His gaze swept her form slowly, with a vague suggestion of scorn, as though he recognized her as the helpless, inept widgeon he’d rescued from the path of a runaway carriage. Heather flushed, hoping the wide brim of her bonnet hid her mortification.

“You are my hero, sir,” the young lady murmured in breathless praise, demanding his attention.

Suddenly an ironic half-smile curled the corner of his mouth. It was the kind of smile that made sensible women do foolish things, Heather realized, one that softened his hard features with breathtaking effect and invited others to share his amusement.

He was evidently accustomed to females swooning at his feet. That rueful, rough charm called out to her, even across the crowded thoroughfare, and she found her heart skipping a violent beat.

“I declare, Mama, I cannot walk another step,” the girl complained faintly, even as she gazed slyly up at her rescuer and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “You cannot make me get into that carriage again. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Is there a doctor nearby?” the stranger asked, his voice holding only the slightest hint of resignation.

“At the next corner,” the girl’s mother proclaimed.

“Then allow me, miss.”

With little effort, he swung the girl up in his arms. She looked perfectly happy to cling to his neck as he strode off with a long purposeful stride, not glancing back.

Heather stood there a moment, willing her heart to calm down. She was about to move on when an elegant landau drew up beside her.

She needed no one to tell her the stunning pair of matched grays belonged to Evan Randolf. The wealthy railroad magnate prized good horseflesh even more than beautiful women, and his stables were the finest in three states.

Evan was a handsome man, with dark hair and eyes, fashionably luxuriant sideburns, and a well-trimmed mustache. When he opened the carriage door for her, she saw that he wore an exquisitely tailored fawn frock coat. But then, he was never seen in public without being impeccably attired. An acquaintance of her late father, Evan was a spoiled and arrogant millionaire who was saved from sheer ruthlessness by a genuine charm and a keen intelligence she knew better than to underestimate. Although he moved in the most elevated circles of St. Louis society and could have his pick of beautiful socialites, he had struck on the misguided notion that she, Heather Ashford, would make him an ideal wife.

Descending from the carriage with elegant grace, he tipped his bowler to her in greeting. “Are you on your way home, my dear?” he asked with a hint of a British accent that betrayed his aristocratic origins. “Permit me to escort you.”

“That won’t be necessary, Evan,” Heather replied politely. “It is only a few blocks more.”