He tilted back his hat further, his expression grim as he gave her the full force of his blue-ice gaze. “Tell me, ma’am, did I interrupt anything important with your gentleman friend?”

“No … Evan … he was merely … disappointed when I refused his offer of marriage.”

McCord seemed to consider her reply. “Cat told me I had competition. But I have to say…” His mouth pressed together in a tight line. “My sister-in-law neglected to tell me one hell of a lot else.”

Chapter 2

IT WAS ALL Sloan could do to rein in his rioting emotions as he stared at his promised bride. The longing he’d felt when he’d finally gotten a good look at her had been instantaneous, blinding, overpowering. Her familiarity was baffling.

She was his sensual dream lover in the flesh.

Except that in his dream those pale, champagne-blonde tresses had cascaded over her bare shoulders, caressing her luscious breasts, her taut nipples. Now that silky hair was sculpted in a sleek chignon. And now her face was no longer obscured by the night shadows of a dream, or the concealing brim of a bonnet.

He intended to throttle his sister-in-law, Sloan thought grimly. Passable, hell. If Heather Ashford’s looks were merely passable, he was the king of England.

He was stunned by her beauty. She was exquisite in the cool, ethereal way of a goddess, with that delicate, oval-shaped face, that slender, patrician nose, that perfect, porcelain skin.

Lust coiled and tightened in his gut. He couldn’t blame that bastard Randolf for wanting her.

Her eyes were alluring, the shade not quite brown but the rich gold of sherry. Her lips were red and lush and velvety as rose petals. And her smile … soft, tentative, vulnerable. Sloan felt his heart kick against his ribs as she offered him an apologetic smile.

“Forgive me for my rudeness, sir. I … I’m afraid you find me at a loss. Would you care to be seated?”

Sloan swore under his breath. She was still quivering with fear, her cheeks flushed with mortification, yet she was trying to put him at ease. He would rather see her flushed with passion.

The thought came unbidden: Would she make love the way she had in his dream? The memory of her moving over him, her lush, silken body surrounding him, made him hard in an instant as another tide of unexpected, unwanted arousal hit him.

Damn, he’d gone too long without a woman. And this wasn’t just any woman. Miss Heather Ashford was a lady of breeding all the way down to her lace drawers. She reminded him of royalty, with her gracious manners and her precise, elegant voice. Proud, aristocratic, no doubt very cold and correct. And as helpless as a newborn calf. She couldn’t even cross a city street or fend off an unwanted suitor on her own. Sure as hell not what he was looking for in a wife.