”

“Your friend. I see. Well, take the materials with you, but perhaps tomorrow would be a better time to write. It’s nearly time to dress for tonight’s event. Which is in your honor, if you recall. Your uncle and I have gone to tremendous trouble and expense to make you feel welcome here. I hope our confidence in you isn’t misplaced.”

Hannah was certain she could feel herself shrinking in stature. “I assure you, Aunt Patience, it’s not.”

The blueblood Brahmin nodded her head slowly. “Good. Then we’ll not speak of this incident to your uncle. It would only distress him terribly. And I know you wouldn’t want to do that. Would you?”

“No, Aunt Patience.” Hannah forced herself to hold her aunt’s steady gaze. The threats implicit in Patience’s words were not lost on her. But the room’s sudden stuffiness seemed to make Hannah’s heart beat thunderously, and brought her near to begging. “May I be excused now? As you said, I need to dress for this evening.”

Aunt Patience let go of the knob, stepping aside. “Certainly. And I do believe you’ll find a surprise waiting for you in your room. So, go. Certainly, no one is forcing you to be in here against your will.”

Another wrench of guilt lowered Hannah’s gaze to her stocking feet. Taking a deep breath for courage, she raised her head and put one foot in front of the other. When she drew even with Aunt Patience, the older woman snaked her hand out and grasped Hannah’s arm in a surprisingly strong grip. Despite her best effort not to, Hannah gasped. Staring down at the small woman who frightened her so, peering into her birdlike, sharp eyes, Hannah could only wait for her to speak.

“You forgot what you came in here for, dear.”

A frown marred Hannah’s features. “I beg your pardon?”

“The writing materials. Surely you still want to write your friend?”

*   *   *

Hannah dashed back up the stairs, this time using the elegant central stairway. She no longer had the stomach for stealth. In her hands were the pen, ink, and paper that she had no use for, since she already had the same things in her room. They’d been thoughtfully placed in the small secretary there. And of course, as her hostess, Aunt Patience would know that.

With each unladylike leap up the stairs, Hannah berated herself soundly. What could possibly be more humiliating and damaging than the scene she’d just created? Now she’d raised Aunt Patience’s suspicions and, worse, now she would have to produce a letter tomorrow for posting to some imaginary friend. Too bad she couldn’t just hand over the one she’d written Jacey and Glory. But she didn’t dare, not knowing if it would be read by prying eyes here and never sent. Hannah huffed out a frustrated noise as she gained the second-floor landing. How in the world could things get any worse than they were right now?

Her answer awaited her on the other side of her bedroom door, which she opened with the sense of gaining a haven. But the feeling left her in a whoosh of breath as she stopped suddenly, clutched the writing materials to her bosom, and surveyed the scene before her. This was Aunt Patience’s surprise? She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Moving with stiff, mechanical motions brought on by her mounting confusion and disbelief, she took in the open doors of her now-empty armoire and the open drawers of her equally empty chest of drawers.

What was going on? But she thought she knew, as she approached her bed. Or tried to. Her way was blocked by box after piled-high box after spilled-over box. Hatboxes. Dress boxes. Shoe boxes. Boxes overflowing with thin tissue paper and dainty unmentionables.

Who? What? Without taking her eyes off her bed, Hannah dropped the pen, ink, and paper on the secretary. Then, she just stood there, as suspicious as she was mesmerized. Surely, Aunt Patience and Uncle Cyrus hadn’t—No. Hannah refused to believe that. Because if they’d done this, if they’d gifted her with a completely new wardrobe, then they just had to be innocent of the deeds she thought them capable of. Why would they go to the tremendous trouble and expense of providing all these clothes, if they meant to kill her? So, if indeed they had done this, that made her a despicable person and a dastardly niece.

Spying a card on her pillow, Hannah stared at it as if it might come alive and spring at her with bared teeth. But finally, curiosity got the better of her, and she stepped over and around the stacks and piles until she laid her hand on the card. Opening it, she read, For you, my little country mouse. Slade Garrett. Stunned, Hannah looked up at nothing in particular, even as her arm dropped to her side. Slade Garrett did this? And he thought of her as a country mouse? The man’s gall was not to be believed.

