The Heart Breaker

by Nicole Jordan

  Heather’s three friends had seemed surprisingly awed and fascinated by her betrothed and disappointed by his insistence on catching the next train back to Colorado. Heather had been forced to explain that Sloan wished to return to his daughter and his ranch. She couldn’t, however, help but resent him a little for rushing her through the ceremony. Even if at the same time she wanted to get it over and done with.

  Her friends had exclaimed in delight over her wedding dress, a Worth gown from Paris which had belonged to her mother. Designed for a fashionable society wedding in New York, the fabulous full-skirted creation was made of ivory satin with an exquisite lace bodice and train, as well as a gossamer veil to crown her upswept hair.

  Sloan McCord’s disapproval of it was rather evident, however. And his hard, handsome face was set like granite as she murmured the words that would make her his wife. When she stole another glance at him, Heather felt her heart sink.

  She should feel excitement on this, the most special day in a woman’s life. Excitement and hope and delight. Yet all she felt was trepidation.

  She wished her father could have been present, and her mother as well. But were her father still alive, she would never have come to this difficult turning point in her life. And her mother had succumbed to an epidemic of pneumonia when Heather was fourteen, which had begun her father’s downhill spiral into despair—

  Realizing how negative and disjointed her thoughts had become, Heather raised her chin and stiffened her spine. Women had been making this sort of bargain for centuries. She would not start complaining about her lot now.

  A short while later she heard the minister pronounce them man and wife and give the groom permission to kiss the bride. Heather turned slowly, as if in a daze.

  When her new husband raised her veil, her heart seemed to stop beating. She had almost forgotten this hard man’s intensity, his potency. For a moment those mesmerizing ice-blue eyes held hers in cool challenge.

  Heather felt herself tense with nerves. She was too aware of Sloan’s body, the size and strength of it, the heat of his nearness.

  The memory of his last devastating embrace.

  She held her breath, wondering if he might repeat the episode, out of spite. She wouldn’t put it past him to create a scene to publicly embarrass her by forcing his passionate attentions on her rather than the chaste salutation expected of him.

  The brush of his lips on hers, however, was remote and impersonal, and blessedly brief.

  It was a further relief to be able to turn away and receive the congratulations of her friends.

  Winnie was smiling through tears as she hugged Heather fervently. “I am so happy for you, dear,” she whispered. “This will be for the best, you’ll see.”

  At the moment, Heather could see nothing of the kind, but she forced a smile and let Winnie lead the way to the dining room.

  The wedding breakfast was delicious—ham and fried chicken and flaky croissants, hothouse strawberries, and clotted cream. Heather, however, scarcely tasted a bite as she sat beside her new husband at the lace-covered dining table. From time to time she glanced covertly at Sloan.

  Her mother would not have approved of him, although her father might. Charles Ashford had liked independent, strong-minded men.

  Her own feelings were more nebulous and confused. Despite his remoteness toward her, she felt an attraction she could not explain. She was drawn to Sloan McCord against her will. There was something about him that called to her, something untamed and elemental.

  He had a similar effect on other females, apparently. To her dismay, her friends sat awed and spellbound as Sloan politely described some of the sights out West and recounted the dangers of a cattle drive.

  The breakfast was concluded with coffee and slices of wedding cake—an iced confection crowned with a delicate china figurine of a bridal couple. Afterward, the female guests rose to help Winnie clear the table, while the minister departed.

  Heather found herself momentarily alone with her new husband. She risked a glance at him, wondering if he felt as strange and awkward as she did. His expression was unsmiling, with no sign of warmth in those remarkable eyes.

  “Do you need help to finish packing?” he asked without inflection.

  “No, I can manage, thank you.”

  “I’ll harness Winnie’s buggy and wait for you outside, then.”

  Heather heaved a soft sigh as she watched him leave. If their marriage was to be this chilly, this polite and distant, the years ahead would be long indeed.

