She was eminently successful. Sloan watched Heather enchant the company, torn between admiration for her social graces and a vague sense of guilt. The duchess was in her element here, radiating elegance and charm and aristocratic breeding. Yet by marrying her, he’d taken her away from her rightful world—the lavish social sphere of teas and balls and soirees. She deserved to be gowned in silk and diamonds, rather than the calico and crystal beads he could afford.

He was obliged to her for relinquishing that life so willingly, yet he didn’t like the obligation. Nor did he like the comparisons his mind insisted on making. In this setting at least, Heather outshone his late wife by miles. He couldn’t imagine Doe campaigning for him or holding court in a gathering of wealthy white gentlemen—or aiding the local schoolteacher’s journalistic efforts, for that matter.

Twice since the July Fourth celebration, Sloan had come home to find Heather and Vernon with their heads together, involved in a spirited discussion regarding the principles of democracy or the ramifications of a particular turn of phrase. Though intimate, there was nothing in the least sexual about their encounters. Yet on a primal level he didn’t want to explore, Sloan felt himself prodded by male possessiveness. It riled him to realize the schoolteacher was providing the duchess the intellectual stimulation she seemed to crave.

Sloan was almost grateful when one of the other guests interrupted his reflections and claimed his attention. Yet his senses remained keenly attuned to Heather behind him, so that he was aware when a tall, raven-haired man came up to greet her.

“Why, if it isn’t Miss Heather Ashford!”

“Richard!” Extending her hand, she acknowledged the newcomer warmly, and with the intimate familiarity of old friends, allowed him to draw her aside from the other guests. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“Covering the campaign. I’m with the Denver Post now. I could ask the same of you.”

“I’m here with my husband. I’m no longer Miss Ashford.”

“Of course… I’d heard you married a Westerner,” Richard said with a doleful smile. “Evan Randolf told me the unhappy news when I was in St. Louis a few months ago. It was a great disappointment to a number of people, me included. I had hoped you would wait for me.”

She laughed. “You did no such thing. You were far too busy breaking scores of female hearts to notice me.”

Her laughter brushed across Sloan’s ears like sweet music, and sent a shaft of jealousy arrowing through him—a response which only intensified as he strained to hear the man’s next words.