But still, she wondered what his taste was like. Flipping the card back onto the bed, Hannah reached for a closed box. But just as quickly pulled back. She couldn’t. It would be wrong. So very wrong. Biting at her bottom lip, she looked all around her. She was all alone. So what would be the harm? One tiny peek wouldn’t hurt anything.

Within moments, Hannah’s one tiny peek became a firestorm of openings and unwrappings and oohs and aahs of delight. Seated amongst and surrounded by elegant female frippery and petticoats and stockings and shoes and day dresses and traveling costumes and unmentionables and silk evening dresses and satin opera dresses and—oh, an entire wardrobe, for heaven’s sake—Hannah tore through each one, eagerly opening them all.

Well, she assuaged her screaming conscience, it isn’t as if I can return any of these things. All my old clothes are gone.

A fresh fit of wonder assailed her as she lifted a particularly fetching aquamarine gown out of its box and stood to hold it up to herself. The gown was exquisite—lavish material, simple lines. She looked for the card in the box. All the other boxes had cards from him in them, so why shouldn’t this one?

Spying it, she lifted it out and pushed aside the fabric mountain on her bed, making space for herself. Acknowledging a sense of shy hesitancy in her actions, she bit at her bottom lip and sat down to read his words. He wrote that the gown was like her eyes, that the fabric too changed color with every movement, every emotion. He asked her to wear it that night. She reread the card, sitting very still now and staring at Slade Garrett’s handwriting. The man was clearly trying to seduce her.

Hannah took a deep breath. Then, draping the gown over her arm, she ran a finger over his words, noting their formation and forcing her mind on to practical considerations. His was a firm hand, straightforward lettering, no fancy scrolls. And it wasn’t the same as the handwriting on the Wilton-Humes letterhead she’d found in the grate at home.

Feeling her throat close around that truth, and refusing to name it relief, Hannah carefully replaced the card in the empty box. What in the world was she going to do about Slade Garrett? Her posture slumped. What could she do about him? Could she beat him at his own game … whatever it was?

Her thoughts contorting her lips into twisting peaks and valleys, Hannah looked down to see her hand smoothing the gown’s folds. Feminine curiosity got the better of her. Leaping up, the gown in her arms, she flew to the cheval glass. Holding the gown to her waist and with a hand flaring out the skirt, she posed for the mirror, turning this way and that, until she decided he was right. The gown did do nice things for her eyes.

Without thinking, she began humming a tune and took a mincing dance step or two. It was only when she caught sight of her dreamy expression in the mirror, and realized she was fantasizing about dancing with him, that she pulled up short and let go of the dress as if it were hot. The dress puffed out and slowly pooled in folds around her ankles.

“Here now, miss. Have you no manners? That’s no way to treat such a lovely gown.”

Hannah whipped around. Holding a smallish rectangular black box and what looked to be a notecard, Mrs. Wells was just coming back into the room. Hannah pronounced the lady’s maid a snotty old ass.

Making an awful face at the woman’s back when she turned to the bedside table, Hannah nevertheless bent over and picked up the lovely gown, walking with it to her bed. She carelessly flopped it on top of the expensive pile. “My manners are not in question here. Mr. Garrett’s are. What type of man has a lady’s wardrobe discarded and then replaces her belongings with this?” She plucked a scandalously sheer bedgown out of a box and held it up.

Ha, that got her. Mrs. Wells pinched up her unpleasingly plump face. “Mr. Garrett is the best of gentlemen, young lady. And he’s done you a tremendous honor in purchasing these costumes for you. Why, he had to’ve spent an entire day at the shops. And you’re that ungrateful. He merely means to avoid having you be an embarrassment to the Wilton-Humeses.”

