A Wallflower Christmas (Wallflowers #5)(30)

“It’s not very flattering,” she admitted. “Has anyone told him?”

“Yes, but he refuses to accept the fact that there are two things money can’t buy. Happiness, and real hair.”

“It is real hair,” she said. “He just didn’t happen to grow it himself.”

Bowman chuckled and guided her down another rung.

“Why isn’t he happy?” Hannah dared to ask.

Bowman considered the question for so long that they had reached the floor by the time he answered. “That’s the universal question. My father has spent his entire life pursuing success. And now that he’s richer than Croesus, he’s still not satisfied. He owns strings of horses, stables filled with carriages, entire streets lined with buildings…and more female companionship than any one man should have. All of which leads me to believe that no one thing or person will ever be enough for him. And he’ll never be happy.”

Once they were on the ground, Hannah turned to face him fully, standing in her stocking feet. “Is that your fate as well, Mr. Bowman?” she asked. “Never to be happy?”

He stared down at her, his expression difficult to interpret. “Probably.”

“I’m sorry,” she said gently.

For the first time since she had met Bowman, he seemed robbed of speech. His gaze was deep and dark and volatile, and she felt her toes curl against the bare floor. She experienced the feeling she sometimes had when she’d been out in the cold and damp, and came inside for a cup of sugared tea…when the tea was so hot that it almost hurt to drink it, and yet the combination of sweetness and searing heat was too exquisite to resist.

“My grandfather once told me,” she volunteered, “that the secret to happiness is merely to stop trying.”

Bowman continued to stare at her, as if he were intent on memorizing something, absorbing something. She felt an exquisite constriction between them, as if the air itself were pushing them together.

“Does that work for you?” he asked huskily. “The not trying?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I don’t think I can stop.” His tone was reflective. “It’s a popular belief among Americans, you know. The pursuit of happiness. It’s in our Declaration, as a matter of fact.”

“Then I suppose you have to obey it. Although I think it’s a silly law.”

A swift grin crossed his face. “It’s not a law, it’s a right.”

“Well, whatever it is, you can’t go looking for happiness as if it were a shoe you lost under the bed. You already have it, you see? You just have to let yourself be.” She paused and frowned. “Why are you shaking your head at me like that?”

“Because talking with you reminds me of those embroidered quotes they’re always putting on parlor pillows.”

He was mocking her again. If she’d been wearing a pair of sturdy boots, she would probably have kicked him in the shins. After giving him a scowl, she turned to look for her discarded shoes.

Realizing what she wanted, Bowman bent to pick up her slippers. In a lithe movement he knelt on the floor, his thighs spread. “Let me help you.”

Hannah extended her foot, and he placed the slipper on her with care. She felt the light brush of his fingers on her ankle, the smooth fire racing from nerve to nerve until it seemed her entire body was alight. Her mouth went dry. She looked down at the broad span of his shoulders, the way the heavy locks of his hair lay, the shape of his head.

He lowered her foot to the floor and reached for the other. It surprised her to feel the softness of his touch. She had not thought a large man could be so gentle. He fitted the shoe onto her foot, discovered that the top edge of the leather upper had folded under in the back, and ran his thumb inside the heel to adjust it.

At that moment, a few people entered the room. The sound of female chatter stopped abruptly.

It was Lady Westcliff, Hannah saw in consternation. How must the scene have appeared to them?

“Pardon us,” the countess said cheerfully, giving a look askance at her brother. “Are we interrupting something?”

“No,” Bowman replied, rising to his feet. “We were just playing Cinderella. Have you brought the rest of the decorations?”

“Loads of them,” came another voice, and Lord Westcliff and Mr. Swift entered the room, carrying large baskets.

Hannah realized she was in the middle of a private gathering…there was the other Bowman sister, Mrs. Swift, and Lady St. Vincent, and Annabelle.

“I’ve enlisted them all to help finish the decorating,” Lillian said with a grin. “It’s too bad Mr. Hunt hasn’t arrived yet…he would hardly need a ladder.”

“I’m nearly as tall as he is,” Bowman protested.

“Yes, but you don’t take orders nearly so well.”

“That depends on who gives the orders,” he countered.

Hannah broke in uncomfortably, “I should go. Excuse me”

But in her haste to leave, she forgot all about the A-frame ladder directly behind her. And as she turned, her foot caught on it.

In a lightning-fast reflex, Bowman grabbed her before she could fall, and pulled her against his solid chest. She felt the flex of powerful muscle beneath his shirt. “If you wanted me to hold you,” he murmured in a teasing undertone, “you should have just asked.”