“I think they are,” Henry cut in.
Dunford fixed a deadly stare on Ned. “I find myself in need of a discussion with my ward.”
“In the middle of the street?” Ned asked, his eyes wide with mock innocence. “Surely you’d rather I returned her home. Then you could speak with her in the comfort of our sitting room, with tea and—”
“Edward.” Dunford’s voice was like velvet-covered steel.
“Yes?”
“Do you remember the last time we crossed purposes?”
“Ah, but I’m much older and wiser now.”
“Not nearly as old and wise as I am.”
“Ah, but whereas you are nearing the realm of old and feeble, I am still young and strong.”
“Is this a game?” Henry asked.
“Be quiet,” Dunford snapped. “This is none of your concern.”
“Isn’t it?” Unable to believe his nerve and Ned’s sudden defection to the camp of stupid, mindless, arrogant males, she threw up her arms and walked away. The two of them probably wouldn’t even notice her absence until she was halfway down the street, so obsessed were they with their rooster-like strutting.
She was wrong.
She’d taken only three steps when a firm hand closed around the sash at her waist and reeled her back in.
“You,” Dunford said icily, “aren’t going anywhere.” He turned his gaze to Ned. “And you are. Make yourself scarce, Edward.”
Ned looked at Henry, his expression telling her that if she just said the word, he’d take her back home that instant. She doubted he could best Dunford in an out-and-out fight, although a draw was possible. But surely Dunford wouldn’t want to cause such a scene in the middle of Bond Street. Chin up, she told him so.
“Do you really believe that, Henry?” he asked, his voice low.
She nodded jerkily.
He leaned forward. “I’m angry, Henry.”
Her eyes widened as she remembered his words back at Stannage Park.
Don’t make the mistake of making me angry, Henry.
You’re not angry now?
Believe me, when I get angry you’ll know.
“Uhh, Ned,” she said quickly, “perhaps you had better leave.”
“Are you certain?”
“There is no need to play the knight in bloody shining armor,” Dunford snapped.
“You’d better go,” Henry said. “I’ll be fine.”
Ned didn’t look convinced, but he acceded to her wishes and walked stiffly away.
“What was the meaning of that?” Henry demanded, turning on Dunford. “You were deplorably rude, and—”
“Hush,” he said, looking disgustingly composed. “We’ll cause a scene, if we haven’t done so already.”
“You just said you didn’t care if we caused a scene.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t care. I merely implied that I would be willing to cause one to get what I want.” He took her arm. “Come along, Hen. We need to talk.”
“But my maid . . .”
“Where is she?”
“Right there.” She motioned to a woman standing a few paces away. Dunford went over to speak with her, and she scurried off with alacrity.
“What did you say to her?” Henry asked.
“Nothing other than that I am your guardian, and you will be safe with me.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” she muttered.
Dunford was inclined to agree with her, considering how badly he wanted to drag her back to his town house, haul her up the stairs, and have his wicked way with her. But he remained silent, partly because he didn’t care to frighten her, and partly because he realized his thoughts were sounding like a bad novel and he didn’t want his words to do the same.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“For a carriage ride.”
“A carriage ride?” she echoed doubtfully, glancing about for a carriage.
He began to walk, skillfully moving her along so she didn’t realize she was being pulled. “We are going to my house, and then we are getting into one of my carriages and riding around London, because that is just about the only place I can get you alone without utterly destroying your reputation.”
For a moment Henry forgot he had humiliated her the previous night. She even forgot that she was thoroughly furious with him, so heartened was she by his desire to be alone with her. But then she remembered. Good God, Henry, is that what you think this is about? It hadn’t been his words that were so damning; it had been the tone of his voice and the expression on his face.
She chewed nervously on her lower lip as she quickened her pace to keep up with his long strides. No, he certainly was not enamored of her, and that meant she should not be the least bit excited by the fact that he wanted to be alone with her. He most likely was planning to deliver a blistering set-down about her supposedly scandalous behavior the night before. In all truth Henry did not think she had behaved in any improper fashion, but Dunford certainly seemed to think that she had done something wrong, and no doubt he wanted to tell her precisely why.
It was with dread that she mounted the steps to his town house, and it was with even greater dread that she descended them a few minutes later on her way to the carriage. Dunford helped her up, and as she settled onto the soft cushion, she heard him tell the driver, “Go wherever you like. I’ll rap when we’re ready to be taken back to Grosvenor Square to return the lady.”
Henry scooted further back into the corner, cursing herself for her uncustomary cowardice. It wasn’t so much that she was scared of a scolding; rather, she feared the impending loss of a friendship. The bond they had forged at Stannage Park was now held together by only a few fragile threads, and she had a feeling that it would be severed altogether that afternoon.
Dunford entered the carriage and sat opposite her. He spoke sharply and without preamble. “I very specifically told you to stay away from Ned Blydon.”
“I chose not to follow your advice. Ned is a very nice person. Handsome, personable—a perfect escort.”
“That is precisely why I wanted you to keep him at arm’s length.”
