Minx

by Julia Quinn

  He loved her.

  He could feel her quickening beneath him. She began to twist, and odd little sounds were escaping her mouth. Then she cried out his name, every ounce of her energy in that single word.

  The sensation of her clenching around him pushed him over the edge. “Oh, my God, Henry!” he shouted, unable to control his thoughts, his actions, or his words. “I love you!”

  Henry went utterly still, a thousand thoughts racing through her mind in the space of a second.

  He said he loved her.

  She could see him at the dress shop, gently insisting she try on gowns for his nonexistent sister.

  Could he mean it?

  She remembered him in London, overcome with jealousy because she had taken a stroll with Ned Blydon, of all people.

  Could he love her and still need other women?

  She saw his face, filled with intense tenderness as he asked her if she wanted him. I won’t do this unless you want me, he’d said.

  Could those possibly be the words of a man who wasn’t in love?

  He loved her. She no longer doubted it. He loved her, but she still wasn’t enough of a woman for him. Lord, it was almost more painful than thinking he didn’t love her at all.

  “Henry?” Dunford’s voice was hoarse, still raw with spent passion.

  She touched his cheek. “I believe you,” she said softly.

  He blinked. “What do you believe?”

  “You.” A tear welled up in her eye and slid down her temple to disappear in the pillows beneath her. “I believe you love me.”

  He stared at her, dumbfounded. She believed him? What the hell did that mean?

  She had turned her head so she didn’t have to look at his face. “I wish . . .” she began.

  “What do you wish, Henry?” Dunford asked. His heart thudded in his chest, somehow recognizing that its very fate hung in the balance.

  “I wish . . . I wish I could . . .” She choked on her words, wanting to say, “I wish I could be the woman you need,” but unable to admit her shortcomings in so vulnerable a position.

  It mattered not, anyway. Dunford never would have heard her completed sentence, for he was already on his feet and halfway out the door, not wanting to hear her pity as she said, “I wish I could love you, too.”

  Henry awoke the next morning with a fierce pounding in her temples. Her eyes ached, probably from a night of crying. She staggered over to the washstand and splashed some water on her face, but it did little to ease her pain.

  Somehow she had managed to botch up her wedding night. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Some women were born knowing the womanly graces, and it was time she accepted that she wasn’t one of them. It had been foolish of her even to try. She thought wistfully of Belle, who always seemed to know what to say and how to dress. But it went deeper than that. Belle had some inborn sense of femininity that, no matter how hard the lovely baroness tried, she couldn’t teach to Henry. Oh, Belle had told Henry that she had made great strides, but Henry knew that Belle was simply too kind to say anything else.

  Henry walked slowly to the dressing room that connected the two larger bedrooms of the master suite. Carlyle and Viola had not preferred separate bedrooms, so one of the rooms had been converted into a sitting room. Henry supposed that if she didn’t want to spend every night with Dunford she would have to have another bed moved into the suite.

  She sighed, knowing she did want to spend her nights with her husband and hating herself for it.

  She stepped into the dressing room, noting that someone had already unpacked the dresses she’d brought back from London. She supposed she would have to hire a lady’s maid now; many of the dresses were nearly impossible to don without assistance.

  She pushed past the dresses to the small pile of men’s clothing that had been neatly folded and left on a shelf. She picked up a pair of breeches. Too small for Dunford—they must be one of the pairs she had left behind.

  Henry fingered the breeches, then looked up longingly at her new dresses. They were lovely—every shade of the rainbow and fashioned of the softest materials imaginable. Still, they had been made for the woman she had hoped to be, not the woman she was.

  With a painful swallow, Henry turned her back on the dresses and stepped into her breeches.

  Dunford glanced impatiently at the clock as he ate his breakfast. Where the hell was Henry? He’d been down for nearly an hour.

  He put another forkful of his now cold eggs into his mouth. They tasted dreadful, but he didn’t notice. He kept hearing Henry’s voice; it was so loud it seemed to obliterate his other senses.

  I wish I could . . . I wish I could . . . I wish I could love you.

  It wasn’t difficult to complete her sentence for her.

  He heard the sound of her footsteps on the stairs and stood before she even appeared in the doorway. When she did appear she looked tired, her face pinched and drawn. He looked her up and down insolently; she was wearing her old attire, her hair pulled back like a pony’s tail.

  “Couldn’t wait to get back to work, eh, Henry?” he heard himself say.

  She nodded jerkily.

  “Just don’t wear those things off the property. You are my wife now, and your behavior reflects upon me.” Dunford heard the derision in his voice and hated himself for it. He had always loved Henry’s independent spirit, had always admired that sense of practicality that led her to wear men’s clothing while working on the farm. Now he was trying to hurt her, trying to make her feel the same pain she’d squeezed around his heart. He knew that, and it disgusted him.

  “I will try to comport myself appropriately,” she said in a cold voice. She looked down at the plate of food that had been set in front of her, sighed, and pushed it away.

  Dunford raised a brow in question.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Not hungry? Oh, come now, Henry, you eat like a horse.”

