He shut the door firmly, then turned on her again. “Why,” he asked, his voice laced with barely controlled fury, “didn’t you tell me that you were my ward?”
“I thought you knew.”
“You thought I knew?”
“Well, why wouldn’t you?”
He opened his mouth, then shut it. Hell, the chit had a point. Why didn’t he know? “You still should have told me,” he muttered.
“I would have if I’d even dreamed you didn’t know.”
“Oh, God, Henry,” he groaned. “Oh, God. This is a disaster.”
“Well,” she bristled, “I’m not that dreadful.”
He shot her an irritated look. “Henry, I kissed you this afternoon. Kissed you. Do you understand what that means?”
She looked at him dubiously. “It means you kissed me?”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook. “It means—Christ, Henry, it’s practically incestuous.”
She caught a lock of her hair between her fingers and began to twirl. The movement was meant to calm her nerves, but her hand was jerky and cold. “I don’t know if I would call it incestuous. It certainly isn’t that much of a sin. Or at least I don’t think so. And since we’ve both agreed it isn’t going to happen again—”
“Curse it, Henry, will you be quiet? I’m trying to think.” He raked his hand through his hair.
She drew back, affronted, and clamped her mouth shut.
“Don’t you see, Henry? You’re now my responsibility.” The word fell distastefully from his lips.
“You’re too kind,” she muttered. “I’m not so bad, you know, as far as responsibilities go.”
“That’s not the point, Hen. This means . . . Hell, it means . . .” He let out a short bark of ironic laughter. Only a few hours earlier he’d been thinking he’d like to take her to London, to introduce her to his friends and show her that there was more to life than Stannage Park. Now it seemed he had to. He was going to have to give her a season and find her a husband. He was going to have to find someone to teach her how to be a lady. He glanced down at her face. She still looked rather irritated with him. Hell, he hoped whoever lady-fied her didn’t change her too much. He rather liked her the way she was.
Which brought him to another point. Now, more than ever, it was imperative that he keep his hands off her. She’d be ruined as it was if the ton found out they’d been living unchaperoned here in Cornwall. Dunford took a ragged breath. “What the hell are we going to do?”
The question had obviously been directed at himself, but Henry decided to answer it anyway. “I don’t know what you’re going to do,” she said, hugging her arms to her chest, “but I’m not going to do anything. Anything other, that is, than what I’ve already been doing. You’ve already admitted I’m uniquely qualified to oversee Stannage Park.”
His expression said that he regarded her as hopelessly naive. “Henry, we both can’t stay here.”
“Why ever not?”
“It isn’t proper.” He winced as he said it. Since when had he become such a stickler for propriety?
“Oh, pish and bother propriety. I don’t give a whit for it, in case you hadn’t—”
“I noticed.”
“—noticed. It makes no sense in our case. You own the place, so you shouldn’t have to leave, and I run it, so I cannot leave.”
“Henry, your reputation . . .”
That seemed to strike her as uproariously funny. “Oh, Dunford,” she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes, “that’s rich. That is rich. My reputation.”
“What the devil is wrong with your reputation?”
“Oh, Dunford, I haven’t got a reputation. Good or bad. I’m so odd, people have enough to talk about without worrying about how I act with men.”
“Well, Henry, perhaps it is time you started thinking about your reputation. Or at the very least, acquiring one.”
If Henry hadn’t been so puzzled by his odd choice of words, she might have noticed the steely undertone to his voice. “Well, the point is moot anyway,” she said breezily. “You have been living here for over a week already. If I had been worried about a reputa—that is to say, my reputation, it would be well past destroyed.”
“Nonetheless, I will procure rooms at the local inn on the morrow.”
“Oh, don’t be silly! You didn’t give two figs about the impropriety of our living arrangements this past week. Why should you now?”
“Because,” he bit out, his temper badly strained, “you are now my responsibility.”
“That is quite the most asinine reasoning I have ever encountered. In my opinion—”
“You have too many opinions,” he snapped.
Henry’s mouth fell open. “Well!” she declared.
Dunford began to pace the room. “Our situation cannot remain as such. You cannot continue to carry on like a complete hoyden. Someone is going to have to teach you some manners. We’ll have to—”
“I cannot believe your hypocrisy!” she burst out. “It was all very well for me to be the village freak when I was just an acquaintance, but now that I’m your responsibility—”
Her words died a swift death, for Dunford had grabbed her by the shoulders and pinned her against the wall. “If you call yourself a freak one more time,” he said in a dangerous tone, “for the love of God I will not be held responsible for my actions.”
Even in the candlelight she could see the barely leashed fury in his eyes, and she gulped with a healthy dose of fear. Still, she had never been terribly prudent, and so she continued, albeit in a much lower voice. “It does not reflect well upon your character that you did not care about my reputation up to this point. Or does your concern extend only to your wards, not your friends?”
“Henry,” he said, a muscle twitching in his neck, “I think the time has come for you to stop talking.”
“Is that an order, oh, dear guardian?”
