Minx

by Julia Quinn

  “And is he still at Stannage Park?” Dunford wondered if perhaps she had a lover tucked away somewhere. It seemed likely enough. She was, as they had decided, an unusual young woman. She had flouted convention enough already; how much difference would a lover make?

  “Oh, no. Billy married a girl from Devon and moved away. I say, you’re not asking me all these questions just to be polite, are you?”

  “Absolutely not.” He grinned devilishly. “Of course I do hope I’m being polite nonetheless, but I really am quite interested in you.” And he was. Dunford had always been interested in people, had always wondered what made the human race tick. At his home in London, he often stared out the window for hours, just watching the people go by. And at parties he was a brilliant conversationalist, not because he tried to be, but because he was usually genuinely interested in what people had to say. It was part of the reason why so many women had fallen for him.

  It was, after all, somewhat uncommon for a man to actually listen to what a woman had to say.

  And Henry certainly wasn’t immune to his charms. It was true that men did listen to her every day, but they were people who worked for Stannage Park, in effect worked for her. No one besides Mrs. Simpson ever took the time to ask after her. Slightly flustered by Dunford’s interest, she hid her unease by adopting her usual cheeky attitude. “And what about you, my lord? Did you have an unusual upbringing?”

  “As normal as could be, I’m afraid. Although my mother and father were actually somewhat fond of each other, which is rather unusual among the ton, but other than that, I was a typical British child.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “Really?” He leaned forward. “And why is that, Miss Henrietta?”

  She took another healthy sip of her wine. “Please do not call me Henrietta. I detest the name.”

  “But I’m afraid that every time I call you Henry, it brings to mind a rather unpleasant school chum at Eton.”

  She shot him a jaunty grin. “I’m afraid that you’ll just have to adjust.”

  “You have been giving orders for too long.”

  “Perhaps, but you obviously have not been accepting them for long enough.”

  “Touché, Henry. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you managed to sidestep explaining why you doubt I had a typical upbringing.”

  Henry pursed her lips and looked down at her wineglass which, paradoxically, was still quite full. She could have sworn she’d drunk at least two glasses. She took another sip. “Well, you’re not exactly a typical man.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Indeed.” She waved her fork in the air for emphasis before drinking a bit more wine.

  “And how am I atypical?”

  Henry chewed on her lower lip, dimly aware that she had just been cornered. “Well, you’re quite friendly.”

  “And most Englishmen aren’t?”

  “Not to me.”

  His lips curved wryly. “They obviously don’t know what they are missing.”

  “I say,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “you aren’t being sarcastic, are you?”

  “Believe me. Henry, I have never been less sarcastic. You are quite the most interesting person I’ve met in months.”

  She scanned his face for signs of duplicity but found none. “I believe you mean it.”

  He bit back another smile, silently regarding the woman sitting across from him. Her expression was a delightful combination of arrogance and concern, slightly clouded by tipsiness. She was waving her fork in the air as she spoke, seemingly oblivious to the morsel of pheasant dangling perilously off the end. “Why aren’t men friendly to you?” he asked softly.

  Henry wondered why it was so easy to talk to this man, whether it was the wine or just him. Either way, she decided, the wine couldn’t hurt. She took another sip. “I think they think I’m a freak,” she finally said.

  Dunford paused at her bald honesty. “You’re certainly not that. You just need someone to teach you how to be a woman.”

  “Oh, I know how to be a woman. I’m just not the kind of woman men want.”

  Her speech was risqué enough to make him cough on his food. Reminding himself that she had no idea what she was saying, he swallowed and murmured, “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

  “I’m sure you’re lying. You yourself just said I was odd.”

  “I said you were uncommon. And that doesn’t mean that no one would want, er, be interested in you.” Then, to his horror, he realized he could be interested in her. Quite, if he let himself think about it too much. With a mental groan, he pushed the thought away. He had no time in his life for a country-bred miss. Despite her rather odd behavior, Henry wasn’t the sort of woman with whom one did anything other than marry, and he certainly didn’t want to marry her.

  Still, there was something rather intriguing about her . . .

  “Shut up, Dunford,” he muttered.

  “Did you say something, my lord?”

  “Not at all, Henry, and please don’t bother with the ‘my lord.’ I’m not used to it, and furthermore, it seems rather out of place if I’m calling you Henry.”

  “Then what should I call you?”

  “Dunford. Everyone does,” he said, unconsciously echoing her earlier words.

  “Don’t you have a first name?” she asked, surprising herself with the flirtatious tone of her voice.

  “Not really.”

  “What does that mean, ‘not really’?”

  “I suppose that officially, yes, I do have one, but no one ever uses it.”

  “But what is it?”

  He leaned forward, slaying her with another one of his lethal smiles. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes,” she retorted.

  “Not to me,” he said blithely, chewing on some pheasant.

  “You can be rather irritating, Mr. Dunford.”

  “Just Dunford, if you please.”

  “Very well. You can be rather irritating, Dunford.”

  “So I’ve been told from time to time.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.”

