“What if I don’t?” The corners of his mouth kicked up in amusement. “You gonna rap my knuckles and send me off to the woodshed like one of your wayward pupils?”

“I might at that.”

He crossed his arms over his chest but obediently stopped moving. “Very well, your highness, I’ll be good.”

“Your grace.”

“What?”

“I believe the proper form of address for a duchess is ‘your grace.’ Not that you give a fig about proper social deportment, but if you’re elected senator, you’ll likely find yourself in situations which will require you to exercise polite manners.”

Sloan chuckled. “I can be polite if I have to. Even if you think I’m an… uncivil, ill-tempered ogre. Isn’t that what you once called me?”

“I suppose you have managed to improve on further acquaintance.”

“So have you. You’re not so full of starch and vinegar.” He reached around her and palmed the bustle of her skirt. “You wearing drawers today?”

Heather jerked the scissors back. “Yes!”

“Too bad.” Sloan regarded the table where he’d taken her with such sizzling passion. “A bare bottom might make this ordeal more fun.”

Trying to steel herself against the insidious warmth curling around her heart, Heather glanced at his young daughter, who was playing quietly in her corner. “Will you behave, Sloan McCord?”

“Yes, ma’am, if you insist.” He grinned and the effect was dazzling. “But I get a reward afterward.”

Heather turned away in dismay. His lighthearted mood was more dangerous than his savage temper. When he was like this, it was too easy to love him, to need him, to want his arms around her.

And yet finding those small chinks in Sloan’s defensive armor heartened her. She desperately wanted to counter his reserve and chip away at his coldness, to draw out his softer side and win his trust.

At least he no longer saw her as his enemy. He actually seemed grateful for her efforts with Janna. And surprisingly, he didn’t fly into a rage when he was reminded poignantly of his beloved late wife.

That afternoon, they were leaving to pay calls at all the neighboring ranches when Janna insisted on carrying the raven-haired doll Heather had brought her from St. Louis.

“Want Va-va,” Janna babbled when Sloan picked her up, reaching down toward her basket of toys.

“What’s she saying?” he asked. “She wants water?”

“No,” Heather replied. “Her doll. We named it after her mother, but she can’t pronounce the words fully.”

When Sloan went rigid, Heather regarded him warily.

“Mehe-vaotseva … that was Doe’s Cheyenne name, was it not?”

His gaze hardened. “Who told you that?”

“Rusty.”

Sloan stared at her, and she could see pain in his eyes at some long-ago memory.

“You said,” she added softly, “that you didn’t want Janna to forget her heritage.”