  She flinched. “How kind of you to point out one of my many feminine attributes.”

  “You’re not exactly dressed for the part of lady of the manor.”

  “I happen to like these garments.”

  Dear God, was that a tear he saw forming in her eye? “For God’s sake, Henry, I—” He raked his hand through his hair. What was happening to him? He was becoming a man he didn’t much like. He had to get out of here.

  Dunford stood. “I’m leaving for London,” he said abruptly.

  Henry’s head whipped up. “What?”

  “Today. This morning.”

  “This morning?” she whispered, so softly that there was no way he possibly could have heard her. “The day after our wedding night?”

  He strode from the room, and that was that.

  The next few weeks were lonelier than Henry ever could have imagined. Her life was much the same as it had been before Dunford had entered it—with one colossal exception. She had tasted love, held it fleetingly in her hands, and for one second had touched pure happiness.

  Now all she had were her big, empty bed and the memory of the man who had spent one night there.

  The servants treated her with exceptional kindness—so exceptional that Henry thought she might break under the weight of their solicitousness. She wished they would stop treading on eggshells and start treating her like the old Henry, the one who had romped about Stannage Park in breeches without a care, the one who hadn’t known what she was missing by burying herself in Cornwall.

  She heard what they said: “God rot his soul for leaving poor Henry alone” and “a body shouldn’t be that lonely.” Only Mrs. Simpson was forthright enough actually to pat Henry on the arm and murmur, “Poor ducky.”

  A lump had formed in Henry’s throat at Simpy’s consoling words, and she ran off to hide her tears. And when she had no more tears she threw herself into her work at Stannage Park.

  The estate, she sai
d to herself with pride but not much contentment a month after Dunford left her, had never looked better.

  “I’m giving this back.”

  Dunford looked from his glass of whiskey to Belle to the pile of money she had dumped in front of him and back to Belle. He raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s the thousand pounds I won from you,” she explained, irritation with him written clearly on her face. “I believe the wager called for you to be ‘tied up, leg-shackled, and loving it.’ ”

  This time he raised both eyebrows.

  “You are clearly not ‘loving it,’ ” Belle all but snapped.

  Dunford took another sip of his whiskey.

  “Will you say something!”

  He shrugged. “No. Clearly, I am not.”

  Belle planted her hands on her hips. “Have you anything to say? Anything that might explain your atrocious behavior?”

  His expression turned to ice. “I fail to see how you might be in any position to demand explanations from me.”

  Belle stepped back, her hand covering her mouth. “What have you become?” she whispered.

  “A better question,” he bit off, “would be: ‘What has she made me?’ ”

  “Henry couldn’t have done this. What could she possibly have done to have made you so cold? Henry is the sweetest, most—”

  “—mercenary woman in my acquaintance.”

  Belle let out a sound that was half laugh, half exhalation, and pure disbelief. “Henry? Mercenary? Surely you’re jesting.”

  Dunford sighed, aware that he’d been somewhat unfair to his wife. “Perhaps ‘mercenary’ is not quite the most appropriate word. My wife . . . She . . .” He held out his hands in a gesture of accepted defeat. “Henry will never be able to love anything or anyone as much as she loves Stannage Park. It doesn’t make her a bad person, it just makes her . . . it makes her . . .”

  “Dunford, what are you talking about?”

  He shrugged. “Have you ever experienced unrequited love, Belle? Other than being on the receiving end of it, I mean.”

  “Henry loves you, Dunford. I know she does.”

  Wordlessly, he shook his head.

  “It was so obvious. We all knew she loved you.”

  “I have a letter written in her own hand that would attest otherwise.”

  “There must be some mistake.”

  “There is no mistake, Belle.” He let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. “Other than the one I made when I said, ‘I will.’ ”

  Belle paid Dunford another visit after he’d been in London for a month. He wished he could have said he was delighted to see her, but the truth was there wasn’t anything that could have lifted him out of his melancholy.

  He saw Henry everywhere. The sound of her voice echoed in his head. He missed her with a fierceness that was painful. He despised himself for wanting her, for being so pitiful that he loved a woman who would never return his feelings.

  “Good afternoon, Dunford,” Belle said in crisp greeting as she was shown into his study.

  “Belle.” He inclined his head.

  “I thought you might like to know that Emma was safely delivered of a baby boy two days ago. I thought Henry might like to know,” she said pointedly.

  Dunford smiled for the first time in a month. “A boy, eh? Ashbourne had his heart set on a girl.”

  Belle softened. “Yes, he’s been muttering that Emma always manages to get what she wants, but he’s as proud as a papa can be.”

  “The baby is healthy, then?”

  “Big and pink, with a thick patch of black hair.”

  “He’ll be a terror, I’m sure.”

  “Dunford,” Belle said softly, “someone should tell Henry. She’ll want to know.”

  He looked at her blankly. “I’ll write her a note.”

  “No,” Belle said, her voice stern. “She should be told in person. She’ll be very happy; she’ll want to celebrate with someone.”