  Sloan escaped the stifling atmosphere of the house for the chill of the winter air. Out on the porch, he took a deep gulp as he struggled to breathe.

  The ache in his chest had started this morning even before he’d laid eyes on his stunning bride—an ache that had only grown tighter as the minister droned the fateful words that would bind him to Heather Ashford in marriage. The ceremony itself resembled his first wedding, but he’d felt none of the love, the joy, the intimacy he’d known the first time.

  This time he had wed a stranger. They had less than nothing in common, starting with their social stations. Hell, that fancy wedding gown of Heather’s must have cost a fortune, a far cry from Doe’s simple white buckskin dress embroidered with beads....

  Sloan shut his eyes, missing Doe as if a knife were buried in his chest. But that part of his life had ended brutally the day she died. All he could do now was hoard his precious memories and try to make it through each day. With his new bride.

  Sloan clenched his teeth. He badly needed a stiff whiskey, but he would have to wait till they boarded the train and he could find the smoking car. For now he was stuck, he thought bleakly as he headed for the livery down the street where Winnie’s buggy and team were stabled.

  The duchess was now his wife, for better or worse.

  Surprisingly she did not take long to change. By the time he returned, she wore a traveling suit of black velvet relieved only by a small spray of dried white flowers on the lapel.

  He collected her two valises and secured them to the back of the buggy, then forced himself to wait patiently while she said tearful good-byes to her friends. Since Winifred was to accompany them to the train depot, he helped the elderly lady into the vehicle, then did the same with Heather, before taking his own place next to her in the driver’s seat.

  With the three of them, it was a snug fit, and he didn’t like the close proximity to his bride. The sweet scent of her rose up to tease his nostrils, and he couldn’t control his physical response as his loins clenched.

  Sloan set his jaw hard. This woman was his wife now. He had a right to touch her if he wanted. But he didn’t want to.

  It was barely a half mile to the station. He’d bought tickets for the bottom berth of a Pullman sleeper, yet the conductor intercepted them as they started to board the train.

  “You are Mr. Sloan McCord?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sir, ma’am, I’ve a personal message from Mr. Randolf.” When Sloan reached for it, the conductor held back. “Mr. Randolf told me to give it to the lady directly.”

  Curious, Heather accepted the envelope of hotpressed blue paper, addressed to Mrs. Sloan McCord. She faltered at the strange title, but then broke the seal and read the note penned in a bold, elegant hand.

  Mrs. McCord,

  My behavior toward you yesterday was reprehensible and inexcusable, I freely admit. Indeed, I deserve to be horsewhipped. Perhaps it is too much to ask your forgiveness, but I would be honored if you would accept the use of my private car as a wedding gift, by way of apology.

  I must respect your choice, my dearest Heather, though I fear I am not yet sanguine enough to wish you joy in your marriage. I can only trust he will be as good to you as I would have striven to be. However, I shall count myself your friend always and beg you to call on me should ever you find yourself in need.

  Yours forever fondly,

  Evan Randolf

  Heather felt her expression soften. E
van was acknowledging her marriage and asking her forgiveness, showing far more generosity than she expected of him.

  “What does he say?” Winnie asked.

  Realizing both Winnie and Sloan McCord were watching her, she looked up to find those arresting blue eyes fixed intently on her. “Mr. Randolf wishes to loan us his private car.”

  “How thoughtful,” Winnie remarked.

  “Tell Mr. Randolf,” Sloan said to the conductor, “that my wife and I cannot accept.”

  Heather felt herself stiffen at his peremptory tone. “It is a wedding gift. He means it as an apology.”

  Winnie’s brow wrinkled. “Actually, it might be rude to refuse.”

  “Indeed it would,” Heather insisted, “which is why I don’t intend to.”

  Sloan visibly clenched his teeth. “Then we’ll pay for its use.”

  Heather stared at him in bewilderment, but received only a cold glance in return.

