unford had slipped away to the card room, where he proceeded to win a staggering amount of money through no ability of his own. Lord knew he was finding it difficult to keep his mind on the game.

After a few rounds Alex wandered over. “Mind if I join you?”

Dunford shrugged. “Not at all.”

The other men at the vingt-et-un table shifted their chairs to make room for the duke.

“Who is winning?” Alex inquired.

“Dunford,” Lord Tarryton replied. “Quite handily.”

Dunford shrugged again, a disinterested expression affixed to his face.

Alex took a sip of whiskey as his hand was dealt and then took a look at the face-down card. Glancing sideways at Dunford, he said, “Your Henry turned out to be quite a success.”

“She isn’t ‘my’ Henry,” Dunford all but snapped.

“Isn’t Miss Barrett your ward?” Lord Tarryton asked.

Dunford looked at him, nodded curtly, and said, “Deal me another card.”

Tarryton did so, but not before saying, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Billington came up to scratch on this gel.”

“Billington, Farnsworth, and a few others,” Alex said with his most affable smile.

“Ashbourne?” Dunford’s voice was colder than ice.

“Dunford?”

“Shut up.”

Alex suppressed a smile and asked for another card.

“What I don’t understand,” Lord Symington, a graying man in his mid-fifties, was saying, “is why no one ever heard of her before. Who are her people?”

“I believe Dunford is ‘her people’ now,” Alex said.

“She comes from Cornwall,” Dunford replied tersely, regarding his pair of fives with a bored expression. “Before that, Manchester.”

“Has she a dowry?” Symington persisted.

Dunford paused. He hadn’t even thought of that. He could see Alex looking at him with a quizzical expression, one eyebrow arrogantly raised. It would be so easy to say that no, Henry didn’t have a dowry. It was the truth, after all. Carlyle had left the chit penniless.

Her chances at an advantageous marriage would be greatly reduced.

She could end up dependent on him forever.

It was damned appealing...

Dunford sighed, cursing himself once again for this revolting impulse of his to play the hero. “Yes,” he sighed. “Yes, she does.”

“Well, that’s good news for the chit,” Symington replied. “ ’Course she probably wouldn’t have had too much trouble without it. Lucky for you, Dunford. Wards can be deuced annoying business. I have one I’ve been trying to unload for three years. Why God invented Poor Relations I’ll never know.”

Dunford studiously ignored him, then flipped over his card, an ace. “Twenty-one,” he said, not sounding the least bit excited at the fact that he had just won nearly a thousand pounds.

Alex leaned back and smiled broadly. “This must be your lucky night.”

Dunford shoved his chair back and stood up, pushing the other cardplayers’ vouchers carelessly into his pocket. “Indeed,” he drawled as he made his way back to the door leading to the ballroom. “The luckiest bloody night of my life.”

Henry decided that she would capture at least three more hearts before she had to leave, and she succeeded handily. It seemed so easy—she wondered why she had never before realized that men could be managed so effortlessly.

Most men, that is. The men she didn’t want.

She was letting Viscount Haverly twirl her around the dance floor when she spied Dunford. Her heart missed a beat and her feet missed a step before she could remind herself that she was furious with him.

But every time Haverly turned her around, there was Dunford, leaning lazily against a pillar with his arms folded. The expression on his face did not invite the other partygoers to come over and try to engage him in conversation. He looked terribly sophisticated in his black evening clothes, unbearably arrogant, and very, very male.

And his eyes were following her, a lazy, hooded gaze—one that sent shivers up and down her spine.

The dance came to an end, and Henry sank into a respectful curtsy. Haverly bowed and said, “Shall I return you to your guardian? I see him just over there.”

Henry thought of a thousand things to say—she had another partner for the next dance and he was on the other side of the room; she was thirsty and wanted a glass of lemonade; she needed to talk to Belle—but in the end she only nodded, seemingly having lost the power to speak.

“Here you are, Dunford,” Haverly said with a good-natured grin as he deposited Henry by his side. “Or perhaps I should say Stannage now. I understand you’ve come into a title.”

“Dunford is still fine,” he replied with such urbane blandness that Haverly quickly stammered his goodbyes and was off.

Henry frowned. “You didn’t have to scare him like that.”

“Didn’t I? You seem to be acquiring an unseemly number of beaux.”

“I have not behaved in an untoward manner and you know it,” she retorted, hot anger staining her cheeks.

“Hush, minx, you are attracting attention.”

Henry thought she might cry upon hearing him use her friendly nickname in such derisive tones. “I don’t care! I don’t. I just want...”

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice low and intense.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“I should think you don’t want to attract attention. That might endanger your quest to become the reigning belle of the season.”

“You are the one who is endangering it, scaring off my suitors like that.”

“Hmmm. I shall have to rectify my damage then, won’t I?”

Henry regarded him suspiciously, unable to discern his motives. “What do you want, Dunford?”

“Why, just to dance with you.” He took her arm and prepared to lead her back onto the dance floor. “If only to put to rest any nasty gossip that we do not deal well with one another.”

