But Miss Ashford wouldn’t be a true wife to him. He would settle for a female body to warm his bed and someone to care for his child. A woman of refinement who could give Janna the advantages he couldn’t give her. That his bride also possessed the poise and breeding to help him get elected this September would only be an added benefit. No, theirs would be a marriage of convenience, nothing more. A business arrangement, pure and simple.

Heather Ashford.

He closed his eyes, trying to envision the genteel lady who would soon bear his name.

When the wanton angel of his recent dream drifted into his mind, Sloan cursed. The memory of her sensual lovemaking was dark and sweet… her flesh pale in the moonlight, her fair hair, wild and glorious, spilling over her naked shoulders, her ripe breasts straining for his touch… To his disgust, he felt himself getting hard again.

It had been one hell of a dream. Nothing like reality would be, he was certain. But then, he didn’t want a real woman, or a real marriage. If he had to wed again, he would rather his bride be a prim, starched-up schoolmarm like Miss Ashford. A total stranger who couldn’t touch the inner core of him. Who wouldn’t get any foolish notions about things like love.

Love wouldn’t be part of their bargain.

He could never give his heart again. It had died with his wife.

Chapter 1

St. Louis

March 1887

THE TELEGRAM BURNED a hole in her skirt pocket, its message brusque and to the point:

ARRIVING TRAIN WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON—CEREMONY THURSDAY EARLY—MUST RETURN COLORADO DIRECTLY—SLOAN MCCORD.

For a wedding arrangement, it lacked all sense of romantic flair, Heather reflected with dismay, and only served to increase her growing feeling of panic. On the morrow she would wed a total stranger.

She must be mad to consider such a step.

But if her head had once been filled with dreams of romance, she could no longer afford such luxuries. She had no one else to turn to. No one to depend on but herself.

A sheen of tears she couldn’t repress blurred her vision as she made the final rounds of her school. It had taken her years, but the conservatory for young ladies had developed an exclusive reputation, where well-bred girls learned deportment, elocution, music, and geography, as well as how to figure sums and to set a fine stitch. The elegant little clapboard house was quartered in one of the better St. Louis neighborhoods—an endeavor she had begun with such excitement and optimism what seemed like a lifetime ago.