  “Can you see Mrs. McCord to her quarters?” Sloan asked the conductor. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode off toward the ticket office.

  “Oh, dear,” Winnie said worriedly. “Perhaps that was a mistake. I forgot how stubborn male pride can be.”

  Heather repressed an even sharper remark, unwilling to discuss her conflict with her husband with the conductor looking on.

  The conductor escorted them to a car toward the rear of the train. Once inside, Heather caught her breath at the ornate decoration. Gold wall sconces and gilded mirrors adorned the beige silk walls, while the brocade bed hangings and velvet chaise longue were hued a deep crimson.

  “Oh, my,” was all Winnie said about such decadence.

  Heather could only stare at the huge bed, thinking of her wedding night still to come.

  The conductor set down her valises. “The train will depart in half an hour, ma’am.”

  When he was gone, Winifred toured the car’s length, inspecting the furnishings in detail.

  “I must admit this is a treat for me,” she said, shaking her head. “It isn’t often I get to board an iron horse, and even more rare that I get to see such riches. That Randolf does have excellent taste—but what a waste of good money.”

  She kept up a trivial chatter to set Heather at ease, for which Heather was infinitely grateful. She regretted when the time came for Winnie to go.

  They both shed tears as they clung to each other, knowing they would not see each other for a long while.

  “I don’t like to leave you like this,” Winnie said, sniffing.

  “I’ll be fine, truly.”

  “I’ll miss you dreadfully, dear.”

  “And I you, Winnie. I can never repay you for all you’ve done for me.”

  “Pooh, it was nothing more than you would have done for me.”

  When the train whistle blew another long and piercing blast, Winnie stepped down from the car and stood on the platform, hand raised to wave good-bye.

  The smell of cinders hung in the air as the huge engine strained forward. For an instant Heather experienced a moment of panic as she wondered where Sloan was, fearing that he had neglected to board the train. But then she remembered how determined he was to return to Colorado right away. He would not have missed this train, even if it meant sharing the company of an unwanted wife.

  With a sigh of resignation and perhaps wistfulness, Heather went to the car window to watch as the huge iron vehicle slowly gathered speed, carrying her to a new life. Filled with sadness and misgiving, she waved until her dear friend was out of sight.

  Then she turned away from the window and sat down to await her new husband.

  Chapter 4

  He was a long while in coming. By the time Sloan deigned to join her in the private car, dusk had fallen. The porter had lit the lamps and cleared away the tea tray he’d obligingly brought earlier.

  Heather was quietly reading while occasionally sipping a glass of wine to steady her nerves, which thrummed like the vibrating iron wheels of the train.

  As she looked up, her husband of a few hours shut the car door gingerly, muffling the whistle of the wind and the groaning chug-chug of the steam engine. He still wore his wedding suit, but he’d draped his buckskin overcoat over one arm and carried his hat. When Sloan turned to face her, she recognized the half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers.

  Heather tensed. Sloan was staring at her watchfully, his eyes narrowed and cool. Filled with dismay, she forced her own gaze back to the leather-bound volume in her lap. Apparently he was still angry at her for accepting the use of Randolf’s private car.

  Without a word, Sloan tossed his coat and hat aside and sauntered past her to settle in a crimson armchair, opposite the chaise longue where she sat. Heather caught the scent of whiskey and cigar smoke, not unpleasant, and tried to ignore it.

  Several moments later, she started when his cool voice broke the silence.

  “Care to tell me what you find such fascinating reading?”

  She did not look up. “Emile by Rousseau. It is a treatise on education.”

  “In French?” His eyebrow lifted. “So, I married a bluestocking as well as a duchess?”

  Heather felt herself stiffen at the derogatory term. “Merely because a woman possesses a measure of scholarship and intellectual curiosity is no reason to be disparaging.”

  “Your taste doesn’t surprise me. I didn’t think you’d be the type to prefer novels.”

  She shrugged. “It serves to pass the time—considering the present lack of congenial company.”