“We don’t deal well with one another. Not anymore, at least.”

“Yes,” he said dryly, “but no one else needs to know that, do they?” He pulled her into his arms, wondering what on earth had prompted him to dance with her again. It was a mistake, of course, just as any prolonged contact with her these days was a mistake, certain only to lead to a hard and intense longing.

And this longing was moving inexorably from his body to his soul.

But the feel of her was too much to resist. The waltz allowed him to get just close enough to her to detect that maddening scent of lemons, and he inhaled it as if it would save his life.

He was coming to care for her. He recognized that now. He wanted her on his arm at these social events, not prancing around with every eligible fop, dandy, and Corinthian in London. He wanted to muck through the fields of Stannage Park, holding her hand. He wanted to lean down—right now—and kiss her until she was senseless with desire.

But she no longer desired only him. He should have snatched her up before introducing her to the ton, for now she’d had a taste of social success and was savoring the triumph. The men were flocking to her side, and she was beginning to realize that she could have her pick of husbands. And, Dunford thought grimly, he had all but promised her she could have that pick. He had to let her have the fun of being courted by dozens of beaux before making any serious attempt for her hand himself.

He closed his eyes, almost in pain. He wasn’t used to denying himself anything—at least nothing he really wanted. And he really wanted Henry.

She was watching the emotions filter across his face, growing more apprehensive by the second. He looked angry, as if having to hold her was a dreadful chore. Her pride stung, she summoned up what was left of her courage and said, “I know what this is about, you know.”

His eyes snapped open. “What what is about?”

“This. The way you’re treating me.”

The music drew to a close, and Dunford escorted her to an empty alcove where they could continue the conversation in relative privacy. “How am I treating you?” he finally asked, dreading the answer.

“Horribly. Worse than horribly. And I know why.”

He chuckled, unable to help himself. “Really?” he drawled.

“Yes,” Henry said, cursing herself for the slight stammer in her voice. “Yes, I do. It’s that damned wager.”

“What wager?”

“You know which wager. The one with Belle.”

He looked at her blankly.

“That you won’t get married!” she burst out, mortified that their friendship had come to this. “You bet her a thousand pounds you wouldn’t get married.”

“Yes,” he said hesitantly, not following her logic.

“You don’t want to lose a thousand pounds by marrying me.”

“Good God, Henry, is that what you think this is about?” Disbelief registered on his face, in his voice, in the stance of his body. He wanted to tell her he’d gladly pay the thousand pounds to have her. He’d pay a hundred thousand pounds if he had to. He hadn’t even thought of the damned bet in over a month. Not since he’d met her, and she’d turned his life upside down, and... He fought for words, not at all certain of what to say to salvage this disaster of an evening.

She was about to cry—not tears of sadness, but of hot shame and humiliated fury. When she heard the supreme disbelief in his voice, she knew—positively knew—he cared not a whit for her. Even their friendship seemed to have disintegrated in the space of an evening. It wasn’t the thousand pounds that was holding him back. She was a fool for even dreaming that he was pushing her away for something as silly as a bet.

No, he hadn’t been thinking about the bet. No man could have faked the surprise she’d seen and heard. He was pushing her away simply because he wanted to push her away, simply because he didn’t want her. All he wanted was to get her safely married, off his hands, and out of his life.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she choked out, pulling desperately away from him, “I have a few more hearts to capture this evening. I’d like an even dozen.”

Dunford watched as she disappeared into the crowd, never dreaming she would make her way straight to one of the ladies’ retiring rooms, lock the door, and spend the next half hour in miserable solitude.

The bouquets began to arrive early the next morning: roses of every shade, irises, tulips imported from Holland. They filled the Blydons’ drawing room and spilled out into the foyer. The scent was so overwhelming and pervasive that the cook even grumbled she couldn’t smell the food she was preparing.

Henry was most definitely a success.

She woke relatively early the next morning. Relatively compared to the other members of the household, that was. By the time she made her way downstairs, it was nearly noon. When she reached the breakfast room, she was surprised to see a mahogany-haired stranger sitting at the table. She stopped short, startled by his presence until he looked up at her with eyes of such a bright blue that she knew he had to be Belle’s brother.

“You must be Ned,” she said, curving her lips into a welcoming smile.

Ned raised a brow as he stood. “I’m afraid you have the advantage over me.”

“I’m sorry. I am Miss Henrietta Barrett.” She held out her hand. Ned took it and regarded it for a moment, as if trying to decide whether he ought to kiss or shake it. Finally, he kissed it.

“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Barrett,” he said, “although I must confess I am at a bit of a loss as to your presence here at such an early hour.”

“I am a houseguest,” she explained. “Your mother is sponsoring me for the season.”

He pulled out a chair for her. “Is she? I daresay you’ll be a smashing success, then.”

She shot him a jaunty smile as she sat. “Smashing.”

“Ah, yes. You must be the reason for the bouquets in the front hall.”

