Minx (7 page)

He made his way down the stairs, slipped around the corner, and crept through the small dining room to the—wait! Was that a light in the kitchen?

Henry.

The blasted girl was eating.

She was wearing a long, white, cotton nightgown which floated angelically around her.

Henry? An angel?

Ha!

He scooted himself against the wall and peeked around the corner, careful to keep himself in shadows.

"God," she was muttering, "I hate porridge." She shoved a biscuit into her mouth, washed it down with a glass of milk, and then picked up a slice of—was that ham?

Dunford's eyes narrowed. It certainly wasn't mutton.

Henry took another long and—from the sound of her sigh—satisfying swig of milk before she started to clean up.

Dunford's first urge was to stomp into the kitchen and demand an explanation, but then his stomach let out another loud rumbling. With a sigh he secreted himself behind an armoire as Henry tiptoed through the small dining room. He waited until he heard her footsteps on the stairs, then he ran into the kitchen and finished off the ham.

Chapter 4

“Wake up, Henry." Maryanne, the upstairs maid, gently shook her shoulders. "Henry, wake up."

Henry rolled over and mumbled something that sounded vaguely like "go away."

"But you insisted, Henry. You made me swear I'd get you out of bed at half past five."

"Mmmph, grmmph...didn't mean it."

"You said you'd say that, and that I should ignore you." Maryanne gave Henry a shove. "Wake up!"

Henry, who'd been more than halfway asleep, suddenly bolted wide awake and sat up so quickly she started to shake. "What? Who? What's going on?"

"It's just me, Henry. Maryanne."

Henry blinked. "What the devil are you doing here? It's still dark out. What time is it?"

"Half past five," Maryanne explained patiently. "You asked me to wake you up extra early this morning."

"I did?" Oh, yes... Dunford. "I did. Right. Well, thank you, Maryanne. That will be enough."

"You made me swear I'd stay in the room until you got out of bed."

She was far too smart for her own good, Henry decided as she realized she had been about to curl back up under the covers. "Right. I see. Well, nothing to it, I guess." She swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Lots of people get up this—" Yawn.

She stumbled over to her dressing table, where a clean pair of breeches and white shirt were laid out.

"You might want a jacket, too," Maryanne said. "It's chilly outside."

"It would be," Henry muttered as she pulled on her clothing. As devoted as she was to country life, she never, ever got out of bed before seven, and even that was an hour to be avoided. But if she was going to convince Dunford that he was not suited to life at Stannage Park, she was going to have to stretch the truth a bit.

She paused as she was buttoning her shirt. She did still want him to go, didn't she?

Of course she did. She strode over to a basin and splashed cold water on her face, hoping it would make her look more awake. That man had deliberately set out to charm her. It didn't matter that he'd succeeded, she thought perversely. It only mattered that he had done it deliberately, probably because he wanted something from her.

But then again, what could he possibly want from her? She had absolutely nothing he needed.

Unless of course he had realized she was trying to get rid of him and he was trying to stop her.

Henry pondered this as she pulled her hair back and fastened it like a pony's tail. He had seemed sincere when he told her he was interested in her upbringing. He was her guardian, after all, if only for a few more months. There was certainly nothing odd about a little guardianlike concern.

But was he concerned about his ward? Or about how he could suck his newfound estate dry?

She groaned. Funny how a little candlelight could make the world seem so innocent and rosy. In the harsh light of morning, she could see things more clearly.

She made a little annoyed sound in the back of her throat. Harsh light of morning, her foot. It was still dark out.

But that didn't mean she didn't realize he was up to something—even if she wasn't quite certain what exactly that was. What if he had a secret agenda of his own? Henry shuddered at the thought.

With fresh determination, she pulled on her boots, grabbed a candle, and strode out into the hall.

Dunford was staying in the master suite, only a few doors down from her own room. She took a deep breath for courage and knocked loudly on his door.

No response.

She knocked again.

Still nothing.

Did she dare?

She did.

She grasped the doorknob and turned, letting herself into his room. He was sleeping soundly. Very soundly.

Henry almost felt guilty for what she was about to do. "Good morning!" she said in what she hoped was an ingratiatingly cheerful voice.

He didn't move.

"Dunford?"

He mumbled something, but other than that there was no indication he was the least bit awake.

She stepped closer and tried again. "Good morning!"

He made another sleepy noise and rolled over to face her.

Henry caught her breath. Lord, but he was handsome. Just the sort of man who had never paid any attention to her at county dances. Without thinking, she reached out to touch his finely molded lips, then caught herself when she was but an inch away. She jerked back as if she'd been burned, an odd reaction as she hadn't even touched him.

Don't lose your courage now, Henry. She gulped and reached out again, this time toward his shoulder. She poked him gingerly. "Dunford? Dunford?"

"Mmm," he said sleepily. "Lovely hair."

Henry's hand flew to her hair. Had he been talking about her? Or to her? Impossible. The man was still asleep.

"Dunford?" Another poke.

"Smell good," he mumbled.

Now she knew he wasn't talking about her.

"Dunford, it's time to wake up."

"Be quiet, sweetie, and get back into bed."

Sweetie? Who was sweetie?

"Dunford..."

Before she realized what was happening, his hand landed heavily on the back of her neck and she tumbled into the bed. "Dunford!"

"Shhh, sweetie, kiss me."

Kiss him? Henry thought frantically. Was he crazy? Or was she crazy because for a split second she was tempted to oblige him?