  At her barb, Sloan took a swig from the whiskey bottle.

  “Should you be drinking so much?” Heather commented as she finally lifted her gaze to his.

  His mouth curled mockingly at her question. “Not only a bluestocking, a reformer in the bargain.”

  “They mean to serve dinner in a short while.”

  “I know. It comes with the car. I paid for it.”

  She fell silent, but Sloan felt her gaze searching his face. Still riled at the unnecessary expense of the private car, he averted his own gaze to survey his surroundings. The fancy accommodations had put him further in debt, to the tune of several hundred dollars. It was masculine pride that had spurred him to refuse Randolf’s gift. That, and a desire to quash the baron’s efforts at manipulation. He wanted to be rid of the man for good, to get him out of Heather’s life entirely. Didn’t want him having anything to do with his wife. Heather belonged to him now. Whether he wanted her or not.

  She was still looking at him, her brow furrowed with concern. “How much did you spend for the car?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “I want to know how much more I’m obligated to you.”

  “Three hundred dollars.”

  She made a small sound of dismay. “So much?”

  “You’re the one who insisted on accepting it.”

  “But you didn’t have to pay for it. There was no need.”

  “There was every need. I won’t be indebted to a man like Randolf.”

  “Evan meant the use of his car as a wedding gift, an acknowledgment of our long acquaintance.”

  “No. He meant it to keep you bound to him. He still thinks he has a claim to you.” Sloan’s gaze scorched her. “You’re my wife now, duchess, and I’ll thank you to remember it.”

  Heather’s spine straightened. “I thought you were the one who wished to forget it.”

  “I don’t reckon I can manage that, considering I paid fifteen hundred dollars for the privilege of marrying you.”

  “How kind of you to remind me.”

  Their gazes clashed, blue warring with gold.

  “I intend to repay every penny of my debt to you,” Heather replied tautly.

  Sloan’s mouth curled with skepticism. “And just how do you mean to do that?”

  “Perhaps I can take in sewing or mending, or tutor ranchers’ children.”

  “You’ll be too busy with my ranch and my daughter to think about doing chore
s for anyone else. And come summer, the senate race will be starting.”

  “That may be so. But I have no intention of letting that debt hang over my head forever—or having you think I mean to live off your charity.”

  Fortunately for the sake of peace, two porters arrived just then bearing silver trays with their dinner. Heather would have preferred to eat in the dining car to avoid being alone with her disagreeable husband, but short of creating a scene, she would have to endure his company.

  Sloan inspected the dishes the porters uncovered. Then, with a gallantry she was certain mocked her, he held out her chair for her. “Will you join me, darlin’?”

  Forcing a smile for the benefit of the railroad employees, she rose and went to the small table, dismayingly set for an elegant and intimate dinner for two. Heather tensed as Sloan seated her. The weight of his hand on her shoulder was heavy for a moment, like an explicit demonstration of ownership. Then he dismissed the porters and took the chair opposite her.

  The fare was ample and delicious—venison cutlets in mushroom sauce, pheasant casserole, sautéed root vegetables, potatoes au gratin, green peas, and for dessert, chilled custard pudding with stewed apples and French coffee.

  She should have been hungry after having eaten so little at her wedding breakfast, yet Heather merely toyed with her food, filled with nerves and tension and concern about the night to come—as well as worry about the current disastrous state of her relationship with Sloan McCord.

  Their marriage had started badly from their first meeting, and didn’t seem to be improving upon further acquaintance, she reflected somberly. She found it difficult to maintain even a semblance of civility when Sloan seemed determined to keep them at dagger’s point. It rankled to have him throw her debts in her face, especially when she was already smarting from the necessity of accepting his sacrifice. A woman of fierce pride, she had vowed not to be a burden to him.

  Sweet heaven, this was not the bargain she’d anticipated when she’d agreed to the marriage arrangement. Nor was Sloan McCord the kind of man she had hoped to wed.