He took a very deep breath before replying. “There is a difference between guardian and friend, although I hope I may be both to you.”
“I think I liked you better when you were just my friend,” she muttered belligerently.
“I expect that will be so.”
“I expect that will be so,” she mimicked, not in the least trying to hide her ire.
Dunford’s eyes began to search the room for a gag. His gaze fell upon her bed, and he blinked, suddenly realizing what an idiot he must have sounded, preaching on about propriety when he was standing here in her bedroom, of all places. He looked over at Henry and finally noticed she was wearing her dressing gown—her dressing gown! And it was frayed and torn in places and showed altogether too much leg.
Suppressing a groan, he moved his gaze to her face. Her mouth was clamped shut in a mutinous line, and he suddenly thought that he’d really like to kiss her again, harder and faster this time. His heart was pounding for her, and he realized for the first time what a thin line there was between fury and desire. He wanted to dominate her.
Thoroughly disgusted with himself, he turned on his heel, strode across the room, and gripped the doorknob. He was going to have to get out of this house fast. Yanking the door open, he turned to her and said, “We will discuss this further in the morning.”
“I expect we shall.”
Later Henry reflected that it was probably for the best that he’d left the room before hearing her retort. She didn’t think he’d been desirous of a reply.
Chapter 9
The rest of Henry’s new dresses arrived the next morning, but she donned her white shirt and breeches just to be contrary.
“Silly man,” she muttered as she yanked on her clothing. Did he think he would be able to change her? To turn her into a delicate vision of femininity? Did he think she would simper and bat her eyelashes and spend her days painting watercolors?
“Ha!” she barked out. He wasn’t g
oing to have any easy time of it. She wouldn’t be able to learn to do all those things even if she wanted to. With her unwilling, it was past impossible.
Her stomach growled impatiently, so Henry pulled on her boots and made her way down to the breakfast room. She was surprised to see that Dunford was already there; she had gotten up exceptionally early, and he was one of the only people she knew who was less of a morning person than she.
His eyes raked over her costume as she sat down, but she couldn’t discern even a flicker of emotion in their chocolatey depths. “Toast?” he said blandly, holding out a platter.
She plucked a piece off the plate and set it down in front of her.
“Jam?” He held out a pot of something red. Raspberry, Henry thought absently, or maybe currant. She didn’t really care which, just started spreading it on her toast.
“Eggs?”
Henry set down her knife and spooned some scrambled eggs onto her plate.
“Tea?”
“Will you stop!” she burst out.
“Just trying to be solicitous,” he murmured, dabbing discreetly at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “I can feed myself, my lord,” she bit out, reaching inelegantly across the table for a plate of bacon.
He smiled and took another bite of his food, aware of the fact that he was goading her and enjoying it immensely. She was miffed at him. She didn’t like his proprietary attitude. Dunford rather doubted anyone had ever told her what to do in her entire life. From what he’d heard of Carlyle, the man had given her an indecent amount of freedom. And although he was certain she’d never admit it, Dunford had a feeling Henry was a little upset that he hadn’t given a thought to her reputation until now.
On that score, Dunford reflected resignedly, he was guilty. He’d been having so much fun learning about his new estate that he hadn’t given a thought to his companion’s unmarried status. Henry comported herself so, well, oddly—there was really no other word for it—that it just hadn’t occurred to him that she was (or should be) bound by the same rules and conventions as the other young ladies of his acquaintance.
As these thoughts passed through his mind, he began to tap his fork absently against the table. The monotonous sound went on until Henry looked up, her expression telling him she was absolutely convinced his sole purpose in life was to vex her.
“Henry,” he said in what he hoped was his most affable tone. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Have you? How very prodigious of you.”
“Henry . . .” His voice held an unmistakable air of warning.
Which she ignored. “I have always admired a man who attempts to broaden his mind. Thinking is a good starting point, although it might tax you—”
“Henry.”
This time she shut up.
“I was thinking . . .” He paused, as if daring her to make a comment. When she wisely did not, he continued. “I should like to leave for London. This afternoon, I think.”
Henry felt an inexplicable knot of sadness ball up in her throat. He was leaving? It was true that she was annoyed with him, angry even, but she didn’t want him to go. She was becoming accustomed to having him around.
“You’re coming with me.”
For the rest of his life Dunford wished he had had some way of preserving the expression on her face. Shock did not describe it. Neither did horror. Neither did dismay nor fury nor exasperation. Finally she spluttered, “Are you insane?”
“That is a distinct possibility.”
“I am not going to London.”
“I say you are.”
“What would I do in London?” She threw up her arms. “And even more importantly, who will take my place here?”
“I’m sure we can come up with someone. There is no end of good servants at Stannage Park. After all, you trained them.”
Henry chose to ignore the fact that he had just paid her a compliment. “I’m not going to London.”
“You don’t have a choice.” His voice was deceptively mild.
“Since when?”
“Since I became your guardian.”
She glared furiously at him.
