by Julia Quinn
“You look lovely, Hen.” He sounded as if he wished she didn’t.
“Thank you. You look nice, too. You always look nice.”
“Would you like a drink?”
“I . . . yes. No. No. I mean yes. Yes, I would.”
He turned his back to her as he fussed with the decanter so she wouldn’t see him smile. “What would you like?”
“Anything,” she said weakly, sitting down. “Anything would be fine.”
Dunford poured her a glass of sherry. “Here you are.”
She took the glass from his outstretched hand, making sure her hand never touched his. She took a sip, let the wine fortify her, and asked, “How long do you plan to stay?”
His lips twisted. “That anxious to be rid of me, eh, Hen?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Although I rather thought you wouldn’t want to remain overlong with me. I’m perfectly happy to have you stay.” And then she added, just for pride, “You won’t interrupt my routine.”
“Ah, yes, of course not. I’m a nice enough fellow. I’d almost forgotten.”
Henry cringed at the bitterness laced in his words. “I wouldn’t want to go to London and interrupt your routine,” she shot back. “Heaven forbid I pull you away from your social life.”
He stared at her blankly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That’s because you’re too polite to discuss it,” she muttered, almost wishing he would discuss his mistress. “Or maybe you think I’m too polite.”
He stood. “I’ve traveled all day, and I’m far too weary to waste my energy trying to solve your little riddles. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going in to supper. Join me if you like.” He walked off.
Henry now knew enough about society to know he’d just been unforgivably rude to her. And she knew enough about him to know he’d done it on purpose. She stamped out of the room after him, turned toward his retreating form, and yelled, “I’m not hungry!”
Then she ran up the stairs to her room, ignoring the rumblings of her stomach.
Supper tasted like sawdust. Dunford stared straight ahead as he ate, ignoring the servants as they motioned to the empty place setting across from him, obviously wondering if they should clear it away.
He finished his meal in ten minutes, eating the first course and ignoring the rest. It was a damning feeling, sitting there across from where Henry should have been, under the hostile regard of the servants, all of whom loved her to distraction.
With a shove of his chair, he rose and retired to his study, where he poured himself a glass of whiskey. And another. And another. Not enough to get stinking drunk, just enough to make him overly contemplative. And enough to pass the time until he could be sure Henry had fallen asleep.
He made his way up to his bedroom, weaving ever so slightly as he walked. What was he going to do with his wife? God, what a mess. He loved her but he didn’t want to love her. He wanted to hate her but he couldn’t—despite her lack of love for him, she was still as nice a woman as they came, and no one could find fault with her love and devotion for the land. He wanted her and he despised himself for the weakness. And who the hell knew what she thought?
Besides the fact that she didn’t love him. That much was clear.
I wish I could . . . I wish I could love you.
Well, you couldn’t fault the girl for lack of trying.
He turned the doorknob and stumbled into the room. His eyes fell on the bed. Henry!
He caught his breath. Had she waited for him? Did this mean she wanted him?
No, he thought perversely, it just meant there wasn’t a bed in the other bedroom.
She was lying there, asleep, her chest gently moving with the rhythm of her breaths. The moon was nearly full, and its light shone through the open windows. She looked perfect—everything he had ever wanted. He sank down into a cushioned chair, his eyes never leaving her sleeping form.
For now this would be enough. Just to watch her as she slept.
Henry blinked herself awake the next morning. She’d slept uncommonly well, a surprise considering the stress of the evening before.
She yawned, stretched, and sat up.
And then she saw him.
He’d fallen asleep in the chair across the room. He was still fully clothed and looked frightfully uncomfortable. Why had he done that? Had he thought she would not want to receive him in the bed? Or was he so repulsed by her that he couldn’t bear the thought himself?
With a silent sigh, she slipped out of bed and made her way to the dressing room. She pulled on her breeches and shirt and crept back into the bedroom.
Dunford hadn’t moved. His dark hair was still in his eyes, his lips looked just as kissable, and his large frame was still lodged most awkwardly in the small chair.
Henry couldn’t bear it. She didn’t care that he’d left her the day after they’d returned to Cornwall. She didn’t care that he’d been unbelievably rude to her the night before. She didn’t even care that he didn’t desire her enough to give up his mistress.
The only thought in her heart was that she still loved him despite all that, and she couldn’t bear to see him so uncomfortable. She padded over to where he sat, put her hands under his arms, and tugged. “Up with you, Dunford,” she murmured, trying to heave him onto his feet.
His eyes gave a few sleepy blinks. “Hen?”
“Time for bed, Dunford.”
He grinned sloppily. “You coming?”
Her heart lurched. “I . . . Ah . . . No, Dunford, I’m all dressed. I . . . Ah . . . have chores to do. Yes, chores.” Keep talking, Hen, lest you get tempted to jump in right after him.
He looked utterly crestfallen, and leaned forward drunkenly. “Can I kiss you?”
Henry swallowed, not at all certain he was awake. He’d kissed her once before in his sleep; what harm could there be in doing it one more time? And she wanted it so badly . . . wanted him so badly.
