Sloan inspected the dishes the porters uncovered. Then, with a gallantry she was certain mocked her, he held out her chair for her. “Will you join me, darlin’?”

Forcing a smile for the benefit of the railroad employees, she rose and went to the small table, dismayingly set for an elegant and intimate dinner for two. Heather tensed as Sloan seated her. The weight of his hand on her shoulder was heavy for a moment, like an explicit demonstration of ownership. Then he dismissed the porters and took the chair opposite her.

The fare was ample and delicious—venison cutlets in mushroom sauce, pheasant casserole, sautéed root vegetables, potatoes au gratin, green peas, and for dessert, chilled custard pudding with stewed apples and French coffee.

She should have been hungry after having eaten so little at her wedding breakfast, yet Heather merely toyed with her food, filled with nerves and tension and concern about the night to come—as well as worry about the current disastrous state of her relationship with Sloan McCord.

Their marriage had started badly from their first meeting, and didn’t seem to be improving upon further acquaintance, she reflected somberly. She found it difficult to maintain even a semblance of civility when Sloan seemed determined to keep them at dagger’s point. It rankled to have him throw her debts in her face, especially when she was already smarting from the necessity of accepting his sacrifice. A woman of fierce pride, she had vowed not to be a burden to him.

Sweet heaven, this was not the bargain she’d anticipated when she’d agreed to the marriage arrangement. Nor was Sloan McCord the kind of man she had hoped to wed.

But then … it was too much to ask for a husband who cherished her with all his soul. She had relinquished that dream long ago. And she had made her bed, so to speak. It was now time to lie in it.

Her glance went to the huge bed draped in crimson hangings. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of trepidation.

Sloan saw the direction of her gaze. Clenching his jaw, he took a final swallow of coffee, then tossed aside his napkin and rose. “If you’ll excuse me…”

She gave him a startled glance as he crossed to the door. “Where are you going?”

“The smoking car,” he threw over his shoulder. “There’s a poker game in progress.”

Her look of dismay made Sloan recall her father’s disastrous gambling habits. “I thought I might win back some of the money I paid Randolf,” he added defensively. “You can read your treatise. I doubt you’ll miss me.”

“Will you be coming back?”

His blue gaze sharpened. “You’re not worried that I might try to skip out on you?”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“I’m a man of my word, duchess. I’m not planning to abandon you.”