Minx (27 page)

Dunford studiously ignored him, then flipped over his card, an ace. "Twenty-one," he said, not sounding the least bit excited at the fact that he had just won nearly a thousand pounds.

Alex leaned back and smiled broadly. "This must be your lucky night."

Dunford shoved his chair back and stood up, pushing the other cardplayers' vouchers carelessly into his pocket. "Indeed," he drawled as he made his way back to the door leading to the ballroom. "The luckiest bloody night of my life."

Henry decided that she would capture at least three more hearts before she had to leave, and she succeeded handily. It seemed so easy—she wondered why she had never before realized that men could be managed so effortlessly.

Most men, that is. The men she didn't want.

She was letting Viscount Haverly twirl her around the dance floor when she spied Dunford. Her heart missed a beat and her feet missed a step before she could remind herself that she was furious with him.

But every time Haverly turned her around, there was Dunford, leaning lazily against a pillar with his arms folded. The expression on his face did not invite the other partygoers to come over and try to engage him in conversation. He looked terribly sophisticated in his black evening clothes, unbearably arrogant, and very, very male.

And his eyes were following her, a lazy, hooded gaze—one that sent shivers up and down her spine.

The dance came to an end, and Henry sank into a respectful curtsy. Haverly bowed and said, "Shall I return you to your guardian? I see him just over there."

Henry thought of a thousand things to say—she had another partner for the next dance and he was on the other side of the room; she was thirsty and wanted a glass of lemonade; she needed to talk to Belle—but in the end she only nodded, seemingly having lost the power to speak.

"Here you are, Dunford," Haverly said with a good-natured grin as he deposited Henry by his side. "Or perhaps I should say Stannage now. I understand you've come into a title."

"Dunford is still fine," he replied with such urbane blandness that Haverly quickly stammered his goodbyes and was off.

Henry frowned. "You didn't have to scare him like that."

"Didn't I? You seem to be acquiring an unseemly number of beaux."

"I have not behaved in an untoward manner and you know it," she retorted, hot anger staining her cheeks.

"Hush, minx, you are attracting attention."

Henry thought she might cry upon hearing him use her friendly nickname in such derisive tones. "I don't care! I don't. I just want..."

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice low and intense.

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"I should think you don't want to attract attention. That might endanger your quest to become the reigning belle of the season."

"You are the one who is endangering it, scaring off my suitors like that."

"Hmmm. I shall have to rectify my damage then, won't I?"

Henry regarded him suspiciously, unable to discern his motives. "What do you want, Dunford?"

"Why, just to dance with you." He took her arm and prepared to lead her back onto the dance floor. "If only to put to rest any nasty gossip that we do not deal well with one another."

"We don't deal well with one another. Not anymore, at least."

"Yes," he said dryly, "but no one else needs to know that, do they?" He pulled her into his arms, wondering what on earth had prompted him to dance with her again. It was a mistake, of course, just as any prolonged contact with her these days was a mistake, certain only to lead to a hard and intense longing.

And this longing was moving inexorably from his body to his soul.

But the feel of her was too much to resist. The waltz allowed him to get just close enough to her to detect that maddening scent of lemons, and he inhaled it as if it would save his life.

He was coming to care for her. He recognized that now. He wanted her on his arm at these social events, not prancing around with every eligible fop, dandy, and Corinthian in London. He wanted to muck through the fields of Stannage Park, holding her hand. He wanted to lean down—right now—and kiss her until she was senseless with desire.

But she no longer desired only him. He should have snatched her up before introducing her to the ton, for now she'd had a taste of social success and was savoring the triumph. The men were flocking to her side, and she was beginning to realize that she could have her pick of husbands. And, Dunford thought grimly, he had all but promised her she could have that pick. He had to let her have the fun of being courted by dozens of beaux before making any serious attempt for her hand himself.

He closed his eyes, almost in pain. He wasn't used to denying himself anything—at least nothing he really wanted. And he really wanted Henry.

She was watching the emotions filter across his face, growing more apprehensive by the second. He looked angry, as if having to hold her was a dreadful chore. Her pride stung, she summoned up what was left of her courage and said, "I know what this is about, you know."

His eyes snapped open. "What what is about?"

"This. The way you're treating me."

The music drew to a close, and Dunford escorted her to an empty alcove where they could continue the conversation in relative privacy. "How am I treating you?" he finally asked, dreading the answer.

"Horribly. Worse than horribly. And I know why."

He chuckled, unable to help himself. "Really?" he drawled.

"Yes," Henry said, cursing herself for the slight stammer in her voice. "Yes, I do. It's that damned wager."

"What wager?"

"You know which wager. The one with Belle."

He looked at her blankly.

"That you won't get married!" she burst out, mortified that their friendship had come to this. "You bet her a thousand pounds you wouldn't get married."

"Yes," he said hesitantly, not following her logic.

"You don't want to lose a thousand pounds by marrying me."

"Good God, Henry, is that what you think this is about?" Disbelief registered on his face, in his voice, in the stance of his body. He wanted to tell her he'd gladly pay the thousand pounds to have her. He'd pay a hundred thousand pounds if he had to. He hadn't even thought of the damned bet in over a month. Not since he'd met her, and she'd turned his life upside down, and... He fought for words, not at all certain of what to say to salvage this disaster of an evening.