She leaned up and brushed her lips against his. She heard him groan, then felt his arms come around her, his hands searching the planes of her back.
“Oh, minx,” he moaned. If he was still asleep, she thought, at least he had the right person this time. At least he wanted her. Right now, at least, he wanted her. Only her.
They tumbled onto the bed, arms and legs tangling on the way down, fairly tearing each other’s clothes off as they went. He kissed her desperately, tasting her skin like a starving man. She was just as frantic, wrapping her legs around him, trying to pull him closer and closer to her—right to the point where they could be one person.
Before she knew it, he was inside her, and it felt as if heaven itself had descended into their bedroom and wrapped them in its perfect embrace.
“Oh, Dunford, I love you I love you I love you.” The words flew straight from her heart to her mouth, her pride be damned. She no longer cared that she wasn’t enough of a woman for him. She loved him, and he loved her in his own way, and she’d say anything, do whatever it took to keep him by her side. She’d swallow her pride, she’d humble herself— anything to avoid the aching loneliness of the previous month.
He didn’t seem to have heard her, so violent were his physical needs. He plunged into her, groans being ripped from his mouth with each thrust. Henry couldn’t tell from his face whether he was in agony or ecstasy—perhaps it was a bit of both. Finally, just as her muscles began to quiver around him, he surged forward with stunning power, shouting her name as he poured his very life into her.
Henry’s breath stopped as she was overcome by the power of her own release. She welcomed Dunford’s weight as he collapsed upon her, savoring the jerky movements that accompanied his ragged breathing. They lay that way for several minutes, silent and content, until Dunford groaned and rolled off of her.
They were side by side now, facing each other, and Henry couldn’t take her eyes off him as he lea
ned forward and kissed her.
“Did you say you loved me?” he whispered.
Henry said nothing, feeling utterly trapped.
His hand clutched her hip. “Did you?”
She tried to say yes, she tried to say no, but neither came out. Choking on her words, she wrenched herself out of his grasp and scrambled off the bed.
“Henry.” His voice was low and demanded an answer.
“I can’t love you!” she cried out, thrusting her arms into the shirt she recently had torn off her body.
Dunford stared at her in shock for several seconds before finally saying, “What do you mean?”
By now she was tucking the shirt into her breeches. “You need more than I can give you,” she said, gasping back her sobs. “And because of that, you can never be what I need.”
Dunford’s bruised heart skimmed over her first sentence and focused only on the second. His expression turned to granite, and he stalked out of bed to retrieve his own clothing. “Very well then,” he said in the clipped tones of one who is trying very hard not to show emotion. “I will leave for London posthaste. This afternoon, if I can manage it.”
Henry swallowed convulsively.
“Is that soon enough for you?”
“You—you’re going?” she asked, her voice very small.
“Isn’t that what you want?” he bit out, looming over her like a dangerous—and naked—god. “Isn’t it?”
She shook her head. It was a tiny movement, but he caught it. “Then what the hell do you want?” he snapped. “Do you even know?”
She stared at him mutely.
Dunford swore viciously. “I have had enough of your little games, Henry. When you decide just what it is you want out of marriage, pen me a note. I’ll be in London, where my acquaintances don’t try to rip my soul to shreds.”
Henry didn’t feel the rage coming on. It descended on her like a fury, and before she realized what was happening, she was screaming. “Go then! Go! Go to London and have your women! Go and sleep with Christine!”
Dunford went utterly still, his face pinched and white. “What,” he whispered, “are you talking about?”
“I know you still keep a mistress,” she choked out. “I know you slept with her even while we were engaged, even when you professed your love for me. You said you were playing cards with friends, be-because you wouldn’t be seeing very much of them after we married. But I followed you. I saw you, Dunford. I saw you!”
He took a step toward her, his clothing slipping from his fingers. “There has been a terrible mistake.”
“Yes, there has,” she said, her entire body shaking with emotion. “I was mistaken to think I could ever be enough of a woman to please you, to ever think that I could learn what it means to be anyone else but me.”
“Henry,” he whispered raggedly, “I don’t want anyone else but you.”
“Don’t lie to me!” she cried out. “I don’t care what you say, as long as you don’t lie. I can’t please you. I tried so hard. I tried to learn the rules, and I wore dresses, and I even liked wearing them, and still it wasn’t enough. I can’t do it. I know I can’t, but I— Oh, God.” She crumpled into a chair, overcome by the force of her tears. Her entire body shook with sobs, and she clutched herself, trying to keep from going to pieces. “All I wanted was to be the only one,” she gasped. “That’s all.”
Dunford knelt in front of her, took both of her hands in his, and raised them to his lips in a reverent kiss. “Henry, minx, my love, you’re all I want. All I want. I haven’t even looked at another woman since I met you.”
She looked up at him, tears streaming from her eyes.
“I don’t know what you thought you saw in London,” he continued. “I can only deduce it was the night I told Christine she would need to find another protector.”
“You were there so long.”
“Henry, I did not betray you.” His hands tightened around hers. “You must believe me. I love you.”