“Embarrassment?” Feeling the rising heat in her veins that surely colored her warming face, Hannah rounded on the servant who’d done nothing, from day one, but make openly rude statements about her shortcomings. “I’ve plenty of clothes that are good enough. Or I would have, if they hadn’t all vanished.”

Mrs. Wells plopped the box and the notecard on the bedside table. “Are you accusing me of stealing, Miss Lawless?”

“You?” Hannah gave the hateful hag her best imperious look—down the end of her nose, and hopefully in a fair imitation of the way Aunt Patience looked at everyone. “Despite the evidence of your snooping through my belongings, I hardly think you’d risk your station here by taking any of my inferior clothing. Let’s just say, I know you do nothing on your own. You obey orders and report what you find.”

Mrs. Wells’s mouth worked furiously. “If you’d been in your room earlier, as you were supposed to be, young lady, you’d have seen nothing so damning as me performing my duties. I merely gathered up your things and took them downstairs to the laundry for a proper washing.”

“A proper washing? Is that what you said?” Hannah smiled, hoping it conveyed even one tenth of the contempt she felt for this mean-spirited woman. First Slade Garrett’s impertinences, and now this woman’s. Too bad for the maid that she was someone Hannah could do something about.

“I’m going to count to five, Mrs. Wells. One.” She walked over to the nightstand and opened the drawer. Reaching in, she pulled out her pocket revolver, a Smith & Wesson .32. “Two.” She turned back around and leveled it on the astonished lady’s maid. “Three. And if you’re not out of this room by the time I reach five—”

The woman fled. Hannah smiled at the empty space where the maid’s bulk had been. She lowered her arm and stared at her weapon, smiling. Shrugging, she replaced it in the drawer and turned to look at the mess in her room. Putting her hands to her waist, she told the room at large, “It appears I need a new lady’s maid.”

One who had the run of the place, someone with more freedom to come and go than she had. Someone she could trust. Hannah stepped up to the bed and felt the letter to her sisters in her pocket. Of course—Olivia. Now she remembered. This gave her the perfect excuse to ask for the girl. She walked to the bellpull and gave it a tug, wondering who would show up. It sure as shooting wouldn’t be Mrs. Wells.

While she waited, and in high humor now, Hannah turned her attention to the black velvet box and the notecard on the nightstand. Opening the envelope first, she inhaled sharply when she recognized the handwriting. Slade Garrett’s again. What now? Hannah flipped open the card. Two words. “For you.” And then his signature. “Slade.”

Tapping the card absently against her jaw, she stared at the velvet box, narrowing her eyes as if it were a scorpion in her path. Then, calling herself silly—it was just a box—she laid the card down and snatched up his latest gift. She opened it, gasped, and almost dropped it.

“I take it that means you like them?”

She whipped around, sending the sparkling jewels flying about the room. Slade Garrett. A hand to her floundering heart, she gave vent to her startlement. “Do you live here? You seem to just … pop up at the oddest moments.”

“Some would say in a puff of smoke, no doubt. But no, I most certainly do not live here. And believe it or not, I gained entrance in the most conventional of ways—I knocked on the front door.” With that, he entered her bedroom and immediately set about searching for the far-flung jewels. Bending over with athletic grace to retrieve a huge emerald set in heavy gold whenever he encountered one, he finally held them all. Looking from them to her, he asked, “Are these not suitable?”

“No. I mean yes. They’re beautiful. But I—” Flustered, Hannah sent the empty box sailing onto the bed. Calling upon her Lawless temper, she raised her chin and put her fisted hands to her hips. “I have no use for your gifts.”

She nearly ate those words when, in three long strides, he stood in front of her. His mouth a grim line, he unceremoniously grasped her wrist, forcing her arm out and her palm up. Into it he dropped the oval earrings, bracelet, and matching necklace. By their sheer weight, Hannah was forced to cup both hands around them.

Garrett cupped his long-fingered hands around hers. Hannah tried to wrench her hands from his grip, only to have him tighten his hold until the jewels poked hard against her flesh. Hannah glared up at him. To no avail. He grinned like a wolf. “Perhaps you would have preferred opals?”