  “I suspect that people have occasionally commented on your abilities to irritate as well, Miss Henry.”

  Henry had to smile sheepishly. He was absolutely right. “I suppose that’s why we get on so famously.”

  “So we do.” Dunford wondered why he was so surprised to realize it, then decided there was no use wondering. “A toast, then,” he said, raising his glass. “To the most irritating twosome in Cornwall.”

  “In Britain!”

  “Very well, in Britain. Long may we irritate.”

  Later that night, as Henry was brushing out her hair for bed, she started to wonder. If Dunford was so much fun, why was she so eager to boot him off the estate?

  Chapter 3

  Henry woke the next morning with a most vexing headache. She staggered out of bed and splashed some water on her face, all the while wondering why her tongue felt so strange. Positively woolly.

  It must have been the wine, she thought, smacking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She wasn’t used to having it with dinner, and then Dunford coerced her into making that toast with him. She tried rubbing her tongue against her teeth. Still woolly.

  She pulled on her shirt and breeches, secured her hair back with a green ribbon, and made it into the upstairs hall just in time to intercept a maid who appeared to be on her way to Dunford’s room.

  “Oh, hello, Polly,” Henry said, planting herself firmly in the maid’s path. “What are you about this morning?”

  “His Lordship rang, Miss Henry. I was just going to see what he wants.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Henry gave the maid a big, close-lipped smile.

  Polly blinked. “All right,” she said slowly. “If you think—”

  “Oh, I definitely do think,” Henry inter
rupted, placing her hands on Polly’s shoulders and turning her around. “I think all the time, as a matter of fact. Now, why don’t you go find Mrs. Simpson? I’m certain she’ll have something pressing that needs doing.” She gave Polly a little push and watched as she disappeared down the stairs.

  Henry sucked in her breath as she tried to figure out what to do next. She had half a mind to turn around and ignore Dunford’s summons, but the blasted man would only pull the bellpull again, and when he asked why no one had answered his previous summons—of course Polly was going to say Henry had intercepted her.

  Taking very slow steps to allow herself time to compose a plan, she walked down the hall to his room. She lifted up her hand to knock on the door and then paused. The servants never knocked before entering rooms. Should she just enter? She was, after all, performing a servant’s task.

  But she was not a servant.

  And for all she knew, he could be naked as the day he was born.

  She knocked.

  There was a slight pause, then she heard his voice. “Enter.”

  Henry opened the door just a touch and slid her head around the corner. “Hello, Mr. Dunford.”

  “Just Dunford,” he said automatically before doing a double take, tightening his robe around his body, and saying, “Is there any particular reason you are in my chamber?”

  Henry summoned up her courage and entered the room fully, her eyes briefly flickering over his valet, who was preparing a shaving lather in the corner. She returned her gaze to Dunford, who, she noted, looked awfully good in his robe. He had very nice ankles. She’d seen ankles before; she’d even seen legs. This was a farm, after all. But his were very, very nice.

  “Henry,” he barked.

  “Oh, yes.” She straightened. “You rang.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “When did you start answering the bell? I rather thought you were in a position to pull it yourself.”

  “Oh, I am. Of course I am. I just wanted to make certain you are comfortable. It has been ever so long since we’ve had a guest here at Stannage Park.”

  “Especially one who owns the place,” he said dryly.

  “Well, yes. Of course. I shouldn’t want you to think we’re lacking in any way. So I thought I’d see to your needs myself.”

  He smiled. “How intriguing. It has been quite some time since I have been bathed by a woman.”

  Henry gulped and took a reflexive step back. “I beg your pardon.”

  His face was all innocence. “I rang to ask the maid to draw me a bath.”

  “But I thought you bathed yesterday,” she said, trying very hard not to smile. Oh, the man was not as clever as he thought. He couldn’t have given her a better opportunity if he’d tried.

  “This time I’m afraid it will have to be I who begs your pardon.”

  “Water is at a premium, you know,” she said earnestly. “We need it for the animals. They need some to drink, and now that the weather is growing warmer, we have to make certain we have enough to cool them down.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “We certainly do not have enough to bathe every day,” Henry continued blithely, getting into the spirit of her ruse.

  Dunford’s mouth tightened. “As evidenced by your lovely fragrance yesterday.”

  Henry swallowed down the urge to ball her hand into a fist and pop him one. “Exactly.” She looked over at Dunford’s valet, who appeared to be having palpitations at the thought of his employer so disheveled.

  “I can assure you,” Dunford was saying, humor not at all evident in his voice, “that I have no intention of allowing my person to smell like a pigsty during my visit to Cornwall.”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Henry replied.

  “Yesterday was a bit of an exceptional case. I was, after all, constructing a pigpen. I assure you that we allow extra baths after work in the pigpen.”

  “How positively hygienic of you.”

  Henry did not miss the sarcasm in his voice. Indeed, the veriest dullard would have found it difficult to miss. “Right. So tomorrow, of course, you will be able to bathe.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “When we get back to work on the pigpen. Today is Sunday. Even we don’t perform such demanding chores on Sunday.”