She was about to cry—not tears of sadness, but of hot shame and humiliated fury. When she heard the supreme disbelief in his voice, she knew—positively knew—he cared not a whit for her. Even their friendship seemed to have disintegrated in the space of an evening. It wasn't the thousand pounds that was holding him back. She was a fool for even dreaming that he was pushing her away for something as silly as a bet.

No, he hadn't been thinking about the bet. No man could have faked the surprise she'd seen and heard. He was pushing her away simply because he wanted to push her away, simply because he didn't want her. All he wanted was to get her safely married, off his hands, and out of his life.

"If you'll excuse me," she choked out, pulling desperately away from him, "I have a few more hearts to capture this evening. I'd like an even dozen."

Dunford watched as she disappeared into the crowd, never dreaming she would make her way straight to one of the ladies' retiring rooms, lock the door, and spend the next half hour in miserable solitude.

The bouquets began to arrive early the next morning: roses of every shade, irises, tulips imported from Holland. They filled the Blydons' drawing room and spilled out into the foyer. The scent was so overwhelming and pervasive that the cook even grumbled she couldn't smell the food she was preparing.

Henry was most definitely a success.

She woke relatively early the next morning. Relatively compared to the other members of the household, that was. By the time she made her way downstairs, it was nearly noon. When she reached the breakfast room, she was surprised to see a mahogany-haired stranger sitting at the table. She stopped short, startled by his presence until he looked up at her with eyes of such a bright blue that she knew he had to be Belle's brother.

"You must be Ned," she said, curving her lips into a welcoming smile.

Ned raised a brow as he stood. "I'm afraid you have the advantage over me."

"I'm sorry. I am Miss Henrietta Barrett." She held out her hand. Ned took it and regarded it for a moment, as if trying to decide whether he ought to kiss or shake it. Finally, he kissed it.

"I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Barrett," he said, "although I must confess I am at a bit of a loss as to your presence here at such an early hour."

"I am a houseguest," she explained. "Your mother is sponsoring me for the season."

He pulled out a chair for her. "Is she? I daresay you'll be a smashing success, then."

She shot him a jaunty smile as she sat. "Smashing."

"Ah, yes. You must be the reason for the bouquets in the front hall."

She shrugged. "I'm surprised your mother didn't inform you of my presence. Or Belle. She has spoken about you a great deal."

His eyes narrowed as his heart sank. "You've become friendly with Belle?" He saw all his hopes for a flirtation with this girl going up in smoke.

"Oh, yes. She is quite the best friend I have ever had." She spooned some eggs on her plate and scrunched her nose. "I do hope these are not too cold."

"They'll warm them," he replied with a wave of his hand.

Henry took a hesitant bite. "They're just fine."

"What precisely has Belle told you about me?"

"That you're quite nice, of course, most of the time, that is, and that you are trying very hard to acquire a rake's reputation."

Ned choked on his toast.

"Are you all right? Would you like some more tea?"

"I'm fine," he gasped. "She told you that?"

"I thought it was exactly the sort of thing a sister might say about her brother."

"Indeed."

"I hope I have not dashed any of your plans to make a conquest of me," Henry said blithely. "Not that I think so highly of my beauty or countenance that I imagine everyone wants to make a conquest of me. I merely thought you might be thinking about it simply for reasons of convenience."

"Convenience?" he echoed blankly.

"Seeing as how I'm living right under your roof."

"I say, Miss Barrett—"

"Henry," she interjected. "Please call me Henry. Everybody does."

"Henry," he muttered. "Of course you would be called Henry."

"It suits me better than Henrietta, don't you think?"

"I rather think I do," he said with great feeling.

She took another bite of egg. "Your mother insists upon calling me Henrietta, but that is only because your father's name is Henry. But you were saying?"

He blinked. "I was?"

"Yes, you were. I believe you said, 'I say, Miss Barrett,' and then I interrupted you and told you to call me Henry."

He blinked again, trying to recover his train of thought. "Oh, yes. I believe I was about to ask you if anyone had ever told you that you are quite frank."

She laughed. "Oh, everyone."

"Somehow that does not surprise me."

"It never surprises me either. Dunford keeps telling me there are advantages to subtlety, but I've never been able to discern them." She immediately cursed herself for bringing him into the conversation. There was no one she wanted to talk about—or even think about—less.

"You know Dunford?"

She swallowed a piece of ham. "He's my guardian."

Ned had to cover his mouth with his napkin to keep from spitting out the tea he'd been sipping. "He's your what?"" he asked disbelievingly.

"I seem to be getting similar reactions across London," she said with a puzzled shake of her head. "I gather he is not what most people would deem suitable guardian material."

"That is certainly one way to describe the matter."

"He's a terrible rake, I hear."

"That is another way to describe it."

She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling devilishly silver. "Belle tells me that you are trying to establish the exact sort of reputation he has."

"Belle talks too much."

"Funny, he said the exact same thing."

"That doesn't surprise me in the least."

"Do you know what I think, Ned? I may call you Ned, mayn't I?"

His lips twitched. "Of course."

She shook her head. "I don't think you're going to be able to carry off the rake act."

"Really?" he drawled.

"Yes. You're trying very hard, I can see. And you did say 'really' with just the right note of condescension and bored civility one would expect from a rake."

"I'm glad to see I'm living up to your standards."

"Oh, but you're not!"