“Are you telling me,” she asked, her eyes turning to steel, “that I may not make friends?”
“I am telling you,” he ground out, “that you may not consort with young men who have spent the last year going out of their way to become the worst sort of rake.”
“In other words, I may not be friends with a man who is almost, but not quite, as bad as you are.”
The tips of his ears reddened. “What I am, or rather what you perceive me to be, is irrelevant. I am not the one courting you.”
“No,” she said, unable to keep a twinge of sadness from her voice, “you are not.”
Perhaps it was the hollowness in her voice, perhaps it was simply the fact that there was not the slightest gleam of happiness in her eyes, but Dunford suddenly wanted more than anything to lean over and pull her into his arms. Not to kiss, merely to comfort. He didn’t think, however, that she would welcome such an overture. Finally he took a ragged breath and said, “I did not intend to act like such a complete bastard this afternoon.”
She blinked. “I . . . ah . . .”
“I know. There isn’t much you can say that would constitute a suitable reply.”
“No,” she said dazedly. “There isn’t.”
“It was only that I had told you very specifically to stay away from Ned, and it appeared you’d made as much of a conquest of him as you had Billington and Haverly. And Tarryton, of course,” he added acidly. “I should have realized what he was about once he started grilling me about you at the card table.”
She stared at him in amazement. “I don’t even know who Tarryton is.”
“Then we may truly count you as a success,” he said with a caustic laugh. “Only the Incomparables don’t know who their s
uitors are.”
She leaned forward a fraction of an inch, her brow furrowed and her eyes perplexed.
He had no idea what her action meant, so he leaned forward, too, and said, “Yes?”
“You’re jealous,” she said, disbelief rendering her words barely audible.
He knew it was true, but some little piece of his soul—some very arrogant and very male piece of his soul—balked at her accusation, and he said, “Don’t flatter yourself, Henry, I—”
“No,” she said, her voice growing louder. “You are.” Her lips parted with amazement, and the corners began to curve upward in an openmouthed smile.
“Well, Christ, Henry, what do you expect? You flirt with every man under the age of thirty and at least half of those older than that. You poke darling Ned in the chest, whisper in his ear—”
“You’re jealous.” She didn’t seem able to say anything else.
“Isn’t that what you intended?” he spat out, furious with himself, furious with her, furious even with the damned horses pulling his carriage.
“No!” she burst out. “No. I . . . I just wanted . . .”
“What, Henry?” he said urgently, placing his hands on her knees. “What did you want?”
“I just wanted to feel somebody wanted me,” she said in a very small voice. “You didn’t anymore and—”
“Oh, Christ!” He was across the carriage and next to her in less than a second, pulling her into his arms and crushing her against him. “You thought I didn’t want you anymore?” he said with a crazy laugh. “My God, Hen, I haven’t been able to sleep at night for wanting you. I haven’t read a book. I haven’t been to a horse race. I just lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying in vain not to imagine you’re with me.”
Henry pushed against his chest, desperately needing to put some space between them. Her mind was reeling from his incredible statement, and she just couldn’t reconcile his words with his actions of late. “Why did you keep insulting me?” she asked. “Why did you keep pushing me away?”
He shook his head in self-derision. “I’d promised you the world, Henry. I’d promised you the opportunity to meet every eligible bachelor in London, and suddenly all I wanted to do was hide you away and keep you for myself. Don’t you understand? I wanted to ruin you,” he said, his words deliberately blunt. “I wanted to ruin you so that no other man would have you.”
“Oh, Dunford,” she said softly, placing her hand on his.
He grasped it like a starving man. “You weren’t safe with me,” he said hoarsely. “You’re not safe with me now.”
“I think I am,” she whispered, placing her other hand in his. “I know I am.”
“Hen, I promised you . . . God damn it, I promised you.”
She wet her lips. “I don’t want to meet all those other men. I don’t want to dance with them, and I don’t want their flowers.”
“Hen, you don’t know what you’re saying. I’m not being fair. You should have the chance—”
“Dunford,” she interjected, giving his hands an urgent squeeze. “You don’t always have to kiss a lot of frogs to recognize a prince when you find one.”
He stared at her as if she were a priceless treasure, unable to believe the emotion shining from her eyes. It enveloped him, warmed him, made him feel he could conquer the world. He placed two fingers on the underside of her chin, tipping her face up toward his. “Oh, Hen,” he said, his voice catching oddly on the words. “I’m such an idiot.”
“No, you’re not,” she said quickly, out of reflexive loyalty. “Well, maybe a little,” she amended. “But just a little.”
He could feel his body begin to shake with silent laughter. “Is it any wonder I need you so much? You always know when I need to be brought down a peg.” He brushed a fleeting kiss against her lips. “And when I need flattery and praise.” His mouth touched hers again. “And when I need to be touched . . .”
“Like right now?” she asked, her voice quavering.
“Especially right now.” He kissed her again, this time with a gentle urgency meant to wipe any last doubts from her mind. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her body toward his, giving him silent permission to deepen the kiss.
