Minx (8 page)

Besides, she rather doubted he owned anything suitable for building a pigpen.

He sat down across from her and grabbed a piece of toast with a movement so vicious she knew he was fuming.

"Couldn't get back to sleep?" Henry murmured.

He glared at her.

Henry pretended not to notice. "Would you like to look at the Times? I'm nearly done with it." Without waiting for him to reply, she pushed the paper across the table.

Dunford glanced down and scowled. "I read that two days ago."

"Oh. So sorry," she replied, unable to keep a trace of mischief out of her voice. "It takes a few days for the paper to get all the way out here. We're the end of the world, you know."

"So I'm coming to realize."

She suppressed a smile, pleased with how well her plans were progressing. After the bizarre scene earlier that morning, her determination to see him back in London had quadrupled. She was horribly aware of what one of his smiles did to her insides—she didn't particularly want to know what one of his kisses would do if she let it go to completion.

Well, that was not entirely true. She was dying to know what one of his kisses would do—she was just painfully certain he would never care to let her find out. The only way he was going to kiss her again was if he mistook her for another woman, and the chances of that happening twice were small indeed. Besides, Henry did have a measure of pride, even if she had conveniently forgotten about it that morning. Much as she'd enjoyed his kiss, she didn't particularly relish knowing he really wanted someone else.

Men like him didn't want women like her, and the sooner he left, the sooner she could go back to feeling good about herself.

"Oh, look!" she exclaimed, her face a miracle of cheerfulness. "The sun is coming up."

"I can hardly contain my excitement."

Henry choked on her toast. At least getting rid of him was going to be interesting. She decided not to provoke him further until he finished his breakfast. Men could be nasty on empty stomachs. At least that's what Viola had always told her. Downing a forkful of eggs, she turned her attention to the brilliant sunrise unfolding through the window. First the sky tinted lavender, then striped itself in orange and pink. Henry was certain there was no place on earth as beautiful as Stannage Park that very minute. Unable to contain herself, she sighed.

Dunford heard the noise and regarded her curiously. She was gazing, enraptured, out the window. The look of awe on her face was humbling. He had always enjoyed outdoor pursuits, but never before had he seen a human being so obviously filled with respect and wonder for the forces of nature. She was a complex woman, his Henry.

His Henry? When had he started thinking of her in possessive terms?

Since she tumbled into your bed this morning, his mind replied wryly. And stop pretending you don't remember you kissed her.

It had all come back to him while he'd been getting dressed. He hadn't meant to kiss her, hadn't even realized at the time that it was Henry in his arms. But that didn't mean he didn't remember every little detail now: the curve of her lips, the silky feel of her hair against his bare chest, the now familiar scent of her. Lemons. For some reason she smelled like lemons. He couldn't quite stop his lips from twitching as he hoped the lemony fragrance was more de rigueur than her piggy scent of the day they met.

"What's so funny?"

He looked up. Henry was regarding him curiously. He quickly schooled his features back into a scowl. "Do I look as if something is funny?"

"You did," she muttered, turning back to her breakfast.

He watched her eat. She took a bite and then returned her gaze to the window, where the sun was still painting the sky. She sighed again. She obviously loved Stannage Park very much, he reflected. More than he'd ever seen one person love a piece of land.

That was it! He couldn't believe what a fool he'd been not to have realized it before. Of course she wanted to get rid of him. She'd been running Stannage Park for six years. She'd poured her entire adult life and a good portion of her childhood into this estate. She couldn't possibly welcome interference from a total stranger. Hell, he could probably boot her off the premises if he wanted. She was no relation to him.

He'd have to obtain a copy of Carlyle's will to see the exact terms as pertained to Miss Henrietta Barrett, if there were any. The solicitor who'd come by to tell him about his inheritance...what was his name...? Leverett...yes, Leverett had said he'd forward a copy of the will, but it hadn't reached him by the time he left for Cornwall.

The poor girl was probably terrified. And furious. He glanced up at her impossibly cheerful facade. He'd wager she was more furious than terrified. "You like it here a great deal, don't you?" he asked abruptly.

Startled by his sudden willingness to actually converse with her, Henry coughed a bit before finally answering, "Yes. Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. Just wondering. One can see it in your face, you know."

"See what?" she asked hesitantly.

"Your love for Stannage Park. I was watching you while you were watching the sunrise."

"Y-you were?"

"Mmm-hmm." And that, apparently, was all he was going to say on the matter. He turned back to his breakfast and ignored her completely.

Henry worriedly chewed on her lower lip. This was a bad sign. Why would he care about how she felt unless he were somehow planning to use it against her? If he wanted revenge, nothing could be so excruciatingly painful as being banished from her beloved home.

But then again, why would he want revenge against her? He might not like her, he might even find her rather annoying, but she'd given him no reason to hate her, had she? Of course not. She was letting her imagination get the better of her.

Dunford watched her surreptitiously over his eggs. She was worried. Good. She deserved it after hauling him out of bed this morning at a most uncivilized hour. Not to mention her clever little scheme to starve him out of Cornwall. And the bathing situation— he'd have admired her for her ingenuity if her manipulations had been directed at anyone but himself.

If she thought she could push him around and eventually off of his own property, she was mad.

He smiled. Cornwall was going to be good fun indeed.

