enry 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 interrupted, 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.

Ridding herself of Dunford, Henry reflected, was not going to take as long as she had originally anticipated.

Going without a bath was not going to be fun, Henry had always been quite fastidious. But it was not too great a sacrifice for Stannage Park, and besides, she had a feeling that her lack of cleanliness was going to be harder on Dunford than on her.

She made her way down to the small dining room. Breakfast had not yet been laid on the table, so she headed into the kitchen. Mrs. Simpson was standing in front of the stove, sliding sausages around on a skillet so as not to burn them.

“Hello, Simpy.”

The housekeeper turned around. “Henry! What are you doing here? I would have thought you’d be busy with our new guest.”

Henry rolled her eyes. “He isn’t our guest, Simpy. We’re his guests. Or at least I am. You have an official position.”

“I know this has been difficult for you.”

Henry just smiled, judging it imprudent to let Mrs. Simpson know she had actually been enjoying herself this morning. After a long pause she said, “Breakfast smells lovely, Simpy.”

The housekeeper shot her an odd look. “Same food as every day.”

“Perhaps I am hungrier than usual. And I shall have to eat my fill, because the new Lord Stannage is somewhat—shall we say—austere.”

Mrs. Simpson slowly turned around. “Henry, what on earth are you trying to tell me?”

Henry shrugged helplessly. “He wants porridge for lunch.”

“Porridge! Henry, if this is one of your crazy schemes—”

“Really, Simpy, do you think I’d go that far? You know how much I detest porridge.”

“I suppose we could have porridge. I shall have to make something special for dinner, though.”

“Mutton.”

“Mutton?” Mrs. Simpson’s eyes widened in dis- belief.

Henry let her shoulders rise and fall in another expressive shrug. “He likes mutton.”

“I do not believe you for one second, Miss Henrietta Barrett.”

“Oh, all right. The mutton was my idea. No need for him to know how well he can eat here.”

“Your little plans are going to be the death of you.”

Henry leaned closer to the housekeeper. “Do you want to be turned out on your ear?”

“I don’t see—”

“He can do that, you know. He can turn every last one of us out. Better to be rid of him before he can be rid of us.”

There was a long pause before Mrs. Simpson said, “Mutton it is, then.”

Henry paused before she opened the door leading out to the rest of the house. “And don’t cook it too well. A little dry perhaps. Or make the sauce just a touch too salty.”

“I draw the line at—”

“All right, all right,” Henry said quickly. Getting Mrs. Simpson to prepare mutton when she had beef, lamb, and ham at her disposal had been enough of a battle. She was never going to succeed in getting her to prepare it badly.

Dunford was waiting for her in the small dining room. He was standing in front of a window, staring out over the fields. He obviously didn’t hear her come in, for he started when Henry cleared her throat.

He turned around, smiled, motioned to the window with a tilt of his head, and said, “The land is lovely. You have done an excellent job in your management.”

Henry flushed at the unexpected compliment. “Thank you. Stannage Park means a great deal to me.” She allowed him to pull a chair out for her and sat down just as a footman brought in breakfast.

They ate in near silence. Henry was aware that she needed to eat as much as possible—the noonday meal was sure to be a dismal affair. She glanced over at Dunford, who was eating with similar desperation. Good. He wasn’t looking forward to porridge either.

Henry speared her last sausage with her fork and forced herself to pause in her virtual inhalation of food. “I thought I might show you ’round Stannage Park this morning.”

Dunford could not give an immediate reply, as his mouth was full of eggs. After a moment he said, “An excellent idea.”

“I thought you’d want to become better acquainted with your new estate. There is much to learn if you want to manage it properly.”

“Is that so?”

This time Henry was the one who had to pause as she finished chewing the last of her sausage. “Oh, yes. I’m sure you realize that one has to keep abreast of rents and crops and tenants’ needs, but if one wants real success, one really must go the extra mile.”

“I’m not certain I want to know what this ‘extra mile’ entails.”

“Oh, this and that.” Henry smiled. She looked down at Dunford’s empty plate. “Shall we be off?”

“By all means.” He stood as soon as she did and let her lead the way out of the house.

“I thought we might begin with the animals,” Henry said.

“I suppose you know them all by name,” he said, only half-joking.

She turned around, her face lit up with a brilliant smile. “But of course!” Really, this man was making it easy. He kept handing her the loveliest opportunities. “A happy animal is a productive animal.”

“I’m not familiar with that particular axiom,” Dunford muttered.

Henry pushed open a wooden gate that led into a large, hedgerow-lined field. “You’ve obviously spent too much time in London. It is a commonly expressed sentiment around here.”

“Does it also apply to humans?”

She turned around to face him. “Excuse me?”

He smiled innocently. “Oh, nothing.” He rocked back on his heels, trying to figure out this oddest of females. Was it possible she had names for all the animals? There had to be at least thirty sheep in this field alone. He smiled again and pointed off to the left. “What is that one called?”

Henry looked a little startled by his question. “Her? Oh, Margaret.”

“Margaret?” He raised his brows. “What a delightfully English name.”

“She’s an English ewe,” Henry said peevishly.

“And that one?” He pointed to the right.

“Thomasina.”

“And that one? And that one? And that one?”

“Sally, uh, Esther, uh, uh...”

Dunford cocked his head to the side, enjoying watching her trip over her tongue.

“Isosceles!” she finished triumphantly.

He blinked. “I suppose that one over there is called Equilateral.”

“No,” she said smugly, pointing across the field. “That one is.” She crossed her arms. “I have always enjoyed the study of geometry.”

