upper that night was a silent affair. Henry wore her new yellow dress, and Dunford complimented her on it, but beyond that they seemed unable to converse.

As he finished the last few bites of his dessert, Dunford thought he’d like nothing better than to retire to his room with a bottle of whiskey, but after having to watch Henry’s stricken expression all through the meal, he realized that he was going to have to do something to mend this rift. Setting down his napkin, he cleared his throat and said, “I thought I might have a glass of port. Since there are no ladies here with whom you may retire, I would be honored if you would join me.”

Henry’s eyes flew to his face. Surely he wasn’t trying to tell her he thought of her as a man? “I’ve never had port before. I don’t know if we have any.”

Dunford stood. “You must. Every household does.”

Henry followed him with her eyes as he walked around the table to pull out her chair. He was so handsome, so very handsome, and for a moment she had actually thought he wanted her. Or at least he had acted as if he had. And now... Now she didn’t know what to think. She stood up and noticed he was looking at her expectantly. “I’ve never seen any here,” she said, deciding that he was merely waiting for a reply about the port.

“Didn’t Carlyle ever entertain?”

“Not very often, actually, although I fail to see what that has to do with port—or with gentlemen.”

He eyed her curiously. “After a dinner party it is customary for the ladies to retire to the drawing room while the gentlemen indulge in a bit of port.”

“Oh.”

“Surely you were not ignorant of the custom?”

Henry flushed, painfully aware of her lack of social polish. “I did not know. How ill-bred you must have thought me this past week—lingering over supper. I’ll leave you now.” She took a few steps toward the door, but Dunford caught her arm.

“Henry,” he said, “if I hadn’t been interested in your conversation, believe me, I would have made you aware of it. I mentioned the port because I thought we might enjoy a drink together, not because I wanted to rid myself of your company.”

“What do the ladies drink?”

“I beg your pardon?” He blinked, completely at a loss.

“When they retire to the drawing room,” Henry explained. “What do the ladies drink?”

He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I don’t think they drink anything.”

“That seems horribly unfair.”

He smiled to himself. She was beginning to sound more like the Henry for whom he had come to care so much. “You may disagree once you get your first taste of port.”

“If it is so very dreadful, why do you drink it?”

“It isn’t dreadful. It is merely an acquired taste.”

“Hmmm.” Henry seemed lost in thought for a moment. “I still think it is a horribly unfair practice, even if port tastes as bad as pig swill.”

“Henry!” Dunford was appalled at the tone of his voice. He sounded like his mother.

She shrugged. “Excuse my language, if you will. I’m afraid I’ve been trained to put on my good manners only for company, and you really don’t qualify as that any longer.”

The conversation had swung so far into the improbable that Dunford felt tears of mirth welling up in his eyes.

“But as for the port,” she continued, “it seems to me you gentlemen probably have a merry old time of it in the dining room with the ladies gone, talking about wine and women and all sorts of interesting things.”

“More interesting than wine or women?” he teased.

“I can think of a hundred things more interesting than wine or women...”

He realized with surprise that he couldn’t think of anything more interesting than the woman standing before him.

“Politics, for example. I try to read about it in the Times, but I am not such a lackwit that I don’t realize quite a bit goes on that does not get reported in the paper.”

“Henry?”

She cocked her head.

“What has any of this to do with port?”

“Oh. Well, what I was endeavoring to explain is that you gentlemen have a grand time while the ladies have to sit in a stuffy, old drawing room, conversing about embroidery.”

“I have no idea what the ladies talk about when they retire,” he murmured with just the barest hint of a smile. “But somehow I doubt it is embroidery.”

She shot him a look that said she didn’t believe him in the slightest.

He sighed and held up his hands in mock surrender. “As you can see, I am trying to rectify this injustice by inviting you to join me in a glass of port this evening.” He looked around. “That is, if we can find some.”

“There is nothing here in the dining room,” Henry said. “Of that I am certain.”

“In the drawing room then. With the other spirits.”

“It’s worth a try.”

He let her lead the way to the drawing room, noting with satisfaction how well her new dress seemed to fit. Too well. He frowned. She really had quite a nice shape, and he didn’t like the idea of someone else discovering that fact.

They reached the drawing room, and Henry crouched down to look in a cabinet. “I don’t see any,” she said. “Although, never having seen a bottle of port, I really haven’t the faintest idea what I’m looking for.”

