Her uncertain expression held a hint of distress. “Have your circumstances changed, then? Caitlin said you needed a mother for your daughter… and a political hostess for your campaign this summer.”

“I do.”

“Then you … find me … objectionable in some way?”

Hell, yes, Sloan wanted to reply. “Let’s just say you aren’t what I expected.”

“What… did you expect?”

“Someone more suited to be a rancher’s wife. Someone less … helpless, less upper-crust.”

The faintest glimmer of wounded vulnerability shone in her beautiful golden eyes. “I know what it must look like, Mr. McCord … but despite present appearances, I am not entirely helpless. For the past five years I’ve worked for my living, running my own school.”

Sloan felt something twist in his chest and did his best to ignore it. Duchess Ashford did look helpless. That ebony silk gown made her seem fragile, in need of a man’s strength. She looked exquisitely delicate, like expensive crystal. And yet, unwillingly, he had to admire her aplomb, her dignified manner. She had recovered from an assault that would have had some ladies whimpering on the floor. And according to his sister-in-law, Heather Ashford was gamely scraping out an honest living—and repaying her father’s crushing debts to boot.

Sloan slapped his hat impatiently against his thigh. “Sure, you’ve run a fancy finishing school. But knowing how to pour tea and play the pianoforte won’t get you very far out West.”

Her chin lifted. “I can cook and sew and care for a child as well as hold teas.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I’m not the proper husband for you. I’m a cattle rancher. You’re a blue-blooded city woman. I don’t need a duchess for a wife.”

“A … duchess? I am hardly that.”

“Caitlin tells me you come from a wealthy family.”

Heather pressed her lips together as he struck a nerve. “My mother’s family was well-to-do, but that has little to say to my present circumstances. I have been living quite meagerly since my father’s passing, I assure you. Most of my worldly possessions went to pay his debts.”

Sloan frowned. “You say you still owe Randolf fifteen hundred dollars?”

“Yes … or rather, his bank.”

He winced at the reminder. He’d been forced to take out a mortgage on his ranch to raise the sum—an obligation that would put him in one hell of a precarious financial position until spring roundup when he could sell some of his beeves. But money, as big a problem as it was, wasn’t his prime worry regarding Heather Ashford. The chief problem was … her.