He took a sip of his coffee and assessed her over the rim of his cup. “I suggest you don one of your new gowns before we depart.”
“I told you, I’m not leaving.”
“Don’t push me, Henry.”
“Don’t push me!” she burst out. “Why are you dragging me off to London? I don’t want to go! Don’t my feelings count for anything?”
“Henry, you’ve never been to London.”
“There are millions of people in this world, my lord, who live perfectly happy lives without ever setting one foot in our nation’s capital. I assure you I am one of them.”
“If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
She rather doubted that. She certainly wouldn’t put it past him to tell a few white lies to get her to bend to his will. She decided to try a different tactic. “Taking me to London isn’t going to solve my chaperonage dilemma,” she said, trying to sound levelheaded. “In fact, leaving me here is a much better solution. Everything will go back to the way it was before you arrived.”
Dunford sighed wearily. “Henry, tell me why you don’t want to go to London.”
“I’m too busy here.”
“The real reason, Henry.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I just—I just don’t think I would enjoy it. Parties and balls and all that. It’s not for me.”
“How do you know? You’ve never been.”
“Look at me!” she exclaimed in humiliated fury. “Just look at me.” She stood and motioned to her attire. “I would be laughed out of even the most undiscriminating of drawing rooms.”
“Nothing that a dress wouldn’t fix. Didn’t two of them arrive just this morning, by the way?”
“Don’t mock me! It is much deeper than that. It’s not just my clothing, Dunford, it’s me!” She gave her chair a frustrated kick and moved to the window. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart, but it didn’t seem to work. Finally she said in a very low voice, “Do you think I would amuse your London friends? Is that it? I have no desire to become some sort of freak-show entertainment. Are you going to—”
He moved so swiftly and silently she didn’t even realize he’d changed places until his hands were on her, whirling her around to face him. “I believe I told you last night not to refer to yourself as a freak.”
“But that’s what I am!” Henry was mortified by the catch in her voice and the tears trailing down her cheeks, and she tried to wriggle out of his grasp. If she had to act the weak fool, couldn’t he let her do it in private?
But Dunford held firm. “Don’t you see, Henry?” he said, his voice achingly tender. “That is why I’m taking you to London. To prove to you that you’re not a freak, that you’re a lovely and desirable woman, and any man would be proud to call you his own.”
She stared at him, unblinking, barely able to digest his words.
“And any woman,” he continued softly, “would be proud to call you her friend.”
“I can’t do it,” she whispered.
“Of course you can. If you put your mind to it.” He let out a rich chuckle. “Sometimes, Henry, I think you can do anything.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said softly.
Dunford let his hands drop to his sides and walked over to the adjacent window. He was stunned by the depth of his concern for her, amazed at how badly he wanted to repair her self-confidence. “I can hardly believe this is you speaking, Henry. Is this the same girl who runs what is possibly the best-tended estate I have ever seen? The same girl who boasted to me she could ride any horse in Cornwall? The same girl who took a decade off my life when she stuck her hand in an active beehive? After all that, it is difficult to imagine that London will present much of a
challenge to you.”
“It’s different,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“Not really.”
She didn’t answer.
“Did I ever tell you, Henry, that when I met you I thought you were the most remarkably self-possessed young woman I had ever met?”
“Obviously I’m not,” she said, choking on the words.
“Tell me this, Hen. If you can supervise two dozen servants, take charge of a working farm, and build a pigpen, for God’s sake, why do you think you won’t be up to the task of a London season?”
“Because I can do all that!” she burst out. “I know how to ride a horse, and I know how to build a pigpen, and I know how to run a farm. But I don’t know how to be a girl!”
Dunford was shocked into silence by the vehemence of her reply.
“I don’t like doing anything if I don’t do it well,” she bit out.
“It seems to me,” he began slowly, “that all you need is a little practice.”
She shot him a scathing look. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not. I’ll be the first to admit I thought you didn’t know how to wear a dress, but look how well you did with the yellow frock. And you obviously have very good taste when you choose to exert it. I do know a thing or two about ladies’ fashion, you know, and the dresses you chose are lovely.”
“I don’t know how to dance.” She crossed her arms defiantly. “And I don’t know how to flirt, and I don’t know who should sit next to whom at a dinner party, and—and I didn’t even know about port!”
“But Henry—”
“And I won’t go to London to make a fool of myself. I won’t!”
He could only watch as she raced from the room.
Dunford set the date of their departure back by a day, recognizing that there was no way he could push Henry any further while she was in such a state and still live with his conscience. He walked quietly by her room several times, his ears straining for signs that she was crying, but all he heard was silence. He never even once heard her moving about.
She didn’t come down for the noonday meal, which surprised him. Henry did not have a delicate appetite, and he rather thought she would be famished by now. She had not, after all, had the chance to eat very much of her breakfast. He wandered down to the kitchen to ask if she’d requested a tray to be sent up to her room. When he was informed she had not, he cursed under his breath and shook his head. If she did not appear for supper, he’d go up to her room and drag her down himself.