“Why don’t you let me have a peek?”

She stood and changed places with him, her breast accidentally brushing against his arm as she did so. Dunford suppressed a groan. This had to be some sort of cruel joke. Henry was the most unlikely temptress imaginable, yet here he was, hard and straining and wanting nothing more than to throw her over his shoulder again, this time to haul her up to his room.

Coughing slightly to mask his discomfort, he bent to look in the cabinet. No port. “Well, I suppose a glass of brandy will do just as well.”

“I hope you’re not disappointed.”

He threw her a sharp look. “I am not so enamored of my spirits that I am crushed at the loss of a glass of port.”

“Of course not,” she said quickly. “I never meant to imply you were. Although...”

“Although what?” he snapped. This constant state of arousal was shortening his temper.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I should think that someone overly enamored of spirits would be just the sort who wouldn’t care which type of spirit he imbibed.”

He sighed.

Henry moved to a nearby sofa and sat, feeling much more like herself than she had at dinner. It was the silence that had been so difficult. Once he started talking to her, she found it was easy to respond. They were back on familiar territory now—laughing and teasing one another mercilessly—and she could practically feel her misplaced self-confidence flowing back through her veins.

He poured a glass of brandy and held it out to her. “Henry,” he said. He cleared his throat before continuing with, “About this afternoon...”

Her hand closed so tightly around the glass she was surprised it didn’t shatter. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She swallowed, trying to moisten her throat. So much for feeling like herself again. Finally she managed to say, “Yes?”

He coughed again. “I should never have behaved as I did, I... ah... I behaved badly, and I apologize.”

“Think nothing of it,” she replied, trying very hard to sound carefree. “I won’t.”

He frowned. It certainly had been his intention to put the kiss behind him—he was eight different kinds of a cad for even thinking of taking advantage of her—but he was oddly disappointed that she intended to forget about it completely. “That is probably for the best.” He cleared his throat yet again. “I suppose.”

“I say, is something wrong with your throat? Simpy makes an excellent home remedy. I’m sure she could—”

“There is nothing wrong with my throat. I’m just a trifle...” He searched for a word. “... uncomfortable. That is all.”

“Oh.” She smiled weakly. It was so much easier to try to be helpful than to deal with the fact that he was so disappointed with their kiss. Or maybe he had been disappointed because she had broken it off. She frowned. Surely he didn’t think she was the sort of woman who would... She couldn’t even complete the thought. Glancing up at him nervously, she opened her mouth and her words came out in a violent tumble.

“I’m sure you’re right. It’s for the best, I suppose, to forget about everything, because the thing is, I wouldn’t want you to think that I... well, that I’m the kind of woman who—”

“I don’t think that of you,” he cut in, his voice oddly curt.

She heaved a great sigh of relief. “Oh, good. I don’t know really what came over me, I’m afraid.”

Dunford knew exactly what had come over her, and he knew it had been entirely his fault. “Henry, don’t worry—”

“But I do worry! You see, I don’t want this to spoil our friendship, and— We are friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course.” He looked affronted that she had even asked.

“I know I’m being forward, but I don’t want to lose you. I really like having you as my friend, and the truth is—” She let out a choked laugh. “The truth is, you’re just about the only friend I’ve got, besides Simpy, but that really isn’t the same thing, and—”

“Enough!” He couldn’t bear to hear her broken voice, to hear the loneliness in her every word. Henry had always thought she led a perfect existence here at Stannage Park—she had told him as much on numerous occasions. She didn’t even realize there was an entire world past the Cornwall border, a world of parties and dances and... friends.

He set his brandy snifter down on a table and crossed the room, driven simply by a need to comfort her. “Don’t talk like that,” he said, surprised by the sternness of his voice. He pulled her into a benign hug, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I’ll always be your friend, Henry. No matter what happens.”

“Truly?”

“Truly. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know.” She pulled away just far enough so she could see his face. “Lots of people seem to find reasons.”

“Hush up, minx. You’re a funny one, but you’re certainly more likable than unlikable.”

She grimaced. “What a lovely way of phrasing it.”

He laughed out loud as he let her go. “And that, my dear Henry, is exactly why I like you so damned much.”

