Minx (39 page)

His name is Dunford. That is his family name, but no one calls him by his given name. He is very nice and treats me kindly. He has told me he loves me. Naturally, I answered similarly. I thought it only polite. Of course I am marrying him for my dear, dear Stannage Park, but I do like him well enough and didn't want to hurt his feelings. I think we shall deal well together.

I haven't time to write more. I am staying in London with some of Dunford's friends and shall be here for another two weeks. After that you may send correspondence to Stannage Park; I am certain lean convince him to retire there immediately following the marriage. We shall honeymoon for a bit, I suppose, and then he will probably want to return to London. I don't particularly mind if he stays; he is, as I mentioned, a nice enough fellow. But I imagine he'll soon grow bored of country life. That will suit me well. I will be able to go back to my old life without fear of ending up someone's governess or companion. I remain

Your dear friend, Henrietta Barrett

With quivering hard Henry folded the letter and slid it into an envelope addressed "Lord Stannage." Before she had a chance to rethink her actions, she dashed down the stairs and placed it the hands of a footman with instructions to see it delivered immediately.

Then she turned around and made her way back up the stairs, each step requiring a staggering amount of energy to ascend. She made her way to her room, shut and locked her door, and laid upon her bed.

She curled up into a tight ball and stayed that way for hours.

Dunford smiled when his butler handed him the white envelope. As he picked it up off the silver tray, he recognized Henry's handwriting. It was rather like her, he thought, neat and direct with no flowery decoration.

He slit the envelope open and unfolded the note.

My dear Rosalind . . .

The silly girl had gone and mixed up her letters and envelopes. Dunford hoped he was the reason for her uncharacteristic absentmindedness. He started to refold the letter, but then he caught sight of his name. Curiosity won out over scruples, and he smoothed out the sheet of paper.

A few moments later it slipped from his numb fingers and drifted to the ground.

Of course I am marrying him for Stannage Park...

Of course I am marrying him for Stannage Park...

Of course I am marrying him for Stannage Park.. .

Dear God, what had he done? She didn't love him. She had never loved him. She probably never would.

How she must have laughed. He sank back into a chair. No, she wouldn't have laughed. Despite her calculating behavior, she wasn't cruel. She simply loved Stannage Park more than she could ever love anything—or anyone—else.

His was a love that could never be returned.

God, it was ironic. He still loved her. Even after this, he still loved her. He was so furious with her he damn near hated her, but still he loved her. What the hell was he going to do?

He staggered to his feet and poured himself a drink, oblivious to the fact that the hour had not yet slipped from morning to afternoon. His fingers clutched the glass so tightly it was a wonder it didn't break. He downed the drink, and when it did nothing to ease his pain, he drank another.

He pictured her face, his mind drawing the delicately winged eyebrows that hung over those spectacular silver eyes. He could see her hair, could detect each one of the myriad colors that made up that mane which was rather insufficiently called light brown. And then her mouth—it was always in motion, smiling, laughing, pouting.

Kissing.

He could feel her lips under his. They had been soft and full and so eager to respond. His body hardened as he remembered the sheer ecstasy of her touch. She was an innocent, yet she instinctively knew how to bind him to her with passion.

He wanted her.

He wanted her with an intensity that threatened to engulf him.

He couldn't break the engagement yet. He had to see her one last time. He had to touch her and see if he could withstand the torture of it.

Did he love her enough to go through with this marriage, knowing what he did about her?

Did he hate her enough to marry her just to control her and punish her for what she'd made him feel?

Just one more time.

He had to see her just one more time. Then he would know.

Chapter 22

"Lord Stannage is here to see you, Miss Bartlett."

Henry's heart slammed in her chest at the butler's announcement.

"Shall I tell him you're not at home?" the butler asked, noting her hesitation.

"No, no," she replied, nervously wetting her lips. "I'll be right down." Henry set down the letter she'd been penning to Emma. The Duchess of Ashbourne would probably withdraw her friendship from Henry once news of the broken engagement got out. Henry had decided she'd like to send one last piece of correspondence while she still could count Emma among her friends.

This is it, she said to herself, trying to fight the choking feeling in her throat. He hates you now. She knew she'd hurt him, perhaps just as much as he'd hurt her.

She stood, smoothing down the folds of her pale yellow morning dress. It was the one he had bought her back in Truro. She wasn't sure why she'd instructed her maid to take that one out of the closet that morning. Perhaps it was a desperate attempt to hold on to a tiny piece of her happiness.

Now she only felt foolish. As if a dress could mend her broken heart.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked out into the hall and carefully shut the door behind her. She had to act normally. It was going to be the hardest thing she'd ever done, but she was going to have to behave as if nothing were wrong. She wasn't supposed to know that Dunford had received a note meant for Rosalind, and he would be suspicious if she acted otherwise.

She reached the top of the staircase, and her foot hovered over the first step. Oh, God, she could feel the pain already. It would be so easy to turn around and flee to her room. The butler could say she was ill. Dunford had believed her to be ill the previous week; a relapse was plausible.

You have to see him, Henry.

Henry swore at her conscience and finally stepped onto the staircase.

Dunford stared out a window in the Blydons' sitting room as he waited for his fiancée to greet him.

Fiancée. What a joke.

If she hadn't told him she loved him... He swallowed convulsively. He might have been able to bear it if she hadn't lied to him.

