Minx (15 page)

Dunford knew exactly what had come over her, and he knew it had been entirely his fault. "Henry, don't worry—"

"But I do worry! You see, I don't want this to spoil our friendship, and—We are friends, aren't we?"

"Of course." He looked affronted that she had even asked.

"I know I'm being forward, but I don't want to lose you. I really like having you as my friend, and the truth is—" She let out a choked laugh. "The truth is, you're just about the only friend I've got, besides Simpy, but that really isn't the same thing, and—"

"Enough!" He couldn't bear to hear her broken voice, to hear the loneliness in her every word. Henry had always thought she led a perfect existence here at Stannage Park—she had told him as much on numerous occasions. She didn't even realize there was an entire world past the Cornwall border, a world of parties and dances and...friends.

He set his brandy snifter down on a table and crossed the room, driven simply by a need to comfort her. "Don't talk like that," he said, surprised by the sternness of his voice. He pulled her into a benign hug, resting his chin on the top of her head. "I'll always be your friend, Henry. No matter what happens."

"Truly?"

"Truly. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know." She pulled away just far enough so she could see his face. "Lots of people seem to find reasons."

"Hush up, minx. You're a funny one, but you're certainly more likable than unlikable."

She grimaced. "What a lovely way of phrasing it."

He laughed out loud as he let her go. "And that, my dear Henry, is exactly why I like you so damned much."

Dunford was preparing for bed later that night when Yates rapped on his door. It was customary for servants to enter rooms without knocking, but Dun-ford had always found that practice to be singularly unappealing when the room in question was one's bedroom, and he had instructed the Stannage Park servants accordingly.

At Dunford's answer, Yates entered the room, carrying a rather large envelope. "This arrived from London today, my lord. I placed it on the desk in your study, but—"

"But I didn't go into my study today," Dunford finished for him. He took the envelope from Yates's hand. "Thank you for bringing it up. I think it's the former Lord Stannage's will. I've been eager to read it."

Yates nodded and left the room.

Too lazy to get up to find a letter opener, Dunford slipped his index finger under the envelope flap and pulled the sealing wax apart. Carlyle's will, just as he had expected. He skimmed the document for Henry's name; he could read the rest of it at length the next day. For now his main concern was how Carlyle had provided for his ward.

He reached the third page before the words "Miss Henrietta Barrett" jumped out at him. Then, to his utter surprise, he saw his own name.

Dunford's jaw dropped. He was Henry's guardian.

Henry was his ward.

That made him a—good God, he was one of those appalling men who took advantage of their wards. The gossip mill was rife with tales of lecherous old men who either seduced their wards or sold them off to the highest bidder. If he had felt shame over his behavior that afternoon, the emotion had now tripled. "Oh, my God," he whispered. "Oh, my God"

Why hadn't she told him?

"Henry!" he bellowed.

Why hadn't she told him?

He sprang to his feet and grabbed his robe. "Henry!"

Why hadn't she told him?

By the time he made it into the hall, Henry was already there, her slender form wrapped in a faded green dressing gown. "Dunford," she said anxiously. "What is wrong?"

"This!" He practically shoved the papers in her face. "This!"

"What? What is this? Dunford, I can't tell what these papers are when you've got them plastered against my face."

"It's Carlyle's will, Miss Barrett," he bit out. "The one naming me your guardian."

She blinked. "And?"

"That makes you my ward."

Henry stared at him as if a portion of his brain had just flown out his ear. "Yes," she said placatingly, "that's usually how it works."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" Henry looked from side to side. "I say, Dunford, do we need to carry on this conversation in the middle of the hall?"

He spun on his heel and stalked into her room. She hurried after him, not at all sure that it was an advisable idea for the two of them to be alone in her bedroom. But the alternative was to have him rail at her in the hall, and that was decidedly unappealing.

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 ladyfied 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 going 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?"