“Damn,” Bliss muttered.

The young maid who had come to admit her mistress’s guests took in Bliss’s dress with undisguised admiration. “Ain’t that some gown, now?” she trilled. “Did you buy that for ’er, Mr. Jamie?”

Bliss was getting damn good and sick of people acting as though she weren’t even there. She slanted a look at Jamie, only to catch him winking at the maid.

“Aye, Molly,” he freely admitted. “I did that for a fact.”

The girl cooed as she closed the door. “Ooooooh, but it’s some lovely!”

To Bliss’s way of thinking, that dress might as well have been walking around on its own, with nobody inside it, for all the notice that was being taken of her presence. “Hello,” she said firmly. “My name is Bliss Stafford McKenna and—”

The maid’s giggles pealed in the entryway like shrill little bells, and she covered her mouth with one hand and disappeared, calling out, “’E’s back, missus. Mr. Jamie’s back, and ’e’s got a lady with ’im!”

“She noticed,” Bliss marveled, half to herself, as Jamie smiled at her. He walked right into the drawing room, without so much as an invitation or a by-your-leave from anyone, and made himself at home.

Bliss hesitated, then followed. Jamie took off his cutaway coat, tossed it negligently over the back of a settee, and then sat down in a leather chair, putting his feet up on the hassock. A crystal jar full of cheroots rested on the small table beside him; he took one, along with a wooden match, and began to smoke.

“It’s customary,” Bliss pointed out stiffly, “to consult your hostess before smoking in her house.”

“Not in this case,” Jamie replied, unruffled, and then he gave a lusty sigh of contentment. “If I asked Peony, she would say no.”

Bliss hated to agree with Peony about anything, but she despised cigar smoke herself. “If she doesn’t allow smoking,” Bliss reasoned, gesturing toward the crystal decanter, “why does she provide the materials?”

Jamie smiled. “This is Molly’s work. She’s the one sees that I ’ave what I need when I visit.”

Bliss felt the color drain from her face. Of course. This house was home to Jamie. That explained why he’d sought out this room, this chair. Utter despair possessed her as various pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

There was a lump in Bliss’s throat but, nonetheless, she tried to speak normally. Running one hand over the glistening white keys of a grand piano, which stood in a far corner of the room, she assessed Jamie’s razor-sharp trouser crease and white linen shirt. “You came here to change into those clothes, didn’t you?” she asked, and despite her efforts, her voice sounded small and weak. Jamie had only everyday trousers and shirts at the hotel, the kind of things he would have worn to shear sheep.

He was just opening his mouth to respond when Peony waltzed into the room, looking quite delicious in pink and white silk. When Jamie would have risen—he’d never once shown that kind of courtesy to Bliss—the stunning blonde pressed him back into his chair by laying one white, graceful hand to his shoulder.