He continued to eat his breakfast with slow, deliberate bites, fully enjoying her distress. Three times she started to say something then thought the better of it. Twice she nibbled on her lower lip. And once he even heard her mutter something to herself. He thought it sounded rather like "damned fool," but he couldn't be certain.

Finally, after deciding he'd made her wait long enough, he set his napkin down and stood up. "Shall we?"

"By all means, my lord." She wasn't able to keep a trace of sarcasm out of her voice. She'd been finished with her meal for over ten minutes.

Dunford wasn't above feeling some perverse satisfaction at her irritation. "Tell me, Henry. What is first on our agenda?"

"Don't you remember? We're constructing a new pigpen."

A singularly unpleasant feeling rolled around in his stomach. "I suppose that is what you were doing when I arrived." He didn't have to add, "When you smelled so atrociously bad."

She smiled knowingly at him over her shoulder and preceded him out the door.

Dunford wasn't sure whether he was furious or amused. She was planning to lead him on a merry chase, he was sure of it. Either that or work him to the bone. Still, he figured he could outsmart her. After all he knew what she was up to, and she didn't know he had figured it out.

Or did she?

And if she did, did that mean she now had the edge?

It being barely seven in the morning, his brain refused to compute the ramifications of this.

He followed Henry out past the stables to a structure he guessed was a barn. His experience with country life had been limited to the aristocracy's ancestral seats, most of which were quite removed from anything resembling a working farm. Farming was left to tenants, and the ton usually didn't want to see their tenants unless rents were due. Hence his confusion.

"This is a barn?" he queried.

She looked stunned that he would even ask. "Of course. What did you think it was?"

"A barn," he snapped.

"Then why ask?"

"I was merely wondering why your dear friend Porkus was being kept in the stables rather than here."

"Too crowded here," she replied. "Just look inside. We have lots of cows."

Dunford decided to take her word for it.

"There is plenty of room in the stables," she continued. "We don't have very many horses. Good mounts are very expensive, you know." She smiled innocently at him, hoping he'd had his heart set on inheriting a stable full of Arabians.

He shot her an irritated look. "I know how much horses cost."

"Of course. The team on your carriage was beautiful. They are yours, aren't they?"

He ignored her and walked ahead until his foot connected with soft mushy ground. "Shit," he muttered.

"Exactly."

He glared at her, thinking himself a saint for not going for her throat.

She bit back a smile and looked away. "This is where the pigpen will be."

"So I gathered."

"Mmm, yes." She glanced down at his now not-so-elegantly clad foot and smiled. "That is probably cow."

"Thank you so much for informing me. I'm sure the distinction will prove most edifying."

"Hazards of life on a farm," she said breezily. "I'm actually surprised it wasn't cleaned up. We do try to keep clean around here."

He wanted desperately to remind her of her appearance and smell two days earlier, but even in his supreme irritation he was too much of a gentleman to do so. He contented himself to saying doubtfully, "In a pigpen?"

"Pigs are actually not as slovenly as most people think. Oh, they like mud and all that, but not..." She looked down at his foot. "...you know."

He smiled tightly. "All too well."

She put her hands on her hips and looked around.

They had started the stone wall that would enclose the pigs, but it was not high enough yet. It was taking a long time because she had insisted the foundation be particularly strong. A weak foundation was the reason the earlier pen had crumbled. "I wonder where everyone is," she muttered.

"Sleeping, if they have any idea what's good for them," Dunford replied acerbically.

"I suppose we could get started on our own," she said doubtfully.

For the first time all morning he smiled broadly and meant it. "I know less than nothing about stonemasonry, so I vote we wait." He sat down on a half-finished wall, looking quite satisfied.

Henry, refusing to let him think she thought he might be right about anything, stomped across the construction area to a pile of stones. She leaned down and picked one up.

Dunford raised his brows, well aware that he ought to help her but completely unwilling to do so. She was quite strong, surprisingly so.

He rolled his eyes. Why was he surprised about anything having to do with her? Of course she'd be able to lift a large stone. She was Henry. She could probably lift him.

He watched her as she carried the stone over to one of the walls and set it down. She exhaled and wiped her brow. Then she glared at him.

He smiled—one of his best, he thought. "You ought to bend your legs when you lift the stones," he called out. "It's better for your back."

"It's better for your back," she mimicked under her breath, "lazy, good-for-nothing, stupid little—"

"Excuse me?"

"Thank you for your advice." Her voice was sweetness personified.

He smiled again, this time to himself. He was getting to her.

She must have repeated this task twenty times before her workers finally arrived. "Where have you been?" she snapped. "We've been here ten minutes already."

One of the men blinked. "But we're early, Miss Henry."

The skin around her mouth tightened. "We start at six forty-five."

"We didn't get here until seven," Dunford called out helpfully.

She turned around and leveled a deadly stare in his direction. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"We didn't start until half past seven on Saturday," one of the workers said.

"I'm sure you're mistaken," Henry lied. "We started much earlier than that."

Another builder scratched his head. "I don't think so, Miss Henry. I think we started at half past seven."

Dunford smirked. "I guess country life doesn't begin that early after all." He neglected to mention that he tried to avoid getting up much before noon when in London.

She glared at him again.

"Why so testy?" he asked, schooling his features into a mask of boyish innocence. "I thought you liked me."

"I did," she ground out.

"And now? I'm crushed."

"Next time you might think about helping instead of watching me lug stones across a pigpen."