Dunford was silent for a moment, a fact for which Henry was extremely grateful. It hadn’t been easy coming up with names at the drop of a hat. He’d been trying to trip her up, asking for the names of all those sheep. Was he on to her?

“You didn’t believe I knew all of the names,” she said, hoping her direct confrontation of the issue would diffuse any suspicious thoughts he was harboring.

“No,” he admitted.

She smiled loftily. “Have you been listening?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Which one is Margaret?”

His mouth fell open.

“If you’re to run Stannage Park, you must know which is which.” She tried very hard to keep any trace of snideness from her voice. She rather thought she succeeded. To her ear she sounded just like someone whose only concern was the success of the farm.

After a moment’s concentration Dunford pointed to a sheep and said, “That one.”

Drat! He was right. “And Thomasina?”

He was obviously warming to the exercise because he looked rather jovial as he pointed his finger and said, “That one.”

Henry was just about to say, “Wrong,” when she realized that she had no idea if he was wrong or not. Which one had she called Thomasina? She’d thought it was the one by the tree, but they were all moving about, and—

“Was I correct?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is that sheep or is that sheep not Thomasina?”

“No, it isn’t,” Henry said decisively. If she couldn’t recall which one was Thomasina, she doubted very much that he could.

“I really think that’s Thomasina.” He leaned back against the gate, looking very confident and very male.

“That one is Thomasina,” she snapped, pointing at random.

He broke out into a very wide grin. “No, that one is Isosceles. I’m sure of it.”

Henry swallowed convulsively. “No, no. It’s Thomasina. I’m certain of it,” she said. “But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll learn all of the names soon. You need only put your mind to it. Now, why don’t we continue our tour?”

Dunford pushed off against the gate. “I cannot wait.”

He was whistling to himself as he followed her out of the field. This was going to be a most interesting morning.

Interesting, he later reflected, was perhaps not the correct word.

By the time he and Henry arrived back at the house for their midday meal—a scrumptious bowl of hot, sticky porridge—he had mucked out the stable stalls, milked a cow, been pecked by three separate hens, weeded a vegetable garden, and fallen into a trough.

And if the trough accident just happened to be the result of Henry’s tripping over a tree root and bumping into him—well, there was no way to prove it, was there? Considering that the dunking was the closest thing he was going to get to a bath anytime soon, he decided not to get angry about it just yet.

Henry was up to something, and it was damned intriguing watching her, even if he didn’t yet know what she was trying to achieve.

As they sat down to eat, Mrs. Simpson brought in two steaming bowls of porridge. She set the larger one down in front of Dunford, saying, “I filled it right to the top, this being your favorite and all.”

Dunford tilted his head slowly and looked at Henry, one eyebrow raised in a most questioning manner.

Henry looked pointedly at Mrs. Simpson, waited for the housekeeper to leave, and then whispered, “She felt dreadful that we have to serve you porridge. I’m afraid I fibbed just a bit and told her you adore it. It made her feel so much better. Surely a little white lie is justified if it is for the greater good of mankind.”

He dipped his spoon into the unappetizing cereal. “Somehow, Henry, I have a feeling you’ve taken that sentiment to heart.”

The day, Henry reflected as she brushed out her hair later that evening before going to bed, had been an unqualified success. Almost.

She didn’t think he realized she had tripped over that tree root and pushed him into the trough on purpose, and the entire porridge episode had been, in her opinion, nothing short of brilliant.

But Dunford was shrewd. One couldn’t spend an entire day with the man without realizing that fact. And as if that weren’t enough, he’d been acting so bloody nice to her. At their evening meal he’d been a lovely companion, asking so attentively about her childhood and laughing at her anecdotes of growing up on a farm.

If he didn’t have so many redeeming qualities, it would be ever so much easier to scheme to get rid of him.

But, Henry reminded herself sternly, the fact that he seemed to be a nice person in no way detracted from the even more pressing fact that he had the power to remove her from Stannage Park. She shuddered. What would she do away from her beloved home? She knew nothing else, had no idea how to go about in the world at large.

No, she had to find a way to make him leave Cornwall. She had to.

Her resolve once again firm, she set down the hairbrush and stood up. She started to make her way over to the bed but was stopped mid-stride by the pathetic grumblings of her stomach.

Lord, she was hungry.

It had seemed an inspired plan that morning to starve him out of residence, but she’d neglected the quite pertinent fact that she’d be starving herself as well.

Ignore it, Henry, she told herself.

Her stomach roared.

She glanced at the clock. Midnight. The house would be quiet. She could creep down to the kitchen, grab some food, and consume it back here in her room. She could be in and out within minutes.

Not bothering to don a wrapper, she tiptoed out of her room and down the stairs.

Damn, he was hungry! Dunford lay in bed, unable to sleep. His stomach was making the most hideous noises. Henry had dragged him all over the countryside that day in a route tailor-made to exhaust him, and then she’d had the gall to smile as she fed him porridge and cold mutton.

Cold mutton? Blech! And if it didn’t taste bad enough, there hadn’t been enough of it.

Surely there had to be something in the house he could eat that wouldn’t jeopardize her precious animals. A biscuit. A radish. Even a spoonful of sugar.

He hopped out of bed, pulled on a robe to cover his naked form, and slipped out of the room. He tiptoed as he passed Henry’s room—it wouldn’t do to wake the little tyrant. A rather nice and endearing tyrant she was, but nonetheless, he rather thought it behooved him not to alert her to his little sojourn to the kitchens.

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.