The smell of cinders hung in the air as the huge engine strained forward. For an instant Heather experienced a moment of panic as she wondered where Sloan was, fearing that he had neglected to board the train. But then she remembered how determined he was to return to Colorado right away. He would not have missed this train, even if it meant sharing the company of an unwanted wife.

With a sigh of resignation and perhaps wistfulness, Heather went to the car window to watch as the huge iron vehicle slowly gathered speed, carrying her to a new life. Filled with sadness and misgiving, she waved until her dear friend was out of sight.

Then she turned away from the window and sat down to await her new husband.

Chapter 4

HE WAS A long while in coming. By the time Sloan deigned to join her in the private car, dusk had fallen. The porter had lit the lamps and cleared away the tea tray he’d obligingly brought earlier.

Heather was quietly reading while occasionally sipping a glass of wine to steady her nerves, which thrummed like the vibrating iron wheels of the train.

As she looked up, her husband of a few hours shut the car door gingerly, muffling the whistle of the wind and the groaning chug-chug of the steam engine. He still wore his wedding suit, but he’d draped his buckskin overcoat over one arm and carried his hat. When Sloan turned to face her, she recognized the half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers.

Heather tensed. Sloan was staring at her watchfully, his eyes narrowed and cool. Filled with dismay, she forced her own gaze back to the leather-bound volume in her lap. Apparently he was still angry at her for accepting the use of Randolf’s private car.

Without a word, Sloan tossed his coat and hat aside and sauntered past her to settle in a crimson armchair, opposite the chaise longue where she sat. Heather caught the scent of whiskey and cigar smoke, not unpleasant, and tried to ignore it.

Several moments later, she started when his cool voice broke the silence.

“Care to tell me what you find such fascinating reading?”

She did not look up. “Emile by Rousseau. It is a treatise on education.”

“In French?” His eyebrow lifted. “So, I married a bluestocking as well as a duchess?”

Heather felt herself stiffen at the derogatory term. “Merely because a woman possesses a measure of scholarship and intellectual curiosity is no reason to be disparaging.”

“Your taste doesn’t surprise me. I didn’t think you’d be the type to prefer novels.”

She shrugged. “It serves to pass the time—considering the present lack of congenial company.”

At her barb, Sloan took a swig from the whiskey bottle.

“Should you be drinking so much?” Heather commented as she finally lifted her gaze to his.