And he did. He’d been fighting this need for her for weeks, and there was no denying the temptation of her willing body in his arms. His tongue dipped into her mouth, probing and tasting, running along the edge of her teeth—anything to bring her closer to him. His hands slid around to her back, desperately trying to feel the heat and shape of her body through the material of her dress. “Henry,” he rasped, trailing his lips across her cheek to her ear. “God, how I want you. You.” He caught her earlobe between his teeth. “Only you.”
Henry moaned, flooded with sensation, unable to speak. The last time he had kissed her, she had sensed that his heart had not been as deeply moved by the intimacy as his body. But now she could feel his love. It was in his hands, his lips; it poured forth from his eyes. He may not have said the words, but the emotion was there, almost palpable in the air. She suddenly felt as if she had permission to love him. It was all right to try to show him her feelings because he felt the same way.
She moved in his arms so she could kiss his ear the way he had hers. He flinched when she ran her tongue along the edge, and she pulled quickly away. “I’m sorry,” she said, her words rushing out in a nervous jumble. “Did I displease you? I thought that since I liked it, you might too. I only—”
He placed his hand over her mouth. “Hush, minx. It was beautiful. I just wasn’t expecting it.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” she said as soon as he moved his hand.
“Don’t apologize.” He smiled lazily. “Just do it again.”
She looked up at him, her eyes saying, Really?
He nodded and then, just to tease her, turned his head until his ear was only a few inches away. She smiled, mostly to herself, then leaned forward again, tentatively running her tongue along the lobe. Somehow it seemed too wicked to use her teeth as he had done.
He withstood the torture of her delightfully inexperienced caresses for as long as he could, but less than a minute later his desire was so hot he couldn’t stop himself from grasping her face with his hands and drawing her in for another searing kiss.
His hands plunged into her hair, pulling it wantonly free of its pins. He buried his face in it, breathing in that intoxicating scent of lemons that had been teasing him for weeks. “Why does it smell like that?” he murmured, trailing kisses along her hairline.
“Why does . . . What?”
He chuckled at the passionate fog clouding her eyes. She was such a treasure—without artifice of any kind. When he kissed her, she held nothing back. She might realize the kind of power she held over him, but he was certain she would never use it. He pinched a lock of her hair with his fingers and used it to tickle her nose. “Why does your hair smell like lemons?”
To his surprise, she blushed. “I use lemon juice when I wash my hair,” she admitted. “Viola always told me it would make it lighter.”
He looked at her indulgently. “Another piece of evidence that you possess the same failings as the rest of us, minx. Using lemons to lighten your hair. Tsk, tsk.”
“It has always been my best feature,” she said sheepishly. “That’s why I never cut it. It would have made much more sense to wear it short at Stannage Park, but I just could not bring myself to do it. I thought I might as well make the best of it, considering that the rest of me was rather ordinary.”
“Ordinary?” he said softly. “I think not.”
“You don’t have to flatter me, Dunford. I know I’m passably attractive, and I’ll admit I did look rather nice in my white gown last night, but— Oh, dear, you must think I’m dangling after compliments.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t.”
“Then you must think I’m a goose, pratt
ling on about my hair.”
He touched her face, smoothing her eyebrows with his thumbs. “I think your eyes are pools of liquid silver, and your brows are angel wings—soft and delicate.” He leaned down and brushed a feathery kiss on her lips. “Your mouth is soft and pink and perfectly shaped, with an enchantingly full lower lip and corners that always look as if they are about to turn up into a smile. And your nose—well, it’s a nose, but I must confess I have never seen one that pleased me more.”
She stared at him, mesmerized by the husky timbre of his voice.
“But do you know what is best of all?” he continued. “Underneath this delightful package are a beautiful heart, a beautiful mind, and a beautiful soul.”
Henry didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what she could say that would even approach the emotion of his words. “I . . . I . . . thank you.”
He responded by kissing her gently on the forehead.
“Do you like the smell of lemons?” she blurted out nervously. “I could stop.”
“I love the smell of lemons. Do whatever pleases you.”
“I don’t know if it works,” she said with a lopsided smile. “I’ve been doing it for so long I don’t know what it would look like if I stopped. It might look just the same.”
“Just the same would be perfect,” he said solemnly.
“But what if I stopped and my hair turned quite dark?”
“That would be perfect, too.”
“Silly man. They cannot both be perfect.”
He seized her face in his hands. “Silly woman. You are perfect, Hen. It doesn’t matter how you look.”
“I think you are quite perfect, too,” she said softly, covering his hands with her own. “I remember the first time I saw you. I thought you were the most handsome man I’d ever seen.”
He pulled her onto his lap, willing himself to be content just to cuddle her this way. He knew he couldn’t let himself kiss her even one more time. His body was aching for more, but it would have to wait. Henry was an innocent. Even more importantly, she was his innocent, and she deserved to be treated with respect. “If I recall,” he said, lazily tracing circles on her cheek, “the first time you saw me you paid considerably more attention to the pig than to me.”