She stared into those liquid brown eyes and felt her world come crashing down around her. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, shock squeezing her heart. She jerkily rose to her feet. “Oh, my God. What have I done? What have I done?”
Dunford watched the blood drain from her face. “Henry?” he said hesitantly.
“What have I done?” Her voice grew progressively stronger. “Oh, my God!” And then she bolted from the room.
Dunford, unfortunately, was a bit too naked to follow her.
* * *
Henry ran down the front steps and into the fog. She kept going until she was shielded by trees, until she was sure not a living soul could hear her.
And then she cried.
She sank into the damp earth and sobbed. She had been given a chance at the purest joy on earth, and she had ruined it with lies and distrust. He would never forgive her. How could he, when she could not forgive herself?
Four hours later Dunford was ready to claw the paint from the walls with his fingernails. Where could she be?
He hadn’t considered sending out a search party; Henry knew the land better than anyone. It was unlikely she’d had an accident, but it was starting to rain, damn it, and she’d been so distraught.
Half an hour. He’d give her half an hour more.
His heart twisted as he relived the agonized expression on her face that morning. Never had he seen such a look of pure torture—unless, of course, one counted the times he’d looked in the mirror this past month.
Suddenly he had no idea why their marriage was such a shambles. He loved her, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that she returned his love.
But there were so many unanswered questions. And the only person who could answer them was nowhere to be found.
Henry stumbled home in a daze. The rain pelted her, but she barely felt its sting. She looked straight ahead, repeating to herself, “I must make him understand. I must.”
She had sat at the base of a tree for hours, sobbing until her tears ran out. And then, when her breathing had quieted, she wondered if perhaps she didn’t deserve a second chance. People were allowed to learn from their mistakes and move on, weren’t they?
And, above all, she owed her husband the truth.
When she reached the front steps of Stannage Park, the door was savagely wrenched open before she could even grasp the knob.
Dunford.
He looked like an avenging, if slightly disheveled, god. His brows were pulled into a firm line, his color was high, his pulse was beating rapidly in his neck, and . . . and his shirt wasn’t buttoned properly.
He hauled her unceremoniously into the front hall. “Do you have any idea what has gone through my mind in the last few hours?” he thundered.
Wordlessly, she shook her head.
He began to tick off his fingers. “A ditch,” he bit out. “You could have fallen into a ditch. No, don’t say it, I know you know the lay of the land, but you could have fallen into a ditch. An animal could have bitten you. A tree branch could have fallen on you. It’s storming, you know.”
Henry stared at him, thinking that the windy shower hardly constituted a storm.
“There are criminals,” he continued. “I know it’s Cornwall. I know it’s the end of the earth, but there are criminals. Criminals who wouldn’t think twice about . . . about . . . Christ, Henry, I don’t even want to think about it.”
She watched as he raked his hand through his already mussed hair.
“I am going to lock you in your room.”
Hope began to flare in her heart.
“I am going to lock you in your room and tie you up and— Oh, for love of God, will you say something?”
Henry opened her mouth. “I don’t have a friend named Rosalind.”
He stared at her blankly. “What?”
“Rosalind. She doesn’t exist. I—” She looked away,
too ashamed to meet his gaze. “I wrote the letter knowing you would get it. I wrote the letter to try to goad you into breaking off the engagement.”
He touched her chin, forcing her gaze back to his. “Why, Henry?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Why?”
She swallowed nervously. “Because I thought you’d been with your mistress. I couldn’t understand how you could be with me, then be with her, and—”
“I didn’t betray you,” he said fiercely.
“I know. I know now. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She threw her arms around him, burying herself in the haven of his chest. “Can you forgive me?”
“But, Hen, why didn’t you trust me?”
Henry swallowed uncomfortably, shame coloring her cheeks pink. Finally she told him about Lady Wolcott’s lies. But she couldn’t blame Lady Wolcott for everything; if she had been truly secure in Dunford’s love, she wouldn’t have fallen for her lies.
Dunford looked at her in disbelief. “And you believed her?”
“Yes. No. Not at first. Then I followed you.” Henry paused, forcing herself to look him in the eye. She owed him that measure of honesty. “You were in there so long. I didn’t know what to think.”
“Henry, why would you think I would want another woman? I love you. You knew I loved you. Didn’t I tell you enough?” He leaned down and rested his chin against the top of her head, breathing in the heady fragrance of her wet hair.
“I suppose I thought I didn’t please you,” she said. “That I wasn’t pretty enough or feminine enough. I tried so hard to learn how to be a proper lady. I even enjoyed learning. London was so lovely. But deep down I’m always going to be the same person. The mannish freak—”
His hands grew fierce around her upper arms. “I believe I told you once before never to refer to yourself that way.”
“But I’m never going to be like Belle. I’m never going to—”
“If I wanted Belle,” he cut in, “I would have asked her to marry me.” He pulled her more tightly against him. “Henry, I love you. I’d love you if you wore a sackcloth. I’d love you if you had a mustache.” He paused and tweaked her nose. “Well, the mustache would be difficult. Please promise me you won’t grow one.”