Was he so naive to want what his friends had? Was he crazy to think a member of the ton could find a love match? Alex's and Belle's successes in that endeavor had made him hopeful. Henry's arrival in his life had made him ecstatic.

And now her betrayal had ravaged him.

He heard her walk into the room but didn't turn around, unable to trust himself until he had a stronger hold on his emotions. He kept his gaze firmly on the window. A nanny was pushing a pram down the street.

He took a ragged breath. He'd wanted her children...

"Dunford?" She sounded oddly hesitant.

"Close the door, Henry." He still didn't turn to face her...

"But Caroline..."

"I said, 'Close the door.'"

Henry opened her mouth, but no words came out. She stepped back to the door and closed it. She took no further steps into the center of the room, leaving herself poised to flee if necessary. She was a coward and she knew it, but just then she didn't much care. She clasped her hands in front of her body and waited for him to turn around. When a full minute passed without a sound or movement from him, she forced herself to say his name again.

He whirled around abruptly, surprising her with a smile on his face.

"Dunford?" She hadn't meant to whisper.

"Henry. My love." He took a step toward her.

Her eyes widened. His smile was the same one she'd always seen, the same curve on his finely molded lips and the same gleam of even, white teeth. But his eyes... oh, they were hard.

She forced herself not to step back and pasted her signature cheeky grin on her face. "What did you need to tell me, Dunford?"

"I need a specific reason to visit my fiancée?"

Surely it was her imagination that heard that slight stress on the word "fiancée."

He began to walk toward her, his long, even paces reminding her of a predatory cat. She took a few steps to the side, which was just as well, for he brushed right past her. Her head whipped up in surprise.

Dunford took two more steps to reach the door, then he turned the key in the lock.

Henry's mouth went dry. "But Dunford...My reputation... it will be in tatters."

"They'll indulge me."

"They?" she said stupidly.

He shrugged with supreme nonchalance. "Whoever it is who shreds reputations. Surely I'm allowed a little license. We're going to be married in a fortnight."

We are? her mind screamed. He was supposed to hate her. What had happened? Surely he had received her letter. He was acting so oddly. He wouldn't be looking at her with that hard expression in his eyes if he hadn't come here to break off the engagement.

"Dunford?" It seemed the only word she could make herself say. She knew she wasn't acting as she ought; she should be cheeky and flippant and everything he expected from her. But he was behaving so strangely, she didn't know what to do. She'd expected him to lose his temper, to come storming in and break off the engagement. Instead, he was quietly stalking her.

And she felt very much like a cornered fox.

"Perhaps I just want to kiss you," he said, absently brushing the cuff of his jacket.

Henry swallowed nervously and then blinked before saying, "I don't think so. If you wanted to kiss me, you wouldn't be picking lint from your jacket."

His hand stilled, hovering over the sleeve. "Perhaps you're right," he murmured.

"I—I am?" Good Lord, this wasn't going at all how it was supposed to.

"Mmmm. If I really wanted to kiss you—really, mind you—I would probably reach out, grab your hand, and pull you into my arms. That would probably be an appropriate show of affection, don't you think?"

"Appropriate," she replied, hoping her voice sounded natural, "if you really wanted to marry me." She'd given him the perfect opening. If he was going to jilt her, he'd do it now.

But he didn't. Instead, he arched a mocking brow and began to move toward her. "If I want to marry you," he murmured. "An interesting question."

Henry took a step back. She didn't mean to, but she couldn't help herself.

"Surely you're not afraid of me, Hen?" He stepped forward.

Frantically, she shook her head. This was wrong, terribly wrong. Dear Lord, she prayed, make him love me or make him hate me, but not this. Oh, not this...

"Is something wrong, minx?" He didn't sound as if he particularly cared.

"D-don't toy with me, my lord."

His eyes narrowed. "Don't toy with you? What an odd choice of words." He took another step toward her, trying to read the expression in her eyes. He didn't understand her this afternoon. He had expected her to come bounding into the room, all smiles and laughter as she usually was when he came to visit. Instead she was nervous and withdrawn, almost as if she were expecting bad news.

Which was preposterous. She couldn't have realized she'd accidentally sent him the letter meant for her dear friend Rosalind. Whoever this Rosalind person was, she didn't live in London or Dunford would have heard about her. And there was no way she could have received Henry's missive and replied in the space of one day.

"Toy with you?" he repeated. "Why do you think I would want to toy with you, Henry?"

"I—I don't know," she stammered.

She was lying. He could see it in her eyes. But for the life of him, he couldn't imagine why she would lie. What did she have to lie about? He closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath. Perhaps he was misreading her. He was so furious and still so much in love he didn't know what to think.

He opened his eyes. She was looking away, her gaze focused on a painting across the room. He could see the elegant, sensuous line of her throat...and the way one silken curl rested on the bodice of her gown. "I think I do want to kiss you, Henry," he murmured.

Her eyes flew back to his face. "I don't think you do," she said quickly.

"I think you're wrong."

"No. If you wanted to kiss me, you wouldn't be looking at me like that." She backed up a step and then scooted around a chair, trying to put some furniture between them.

"Oh? And how would I be looking at you?"

"Like... like..."

"Like what, Henry?" He rested his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned forward, his face dangerously close to hers.

"Like you want me," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Ah, but Henry, I do want you."

"No. You don't." She wanted to flee, wanted to hide, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from his. "You want to hurt me."