Then he slid his hands off hers and stepped back. Hannah blinked, lowering her gaze to the fortune in gems that spilled through her fingers. She ought to throw them at him. But admitted she didn’t have the courage. So, she stood there, lost in indecision as to what her next move should be. Maybe he’d think she was suddenly fascinated with the jewels’ sparkle.

But in truth, she was making mental connections. The clothes. The jewelry. His constant attention. Her aunt and uncle. The proper people of Boston. Even the answers she needed. This one man appeared to possess all those. And now, he sought to possess her. For revenge.

Feeling him awaiting her reply, Hannah hefted the emeralds again, running a finger over their facets. Then, so be it. Perhaps she’d allow him to possess her. To a point. He meant to use her, and he made no secret of that. Well, two could play this game. She’d use him for her own ends, but unlike him, she’d do it secretly. And just like him, she wouldn’t involve her heart.

A slow smile marched across her features, putting the cap on her decision. Lifting her head, she adjusted her smile to one of maidenly appreciation. “I apologize for my silence. I find I’m simply overwhelmed, Mr. Garrett—”

“Slade.”

She simpered prettily. “Slade, then. I feel complimented that a man like you would notice me. What have I done to deserve such attention?”

Looking askance at her, he backed up another space and shifted his weight as he crossed his arms over his chest. He stared at her in dark contemplation for a moment or two. Then, an amused light twinkled in his eyes, even as his eyebrows arched. “Hannah Lawless, I expected better than that from you.”

Hannah fought to maintain her pretty smile. She batted her eyelashes at him … until it became painful to continue. Forced to relax her facial muscles, or risk developing a tic, she frowned up at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

He burst out laughing. No one had to tell her that his hilarity was at her expense. Yet, when he was in better control of himself, he apparently felt compelled to do just that. He wiped at his eyes and insulted her. “You’re not very good at that, are you?”

“At what? I have no idea what you mean.”

“The devil you don’t. Flirting and affecting pretty pouts. That awful face. I thought some flux had seized you.”

Beyond mortified but affecting outrage, Hannah leaned toward him. “You are the most insulting and ornery man I have ever met.”

“I am all that and much worse. But I think I’m also the only man you’ve ever met.” He paused, considering her. “Perhaps that’s it.” His expression softened, became openly sensual. “Or at least the only man you’ve allowed this close to you. Am I right?”

Suddenly weak-kneed and wilting under that hot stare of his, Hannah looked down as she fought for control. He probably looked at all women this way, the cad. Steeling herself with such thoughts, she raised her head to stare boldly into his black eyes. “I have not allowed you any closeness. I think you’ll find you have taken your liberties with me.”

Twisting his mouth into a wry expression, he dipped his head to her. “Touché, my sweet. But you’ve enjoyed every moment of it, haven’t you?”

Why, the high-handed, conceited—! Hannah grabbed up the velvet box, plopped the jewels into it, snapped it shut, and slapped it down on the nightstand. Stepping up to him, she pointed a finger at his chin. “I am not—nor will I ever be—your sweet. You play at seducing me with your kisses and your baubles, but we both know what you’re doing. You’ve even said what you’re about. You mean to use me to satisfy some … some imagined insult—”

His face like a thundercloud, Slade grabbed her wrists and yanked her against him. “Nothing was imagined. And it was no mere insult. The name Lawless is—”

A timid knocking on the room’s open door cut off his next words. With him, Hannah jerked her head in the direction of the sound. Olivia stood there, wide-eyed, fearful.

The downstairs maid started to say something, but Slade loosed Hannah and turned to the thin, brown-haired girl. “Be-gone. Your mistress will be with you in a moment.”

She bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, Mr. Garrett. I didn’t mean—”

“No.” Hannah slipped around Slade and put a hand out to the maid. The poor child froze in place, looking close to tears. “Please stay, Olivia. Mr. Garrett was just leaving.” She turned to glare pointedly at him.

