Minx (16 page)

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 ally 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.

As it happened, such drastic measures were not necessary, for Henry appeared in the drawing room at teatime, her eyes slightly red-rimmed but nonetheless dry. Dunford stood immediately and motioned to the chair next to him. She flashed him a grateful smile, probably because he'd resisted the temptation to make a crack about her behavior that morning.

"I-I am sorry for making such a cake of myself at breakfast," she said. "I assure you I am ready to discuss the matter like a civilized adult. I hope we can do so."

Dunford thought wryly that part of the reason he liked her so well was that she was so unlike any of the civilized adults he knew. And he hated this overly correct speech of hers. Maybe taking her to London would be a mistake. Maybe society would beat the freshness and spontaneity out of her. He sighed. No, no, he'd keep an eye on her. She wouldn't lose her sparkle; in fact, he'd make sure she shone even more brightly. He glanced over at her. She looked nervous. And expectant.

"Yes?" he said, inclining his head slightly.

She cleared her throat. "I thought—I thought perhaps you could tell me why you want me to come to London."

"So you may come up with logical reasons why you should not go?" he guessed.

"Something like that," she admitted, with just the barest hint of her signature cheeky smile.

Her honesty—and the sparkle in her eyes—quite disarmed him. He smiled back at her, another one of those devastating grins, and was gratified to see her lips part slightly in reaction. "Please sit," he said, motioning again to the chair. She sat down, and he followed suit. "Tell me what you want to know," he said with an expansive motion of his arm.

"Well, to start with, I think—" She stopped, her expression one of utmost consternation. "Don't look at me that way."

"What way?"

"Like...like..." Dear Lord, had she been about to say like you're going to devour me? "Oh, never mind."

He smiled again, hiding this one beneath a cough and his hand. "Do go on."

"Right." She looked at his face, then decided that that was a mistake as he was far too handsome and his eyes were glinting and—

"You were saying?" he was saying.

Henry blinked herself back into reality. "Right. I was saying, um, what I was saying is that I'd like to know what exactly you hope to accomplish by taking me to London."

"I see."

He didn't say anything more, which so irritated her that she was finally compelled to retort, "Well?"

Dunford had clearly been using the delay to frame a response. "I suppose I hope to accomplish many things," he replied. "First and foremost, I'd like you to have a bit of fun."

"I can have—"

"No, please," He held up a hand. "Let me finish, and then you shall have your turn."

She nodded rather imperiously and waited for him to continue.

"As I was saying, I'd like for you to have some fun. I think you might enjoy a bit of the season if you would only let yourself. You are also badly in need of a new wardrobe, and please do not argue with me on that score because I know you know you're sadly lacking in that area." He paused.

"Is that all?"

He couldn't help but chuckle. She was so eager to argue her case. "No," he said. "I was merely pausing for breath." When she did not smile at his teasing, he added, "You do breathe from time to time, don't you?"

This earned him a scowl.

"Oh, all right," he capitulated. "Tell me your objections thus far. I'll finish when you're done."

"Right. Well, first of all, I have lots of fun here in Cornwall, and I see no reason why I need to travel across the country to look for more fun. It seems deuced paganish to me."

"Deuced paganish?" he echoed in disbelief.

"Don't laugh," she warned.