Dunford was preparing for bed later that night when Yates rapped on his door. It was customary for servants to enter rooms without knocking, but Dunford had always found that practice to be singularly unappealing when the room in question was one’s bedroom, and he had instructed the Stannage Park servants accordingly.

At Dunford’s answer, Yates entered the room, carrying a rather large envelope. “This arrived from London today, my lord. I placed it on the desk in your study, but—”

“But I didn’t go into my study today,” Dunford finished for him. He took the envelope from Yates’s hand. “Thank you for bringing it up. I think it’s the former Lord Stannage’s will. I’ve been eager to read it.”

Yates nodded and left the room.

Too lazy to get up to find a letter opener, Dunford slipped his index finger under the envelope flap and pulled the sealing wax apart. Carlyle’s will, just as he had expected. He skimmed the document for Henry’s name; he could read the rest of it at length the next day. For now, his main concern was how Carlyle had provided for his ward.

He reached the third page before the words “Miss Henrietta Barrett” jumped out at him. Then, to his utter surprise, he saw his own name.

Dunford’s jaw dropped. He was Henry’s guardian.

Henry was his ward.

That made him a—good God, he was one of those appalling men who took advantage of their wards. The gossip mill was rife with tales of lecherous old men who either seduced their wards or sold them off to the highest bidder. If he had felt shame over his behavior that afternoon, the emotion had now tripled. “Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Oh, my God.”

Why hadn’t she told him?

“Henry!” he bellowed.

Why hadn’t she told him?

He sprang to his feet and grabbed his robe. “Henry!”

Why hadn’t she told him?

By the time he made it into the hall, Henry was already there, her slender form wrapped in a faded green dressing gown. “Dunford,” she said anxiously. “What is wrong?”

“This!” He practically shoved the papers in her face. “This!”

“What? What is this? Dunford, I can’t tell what these papers are when you’ve got them plastered against my face.”

“It’s Carlyle’s will, Miss Barrett,” he bit out. “The one naming me your guardian.”

She blinked. “And?”

“That makes you my ward.”

Henry stared at him as if a portion of his brain had just flown out his ear. “Yes,” she said placatingly, “that’s usually how it works.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” Henry looked from side to side. “I say, Dunford, do we need to carry on this conversation in the middle of the hall?”

He spun on his heel and stalked into her room. She hurried after him, not at all sure that it was an advisable idea for the two of them to be alone in her bedroom. But the alternative was to have him rail at her in the hall, and that was decidedly unappealing.

He shut the door firmly, then turned on her again. “Why,” he asked, his voice laced with barely controlled fury, “didn’t you tell me that you were my ward?”

“I thought you knew.”

“You thought I knew?”

“Well, why wouldn’t you?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it. Hell, the chit had a point. Why didn’t he know? “You still should have told me,” he muttered.

“I would have if I’d even dreamed you didn’t know.”

“Oh, God, Henry,” he groaned. “Oh, God. This is a disaster.”

“Well,” she bristled, “I’m not that dreadful.”

He shot her an irritated look. “Henry, I kissed you this afternoon. Kissed you. Do you understand what that means?”

She looked at him dubiously. “It means you kissed me?”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook. “It means—Christ, Henry, it’s practically incestuous.”

She caught a lock of her hair between her fingers and began to twirl. The movement was meant to calm her nerves, but her hand was jerky and cold. “I don’t know if I would call it incestuous. It certainly isn’t that much of a sin. Or at least I don’t think so. And since we’ve both agreed it isn’t going to happen again—”

“Curse it, Henry, will you be quiet? I’m trying to think.” He raked his hand through his hair.

She drew back, affronted, and clamped her mouth shut.

“Don’t you see, Henry? You’re now my responsibility.” The word fell distastefully from his lips.

“You’re too kind,” she muttered. “I’m not so bad, you know, as far as responsibilities go.”

“That’s not the point, Hen. This means... Hell, it means...” He let out a short bark of ironic laughter. Only a few hours earlier he’d been thinking he’d like to take her to London, to introduce her to his friends and show her that there was more to life than Stannage Park. Now it seemed he had to. He was going to have to give her a season and find her a husband. He was going to have to find someone to teach her how to be a lady. He glanced down at her face. She still looked rather irritated with him. Hell, he hoped whoever lady-fied her didn’t change her too much. He rather liked her the way she was.