His black eyes shot daggers at her. “As you wish, my sweet.” He eyed the open boxes scattered about the room. “I trust everything is to your liking? I guessed at your exact measurements, of course. But then again, I had a fair idea as to your contours, having held you in my arms more than once. Until tonight, then?”

Stunned at his insulting forwardness, Hannah regarded him with an icy stare. Slade turned on his heel and strode to the door, causing Olivia to flatten herself against the wall when he drew even with her. And then, with a turn to his right, he was gone.

Hannah slumped, a marionette whose strings were suddenly loosened. So much for her grand scheme to seduce him. He’d seen right through that. She put her fingers to her pounding temples and sat heavily on the bed, not caring if she crushed anything delicate under her.

“Miss? Are you all right?”

Hannah looked up, realizing she’d forgotten Olivia. The maid’s thin hands crunched and recrunched her starched apron. Hannah waved her in. “I’m fine. Please come in.”

Watching Olivia step into the room, Hannah realized something. Slade Garrett had almost blurted out his reason for hating the Lawless name. And he would have, too, had Olivia’s knocking not cut him off. Interesting. So, he could be goaded into showing his hand. Perhaps that should be her tack—instead of seducing him, she should concentrate instead on that quick temper of his. Liking that idea, and smiling more to herself than to the maid, Hannah nevertheless focused on the girl. “Close the door, please.”

“Yes, miss.” She did as ordered and then stood quietly, her hands folded in front of her, her expression hesitant.

Hannah tried to reassure her. “I’m surprised, but glad, that it’s you who answered my bell, Olivia.”

“No more surprised than I am, miss. I was polishing the silver when you rang for Mrs. Wells. But she ordered me up, saying it would be a warm January day in Boston before she’d come back in here.”

Hannah grinned, liking this girl more and more. “I feel the same way by her. Olivia, would you like to be my lady’s maid?”

The straighter she stood, the more Olivia’s eyes widened. “Me, miss? Are you sure? I’ve never been—I thought Mrs. Wells—”

“Not anymore. Not unless there are warm January days in Boston, which I doubt.” Hannah paused. May as well see what she was made of. “And not since I pulled a gun and threatened to shoot her.”

Olivia fought hard not to giggle, but finally it got away from her. “I heard as much, miss. We all did. Belowstairs, that is.”

Hannah bit down on the inside of her cheek until she no longer felt like giggling herself. She looked down at her sleeves and tugged on them. “Did you, now? And what do you think about that?”

“I was hoping you’d prove to be a good shot, miss.”

Hannah looked up, nearly choking on the laughter in her throat. She’d judged this girl correctly. Finally, someone in Boston she could come to trust. Genuinely happy for the first time since she’d stepped off the train four days ago, Hannah folded her hands together in her lap. “Before you decide, I think you should know that things could get … up-and-downish. You should also know I’ll be the one causing the ups and downs. Now, having said that, do you want the position? Oh, and I promise not to shoot you—either way you decide.”

“I appreciate that, miss. But don’t worry about a few ups and downs along the way. My life … and working here, I’m used to it.” She looked down at her hands twisted together in front of her and then looked up, now projecting a sincere attitude. “Even though you didn’t ask … I can keep a secret. I think you’re going to need someone who can.” Then, taking a deep breath, she plunged ahead. “I’ve never been a lady’s maid, but I’ll try my best.”

A sudden warmth flooding her, Hannah stood and clapped her hands together. “Well, I can’t ask for more than that, Olivia. And thank you. I’ll arrange it all with my aunt later. Oh, before I forget, tomorrow I need you to post a letter for me—without anyone knowing about it. But, right now, I need help getting dressed for this evening. Are you up to the task?”

Olivia’s eyes lit with glee. “Oh, yes, miss. This is so exciting. I just know you’ll be the most beautiful lady in the room tonight.”

*   *   *

“Good God, man, surely you’re not serious. That drowned little mouse of a sobbing waif from the other night? You intend to marry her?”