"Mmm, so sweet." He nuzzled her neck, his lips trailing upward to the underside of her chin.

"Dunford," she said shakily, "I think you're still asleep."

"Mmm-hmm, whatever you say, sweetie." His hand stole around to her backside, pulling her more tightly against him.

Henry gasped. They were separated by her clothing and the blankets, but she could still feel his hardness burning against her. She had grown up on a farm; she knew what it meant. "Dunford, I think you've made a mistake..."

He seemed not to hear. His lips had moved to her earlobe, and he was nibbling sweetly, so sweetly that Henry could feel herself melting. Dear God, she was melting right here in the arms of a man who had obviously mistaken her for someone else. Not to mention the small fact that he was sort of her enemy.

But the tingles traveling up and down her spine proved far stronger than common sense. What would it feel like to be kissed? To be kissed, truly and deeply, right on the mouth? No man had ever so much as given her a peck before, and it didn't seem likely that one would anytime soon. And if she had to take advantage of Dunford's sleepy state...well, so be it. Arching her neck ever so slightly, she turned her face to his, offering him her lips.

He took them greedily, his lips and tongue moving expertly against her mouth. Henry felt the breath leave her body, felt herself straining for something more. Hesitantly, she touched her hand to his shoulder. His muscle leaped at the contact, and he groaned and pulled her closer.

So this was passion. Surely this wasn't so sinful. Surely she could allow herself to enjoy this, at least until he woke up.

Until he woke up? Henry froze. How on earth would she be able to explain this to him? Frantically, she began to struggle in his arms. "Dunford! Dunford, stop!" Summoning all her strength, she shoved against him so hard she landed on the floor with a loud thump.

"What on earth?"

Henry swallowed nervously. He sounded awake.

His face appeared over the side of the bed. "Curse it, woman! What the devil are you doing here?"

"Waking you up?" Her words came out more like a question than she would have liked.

"What the—" He uttered a word Henry had never heard, then exploded with, "For Chrissakes, it's still dark out!"

"That's when we get up around here," she said loftily, lying through her teeth.

"Well, good for you. Now get out!"

"I thought you wanted me to show you the estate."

"In the morning," he ground out.

"It is morning."

"It is still night, you miserable little hellion." He clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to get up, stride across the room, and pull open the curtains to prove to her that the sun had not yet come up. In all truth the only thing stopping him was his nakedness. His nakedness and his...arousal.

What the hell?

He looked back over at her. She was still sitting on the floor, her eyes wide with an expression that hovered somewhere between nervousness and desire.

Desire?

He looked at her a little more closely. Wisps of hair floated around her face; he couldn't imagine that someone as efficient as Henry would have arranged them that way on purpose if she were planning to spend the day outside. Her lips looked unbearably pink and slightly swollen, as if she'd just been kissed.

"What are you doing on the floor?" he asked in a very low voice.

"Well, as I said, I came in to wake you up—"

"Save it, Henry. What are you doing on the floor?"

She had the grace at least to blush. "Oh. That's a long story, actually."

"Obviously," he drawled out, "I have all day."

"Hmmm, yes, so you do." Her mind spun frantically until she realized there was nothing she could say that would be remotely plausible, even the truth. He certainly wouldn't believe he had initiated a kiss with her.

"Henry..." There was no mistaking the threat in his voice.

"Well," she stalled, deciding with a sense of dread she'd have to tell him the truth and face his horrified reaction. "I, um, I came in to wake you up, and you, um, you seem to be a rather sound sleeper." She looked up hopefully at him, praying that he might possibly decide that that was explanation enough.

He crossed his arms, obviously waiting for more.

"You... I think you mistook me for someone else," she continued, painfully aware of the blush creeping across her face.

"And who, pray tell, was that?"

"Someone you call sweetie, I'm afraid."

Sweetie? That was what he called Christine, his mistress, who was tucked away in London. An uncomfortable feeling began to form in the pit of his stomach. "And then what happened?"

"Well, you grabbed my neck, and I fell on the bed."

"And?"

"And that's all," Henry said quickly, suddenly realizing she could avoid telling the entire truth. "I shoved against you and woke you up, and in the process I fell on the floor."

His eyes narrowed. Was she leaving something out? He had always been very active in his sleep. He couldn't count the number of times he had woken up in the middle of making love to Christine. He didn't even want to think about what he might have initiated with Henry. "I see," he said in clipped tones. "I apologize for any untoward behavior committed against your person while I was asleep."

"Oh, it was nothing, I assure you," Henry said gratefully.

He looked down at her expectantly.

She looked back, an innocent smile on her face.

"Henry," he finally said. "What time is it?"

"What time is it?" she echoed. "Why, I think it must be almost six by now."

"Precisely."

"Excuse me?"

"Get out of my room."

"Oh." She scrambled to her feet. "You'll be wanting to get dressed, of course."

"I'll be wanting to go back to sleep."

"Hmm, yes, of course you will, but if you don't mind my saying so, it's highly unlikely you'll be able to fall asleep again. You might as well just get dressed."

"Henry?"

"Yes?"

"Get out."

She flew from the room.

Twenty minutes later Dunford joined Henry at the breakfast table. He was dressed casually, but Henry could tell with one glance that his clothes were far too fine for building a pigpen. She thought briefly about telling him this, then thought better of it. If he ruined his clothing, all the more reason for him to want to leave.