  Dunford had to work very hard not to let another acidic comment pass through his lips. It looked as if the chit were enjoying herself. Enjoying his distress, to be precise. He narrowed his eyes and regarded her a little more closely. She blinked and looked at him with an expression of pure earnestness.

  Maybe she wasn’t enjoying his distress. Maybe they didn’t have enough water to bathe every day. He had never before heard of such a problem in a well-run household, but maybe Cornwall received less rain than the rest of England.

  Hold on just a second, his brain screamed. This was England. It always rained. Everywhere. He leveled a suspicious look in her direction.

  She smiled.

  He chose his words slowly and carefully. “How often may I expect to bathe while in residence, Henry?”

  “Certainly once a week.”

  “Once a week will not be adequate,” he replied, his voice deliberately even. He saw her falter. Good.

  “I see.” She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “I suppose this is your house, so I suppose if you want to bathe with greater frequency, it is your right to do so.”

  He suppressed the urge to say, “It damn well is.”

  She sighed. It was a great, big heartfelt sigh. The annoying chit sounded as if the weight of three worlds were on her shoulders. “I shouldn’t want to take water away from the animals,” she said. “It is growing warmer, you know, and—”

  “Yes, I know. The animals need to stay cool.”

  “Right. They do. A sow died last year from heat exhaustion. I shouldn’t like that to happen again, so I suppose if you want to bathe more frequently . . .”

  She paused, quite dramatically, and Dunford wasn’t certain he wanted to know what was coming next.

  “. . . well, I suppose I could cut down on my baths.”

  Dunford recollected her rather distinct scent when they met. “No, Henry,” he said quickly, “I certainly shouldn’t want you to do that. A lady should . . . that is to say—”

  “I know, I know. You’re a gentleman down to your very toes. You don’t want to deprive a lady. But I can assure you, I am no ordinary lady.”

  “That much was never in doubt. But all the same—”

  “No, no,” she said with an expansive wave of her hand. “There is nothing else to be done. I cannot take water from the animals. I take my position here at Stannage Park very seriously, and I could not be so remiss in my duties. I shall see to it that you are able to bathe twice a week, and I—”

  Dunford heard himself groan.

  “—I will bathe every other week. ’Twill be no great hardship.”

  “For you, perhaps,” he muttered.

  “It’s a good thing I bathed yesterday.”

  “Henry,” he began, wondering how to approach this issue without being unforgivably rude. “I really don’t want to deprive you of bathwater.”

  “Oh, but this is your home. If you want to bathe twice a week—”

  “I want to bathe every day,” he ground out, “but I will content myself with twice a week, provided you do the same.” He gave up all hope of approaching the discussion politely. This was quite the most bizarre conversation he’d ever had with a female—not that Henry seemed to qualify as a female in any sense of the word with which he’d been previously acquainted. There was that beautiful hair of hers, of course, and one could not easily dismiss her silvery-gray eyes . . .

  But females simply did not engage in lengthy discussions about bathing. Especially in a gentleman’s bedroom. Especially especially when the gentleman in question was wearing nothing but a robe. Dunford liked
to think of himself as rather open-minded, but really, this was too much.

  She exhaled. “I shall consider it. If it would please you, I could check on the water stores. If it is in ample supply, I might be able to accommodate you.”

  “I would appreciate that. Very much.”

  “Right.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “Now that we have that settled, I’ll let you return to your morning ablutions.”

  “Or lack thereof,” he said, unable to summon enough enthusiasm even to twist his mouth into a wry smile.

  “It is not as bad as that. We certainly have enough water to provide you with a small basinful every morning. You’d be surprised how far that will go.”

  “I probably would not be at all surprised.”

  “Oh, but one really can achieve a measure of cleanliness with just a bit of water. I’d be happy to give you detailed instructions.”

  Dunford felt the first stirrings of humor. He leaned forward, a rakish gleam in his eye. “That could prove most interesting.”

  Henry immediately blushed. “Detailed written instructions, that is. I—I—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Dunford said, taking pity on her. Maybe she was more of a female than he thought.

  “Good,” she said gratefully. “I appreciate that. I don’t know why I brought it up. I—I’ll just go down to breakfast. You should come soon. It is our most filling meal, and you’ll need your strength—”

  “Yes, I know. You explained it in great detail last night. I had better eat well in the morning, because it’s porridge at noon.”

  “Yes. I think we have a bit of leftover pheasant, so it won’t be as austere as usual, but—”

  He held up his hand, not wanting to hear anything more about the slow starvation she had planned for him. “Say no more, Henry. Why don’t you go down to breakfast? I shall join you shortly. My ablutions, as you so gently called them, shan’t take very long this morning.”

  “Yes, of course.” She hurried out of the room.

  Henry managed to make it halfway down the hall before she had to stop and lean against the wall. Her entire body was shaking with mirth, and she could barely stand. The expression on his face when she told him he could bathe only once a week—priceless! Topped only by his expression when she told him she would bathe only every two weeks.