Feeling himself tense, Sloan forced himself to shrug. “Not so well. I think marrying her was a mistake.”

“Are you complaining?”

Yes, he was complaining. It had hurt, seeing the duchess sitting at his table tonight, as mistress of his home. Taking Doe’s place.

He sucked in a deep breath to ease the raw ache of memory. “Cat tricked me, saddling me with a tenderfoot. Duchess Ashford doesn’t know a mule’s tail about ranching.”

“She seems a game one, though.”

“Game enough, I suppose.”

“And she seems to like kids.”

Sloan nodded unwillingly. His fears had eased a bit, watching Heather’s gentle smile when she’d greeted his daughter. She was good with Janna, he’d give her that much. He’d been worried as hell that she’d hold the same prejudice most white women had against Indian blood.

“She’s not your usual type, I’ll admit,” Jake added with a fond note of humor. “A mite above your touch, I’d say. You don’t find a combination like that often—a lady who’s such a prime eyeful.”

It was a puzzle, Sloan reflected, how a well-bred gentlewoman of such grace and elegance could arouse a man’s lustful urges. His unwanted bride had the kind of looks that made a man think of rustling silk and fragile crystal … and hot sex.

She was a grown man’s fantasy. Everything about her was profoundly sensual, from her champagne locks, to the chiseled perfection of her exquisite face, to her ripe, luscious body.

“You can’t tell me you found your wedding night a hardship,” Jake prodded.

“I can,” Sloan retorted.

As if to make a liar of him, his body responded powerfully to the remembrance of Heather naked and writhing beneath him. He wanted to deny the fierce passion that had exploded between them, but the memory of how she tasted, how she felt, how she responded, wouldn’t fade.

The consummation had been a mistake, he knew that now. He’d thought he could bed Heather and be done with it. Yet he hadn’t counted on his own lack of control. Hadn’t realized that after taking her, he’d want her even more.

Thank God he’d been able to mask his want. With the anguish of the past year, he had plenty of experience hiding his thoughts behind a hard face and expressionless eyes. Even if he couldn’t detach himself from the dull throb of guilt that reverted in his chest afterward.

“I’m not sure I see what the trouble is,” Jake kept up.

“She’s not Doe,” Sloan replied, his tone brusque. “That’s the trouble.”