Slade looked from his formally attired reflection in his cheval glass to Dudley Ames, who was similarly dressed for the evening’s entertainment at Cloister Point. “As it turns out, that drowned and sobbing little waif is none other than Miss Hannah … Wilton … Lawless.

Slade watched in amusement as Dudley sucked in a huge breath that appeared to be inflating his eyes. Slade turned back to the mirror, making an adjustment to his gray neckcloth. “Her name does have the effect of a stomach punch, does it not?”

Dudley performed an ungainly flop onto the nearest unfortunate chair. “And here I thought your disdain for the services of a valet capped the climax.” He shook his large head and stared at his polished shoes. Then he bolted forward in the dwarfed chair. “Wilton and Lawless together can only mean one thing, Garrett.”

“Nothing slips past you, does it, my friend?” Slade drawled.

Waving off the insult, Dudley jumped to his feet, pacing the room and questioning Slade, as if he were on trial. “Does she know who you are—I mean, really know who you are—to her?”

Slade gave a final tug to his silk waistcoat as he recalled Hannah’s fainting reaction upon first learning his name. He turned to Dudley. “I have reason to think so.”

“Then, why is she here?”

Slade put his hands to his waist. “There’s only one reason why she’d show up in Boston at this particular time. You know what it is, as well as I do.”

Dudley gave that due and frowning consideration. “True. But you’d think the mother would come for her inheritance and not the daughter.”

Slade stared in silence at Dudley. But then he gave a careless shrug. “Perhaps the mother … wasn’t able.”

Dudley nodded. “And so she sent her daughter in her stead. Yes, that could be. But do you know if Hannah knows you know why she’s here?”

Slade stared at his pacing friend’s back, trying to decipher the you-knows and she-knows. When he felt sure of the relationship, he called out his answer. “Yes.”

Dudley whipped around, pointing a finger at him. “And you’ve actually ventured over to Cloister Point alone and unarmed? And she’s even residing there?” He shook his head. “Unbelievable. And neither one of you is dead yet?”

“Dudley, my mutton-chopped friend, I know you hate to hear it—because becoming one would please your mother too much—but you’d make an imposing lawyer. Rest assured, Learned Counselor, that the lady was alive when I left her a mere hour ago. And here I stand. So, obviously neither one of us is dead.”

“Hold on right there, Garrett. Something’s just occurred to me. Not about Mother, but about you.” The red-haired senator’s son put his thick finger to his wide lips and frowned in concentration. A moment later, he wagged that same finger at Slade. “You’re telling me that, in no more than”—he counted them out on his other hand—“four days, you’ve come to care enough about this girl to marry her? You can just throw aside all the years of hating J. C. Lawless?”

Slade laughed and shook his head at the openly suspicious Dudley. “Care about her? Hardly. Nor do I intend to. But I do mean to see that she falls desperately in love with me. And that, my serious friend, is the beauty of my plan. Trust me, I’ve not forgotten or forgiven J. C. Lawless.”

Dudley approached Slade, laying a hamlike hand on his shoulder. “I see your game now. You can’t do this. It’ll destroy you, as surely as it did your mother. And hurting this innocent girl won’t change anything. It won’t bring your parents back. And it won’t change the truth of their lives. Or yours.”

A cold shadow fell over Slade, turning him to emotional stone. He wrenched away from Dudley’s touch. “You go too far. Don’t presume on our friendship, lifelong though it is.”

Black eyes bored into brown. Then, slumping in defeat, Dudley stepped back and let out a labored breath. He paced a step or two and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair.

Finally, he spoke softly as he turned to Slade. “You have my apology. But as your ‘lifelong friend,’ no one is more qualified than me to say these things to you. What you’re doing is wrong. And you know it.” He thinned his lips in judgment.

When Slade remained unyielding, he heaved out his breath. “All right. I’ll not bring it up again.” In the ensuing silence between them, Dudley appeared to regroup. He gave a so-be-it nod of his head and shot Slade a playful look. “This ruse of yours could be the season’s amusement. Especially if you lose your heart to this girl. Frown if you like, but it is possible, Fate being the jokester she is.” Dudley then grinned. “Who knows? I may even prove useful to you somehow. Wouldn’t that surprise Mother?”