Which brought him to another point. Now, more than ever, it was imperative that he keep his hands off her. She’d be ruined as it was if the ton found out they’d been living unchaperoned here in Cornwall. Dunford took a ragged breath. “What the hell are we going to do?”

The question had obviously been directed at himself, but Henry decided to answer it anyway. “I don’t know what you’re going to do,” she said, hugging her arms to her chest, “but I’m not going to do anything. Anything other, that is, than what I’ve already been doing. You’ve already admitted I’m uniquely qualified to oversee Stannage Park.”

His expression said that he regarded her as hopelessly naive. “Henry, we both can’t stay here.”

“Why ever not?”

“It isn’t proper.” He winced as he said it. Since when had he become such a stickler for propriety?

“Oh, pish and bother propriety. I don’t give a whit for it, in case you hadn’t—”

“I noticed.”

“—noticed. It makes no sense in our case. You own the place, so you shouldn’t have to leave, and I run it, so I cannot leave.”

“Henry, your reputation...”

That seemed to strike her as uproariously funny. “Oh, Dunford,” she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes, “that’s rich. That is rich. My reputation.”

“What the devil is wrong with your reputation?”

“Oh, Dunford, I haven’t got a reputation. Good or bad. I’m so odd, people have enough to talk about without worrying about how I act with men.”

“Well, Henry, perhaps it is time you started thinking about your reputation. Or at the very least, acquiring one.”

If Henry hadn’t been so puzzled by his odd choice of words, she might have noticed the steely undertone to his voice. “Well, the point is moot anyway,” she said breezily. “You have been living here for over a week already. If I had been worried about a reputa—that is to say, my reputation, it would be well past destroyed.”

“Nonetheless, I will procure rooms at the local inn on the morrow.”

“Oh, don’t be silly! You didn’t give two figs about the impropriety of our living arrangements this past week. Why should you now?”

“Because,” he bit out, his temper badly strained, “you are now my responsibility.”

“That is quite the most asinine reasoning I have ever encountered. In my opinion—”

“You have too many opinions,” he snapped.

Henry’s mouth fell open. “Well!” she declared.

Dunford began to pace the room. “Our situation cannot remain as such. You cannot continue to carry on like a complete hoyden. Someone is going to have to teach you some manners. We’ll have to—”

“I cannot believe your hypocrisy!” she burst out. “It was all very well for me to be the village freak when I was just an acquaintance, but now that I’m your responsibility—”

Her words died a swift death, for Dunford had grabbed her by the shoulders and pinned her against the wall. “If you call yourself a freak one more time,” he said in a dangerous tone, “for the love of God I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

Even in the candlelight she could see the barely leashed fury in his eyes, and she gulped with a healthy dose of fear. Still, she had never been terribly prudent, and so she continued, albeit in a much lower voice. “It does not reflect well upon your character that you did not care about my reputation up to this point. Or does your concern extend only to your wards, not your friends?”

“Henry,” he said, a muscle twitching in his neck, “I think the time has come for you to stop talking.”

“Is that an order, oh, dear guardian?”

He took a very deep breath before replying. “There is a difference between guardian and friend, although I hope I may be both to you.”

“I think I liked you better when you were just my friend,” she muttered belligerently.

“I expect that will be so.”

“I expect that will be so,” she mimicked, not in the least trying to hide her ire.

Dunford’s eyes began to search the room for a gag. His gaze fell upon her bed, and he blinked, suddenly realizing what an idiot he must have sounded, preaching on about propriety when he was standing here in her bedroom, of all places. He looked over at Henry and finally noticed she was wearing her dressing gown—her dressing gown! And it was frayed and torn in places and showed altogether too much leg.

Suppressing a groan, he moved his gaze to her face. Her mouth was clamped shut in a mutinous line, and he suddenly thought that he’d really like to kiss her again, harder and faster this time. His heart was pounding for her, and he realized for the first time what a thin line there was between fury and desire. He wanted to dominate her.

Thoroughly disgusted with himself, he turned on his heel, strode across the room, and gripped the doorknob. He was going to have to get out of this house fast. Yanking the door open, he turned to her and said, “We will discuss this further in the morning.”

“I expect we shall.”

Later Henry reflected that it was probably for the best that he’d left the room before hearing her retort. She didn’t think he’d been desirous of a reply.