  Dunford swallowed. He wanted to see his wife so very badly. He wanted to touch her, to hold her in his arms and inhale the scent of her hair. He wanted to hold his hand over her mouth, so she couldn’t say any more damning words, and make love to her, pretending all the while that she loved him back.

  He was pathetic, he knew, and Belle had just come up with a way for him to go to Cornwall without sacrificing what was left of his pride. He stood.

  “I’ll tell her.”

  Belle’s relief was so obvious it was almost as if she deflated on her chair.

  “I’ll go to Cornwall. She needs to be told about the baby. She’ll want to know,” he reasoned. “If I don’t go and tell her, I don’t know who will.” He looked over at Belle, almost as if asking for her approval.

  “Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “If you don’t go, I don’t see how she’ll find out. You really must go.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said distractedly. “I really must. I have to go see her. I really don’t have a choice.”

  Belle smiled knowingly. “Oh, Dunford, don’t you even want to know the baby’s name?”

  His expression was sheepish. “Yes, that would be helpful.”

  “They named him William. After you.”

  Chapter 24

  Henry was shoveling slop.

  Not that she much liked shoveling slop. She never had. She had always felt that, as the person in charge of Stannage Park, she should take part in the day-to-day chores of the estate. But she had never before been so democratic as to force herself to do the messiest tasks.

  But now she didn’t mind it so much. The physical activity kept her mind blessedly blank. And when she tumbled into bed in the evening, her muscles were so sore she fell right asleep. It was a blessing, that. Before she’d decided upon exhaustion as a cure for heartbreak, she’d lain awake for hours, staring at the ceiling. Staring, staring, staring—but seeing nothing aside from her failed life.

  She thrust her shovel into the mess, trying to ignore the clumps that splattered onto her boots. She focused her mind on how nice a bath would feel that afternoon. Yes, a bath. A bath with . . . lavender. No, rose petals would smell nice. Did she want to smell like roses?

  Henry spent most of her afternoons like this, desperately trying to think about anything besides Dunford.

  She finished her chores, put the shovel away, and walked slowly back to the house, heading for the servants’ entrance. She was a mess, and if she tracked any of the slop on the front hall carpet, they’d never be able to get the stench out.

  A maid was standing on the steps, feeding a carrot to Rufus. Henry asked her to see to her bath, leaning down to give the rabbit a pat on the head. She then pushed open the door, unable to muster the energy to call out her customary hello to Mrs. Simpson. She smiled faintly at the housekeeper, reached for an apple, took a bite, then looked back at the housekeeper. Simpy’s expression was rather odd, almost strained.

  “Is something amiss, Simpy?” Henry inquired before lifting the apple to her mouth for another bite.

  “He’s back.”

  Henry froze, her teeth lodged in the apple. She slowly removed the fruit from her mouth, leaving perfect little toothprints. “I assume you mean my husband?” she said carefully.

  Mrs. Simpson nodded as she let loose a torrent of words. “I would’ve told him what I think of him, too, and hang the consequences. He’d have to be a monster to leave you the way he did. He . . .”

  Henry didn’t hear the rest of her words. Her feet, acting with no direction from her brain, were already carrying her out of the kitchen and up the side stairs. She didn’t know if she was fleeing to him or away from him. She had no idea where he was. He could be in the study, the sitting room, or the bedroom.

  She gulped, hoping he wasn’t in the bedroom.

  She pushed open the door.

  She swallowed. She’d never been an exceptionally
lucky person.

  He was standing by the window, looking unbearably handsome. He’d taken off his coat and loosened his cravat. He inclined his head. “Henry.”

  “You’re home,” she said dumbly.

  He shrugged.

  “I . . . I need a bath.”

  A glimmer of a smile touched his face. “So you do.” He walked over to the bellpull.

  “I already ordered one drawn. The maids should be here any minute to fill it.”

  Dunford lowered his hand and turned around. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m back.”

  “I . . . well, yes. I don’t suppose it had anything to do with me.”

  He winced. “Emma had a baby boy. I thought you’d like to know.” He watched her expression change from forlorn distrust to complete joy.

  “Oh, but that’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Have they named him?”

  “William,” he said sheepishly. “After me.”

  “You must be so very proud.”

  “I am quite. I’m to be godfather. It’s quite an honor.”

  “Oh, yes. You must be delighted. They must be delighted.”

  “They are quite.”

  It was at that point that they ran out of things to say. Henry stared at Dunford’s feet, he stared at her forehead. Finally she blurted out, “I really need to bathe.”

  A knock sounded on the door, and two maids entered with steaming buckets of water. They pulled the bath out of its storage space in the dressing room and began to fill it.

  Henry stared at the bath.

  Dunford stared at Henry, imagining her in the bath. Finally he swore and left the room.

  When Henry next encountered her husband, she was smelling a bit more like flowers and less like a pigpen. She even donned one of her gowns, lest he think she was wearing her mannish clothing just to annoy him. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was so frequently in her thoughts.

  He was waiting for her in the sitting room before dinner, a glass of whiskey next to him on an end table. He rose when she entered, his eyes resting on her face with an expression that could only be called tortured.