“Surprise her? It would put her in her grave.” The balance restored, Slade moved to his étagére, plucked his top hat off it, plopped it on his head at a jaunty angle, and turned to Dudley. “Let’s see. Do I have everything?” He patted himself down, stopping his hands at his chest. “Hold on—what’s this? No heart there. Well then, how can I lose it? Come, Dudley, let’s go engage the enemy.”

*   *   *

Hannah clamped her jaws shut to keep from saying the pretty words. She’d rather die first. Especially galling was having to admit that the blasted man seated conveniently next to her as her dinner companion was correct. She looked around her at the glittering ladies. Seeing them proved that her own gowns would have been woefully inadequate for this company.

Slade Garrett leaned over to her, speaking softly. “Oh, come now, Hannah, my sweet. Admit it—in one of your own gowns, you would have stuck out like a laying hen among songbirds. Thanking me for caring enough to save you from being a laughingstock won’t kill you.” He straightened up, sipping at his wine and keeping his amused gaze on her.

“Are you enjoying your game, Mr. Garrett?” Hannah spoke loudly, purposely drawing the attention of the diners closest to them. Smiling for them, but glaring rigidly at him, she amended, “Of course, I mean this wonderful game hen.” She stabbed her fork into the headless, plucked, gutted, and baked bird on her plate. “Exquisite, isn’t it?”

Slade dipped his head in acknowledgment that the battle was begun. With a smile resembling the curved slash of a scythe, he very deliberately set his wine glass on the white linen tablecloth. Then, revealing only to her the dangerous black lights dancing in his eyes, he otherwise became the perfect gentleman. “I’m sure the … little brown bird is exquisite. Normally I would devour such a hen. But I find, my dear, that in your presence I’ve lost my appetite.”

After allowing for an insulting space of time to elapse, he added, “For anything but you, that is. Could my affected state be because of your lovely new gown? I see that I was right about this dress. I thought when I purchased it for you that it, just like your eyes, changed color with every motion you make.”

Hannah sat openmouthed at his public and damning confession. Around her, a few of the younger men raised their glasses to her in a hearty and concurring toast. But older heads joined the feminine heads in bending together, repeating Slade’s words. Their whispers telegraphed the length of the table. Tipsy gentlemen rapped on the table with their knuckles, repeating a jolly “Hear, hear.”

Not everyone was amused by Slade’s forward words. To her left, Aunt Patience gasped. Hannah turned to her. The older woman was pale and clearly incensed at her niece’s part in this public scene. Biting at her lip, Hannah started to turn back to her hated dinner companion, but instead her attention was caught by the man across the table from her. Dudley Ames. He persisted in aiming a sappy, besotted grin her way, just as he’d been doing from the moment she’d been properly introduced to him tonight.

The huge man was sitting forward in his chair, his elbow propped on the table, his chin resting in his huge hand. With his other hand, he jabbed his finger to her right, as if pointing out to her who her enemy was. But Hannah knew. She turned her head. Slade Garrett’s attention remained riveted on her.

Hannah raised her chin a notch. He was wooing her publicly, staking his claim. And doing so boldly, insinuating he already enjoyed the lady’s favors. Thus, he insured that no other man would approach her. Or help her.

Her heart picked up its beating pace as a hush settled over the gathering of avid Brahmin. She knew without looking away from her adversary that all heads were now turned her way. An extended silken rustle told her the titillated diners were actually leaning in over the table, the better to hear her reply.

Under cover of the tablecloth, Hannah twisted her linen napkin into knots, and wished it were instead his neck in her hands. “Imagine my … delight, Mr. Garrett, over your very public appreciation of my gown. I’m afraid I must disappoint you, however. You see, I—for one—don’t particularly like this creation. I’m wearing it only because I am forced to, as you well know. And thanks to your meddling in my bedroom, I have nothing else to wear.”