She shrugged. “I’m surprised your mother didn’t inform you of my presence. Or Belle. She has spoken about you a great deal.”

His eyes narrowed as his heart sank. “You’ve become friendly with Belle?” He saw all his hopes for a flirtation with this girl going up in smoke.

“Oh, yes. She is quite the best friend I have ever had.” She spooned some eggs on her plate and scrunched her nose. “I do hope these are not too cold.”

“They’ll warm them,” he replied with a wave of his hand.

Henry took a hesitant bite. “They’re just fine.”

“What precisely has Belle told you about me?”

“That you’re quite nice, of course, most of the time, that is, and that you are trying very hard to acquire a rake’s reputation.”

Ned choked on his toast.

“Are you all right? Would you like some more tea?”

“I’m fine,” he gasped. “She told you that?’’

“I thought it was exactly the sort of thing a sister might say about her brother.’’

“Indeed.’’

“I hope I have not dashed any of your plans to make a conquest of me,’’ Henry said blithely. “Not that I think so highly of my beauty or countenance that I imagine everyone wants to make a conquest of me. I merely thought you might be thinking about it simply for reasons of convenience.”

“Convenience?” he echoed blankly.

“Seeing as how I’m living right under your roof.”

“I say, Miss Barrett—”

“Henry,” she interjected. “Please call me Henry. Everybody does.”

“Henry,” he muttered. “Of course you would be called Henry.”

“It suits me better than Henrietta, don’t you think?”

“I rather think I do,” he said with great feeling.

She took another bite of egg. “Your mother insists upon calling me Henrietta, but that is only because your father’s name is Henry. But you were saying?”

He blinked. “I was?”

“Yes, you were. I believe you said, ‘I say, Miss Barrett,’ and then I interrupted you and told you to call me Henry.”

He blinked again, trying to recover his train of thought. “Oh, yes. I believe I was about to ask you if anyone had ever told you that you are quite frank.”

She laughed. “Oh, everyone.”

“Somehow that does not surprise me.”

“It never surprises me either. Dunford keeps telling me there are advantages to subtlety, but I’ve never been able to discern them.” She immediately cursed herself for bringing him into the conversation. There was no one she wanted to talk about—or even think about—less.

“You know Dunford?”

She swallowed a piece of ham. “He’s my guardian.”

Ned had to cover his mouth with his napkin to keep from spitting out the tea he’d been sipping. “He’s your what?” he asked disbelievingly.

“I seem to be getting similar reactions across London,” she said with a puzzled shake of her head. “I gather he is not what most people would deem suitable guardian material.”

“That is certainly one way to describe the matter.”

“He’s a terrible rake, I hear.”

“That is another way to describe it.”

She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling devilishly silver. “Belle tells me that you are trying to establish the exact sort of reputation he has.”

“Belle talks too much.”

“Funny, he said the exact same thing.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

“Do you know what I think, Ned? I may call you Ned, mayn’t I?”

His lips twitched. “Of course.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to carry off the rake act.”

“Really?” he drawled.

“Yes. You’re trying very hard, I can see. And you did say ‘really’ with just the right note of condescension and bored civility one would expect from a rake.”

“I’m glad to see I’m living up to your standards.”

“Oh, but you’re not!”

Ned started to wonder where he got the fortitude not to laugh. “Really?” he drawled again, in exactly the same awful tone.

Henry let out a chuckle. “Very good, my lord, but do you want to know why I do not think you could ever be a proper rake?”

He plunked his elbows down on the table and leaned forward. “You can see I’m waiting in desperate anticipation.”

“You’re too nice!” She said this with a flourish of her arm.

He sat back. “Is that a compliment?”

“To be sure, it is.”

Ned’s eyes twinkled. “I cannot express the depth of my relief.”

“Frankly—and I believe we have already established the fact that I am usually frank—”

“Oh, indeed.”

She shot him a vaguely annoyed look. “Frankly, I am beginning to find the dark and brooding type to be vastly overrated. I met several last night, and I think I shall contrive not to receive them today should they call.”

“They’ll be crushed, I’m sure.”

Henry ignored him. “I’m going to endeavor to look for a nice man.”

“Then I should be at the top of your list, shouldn’t I?” Ned was surprised to discover he didn’t half mind the idea.

She sipped nonchalantly at her tea. “We should never suit.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, my lord, you don’t want to be nice. You need time to get over your delusions of rakehood.”

This time Ned did laugh. Quite heartily. When he finally settled down, he said, “Your Dunford is quite a rake, and he is a rather nice chap. A bit domineering at times, but nice nonetheless.”

Henry’s face turned to stone. “First of all, he is not ‘my’ Dunford. And more importantly, he isn’t nice at all.”

Ned immediately sat up a little straighter. He didn’t think he had ever met anyone who didn’t like Dunford. It was exactly why he was so successful at being a rake. He was utterly charming unless one managed to get him really angry, and then he was deadly.

Ned gave Henry a sideways glance and wondered if she’d gotten Dunford really angry. He’d wager she had.

“Say, Henry, are you busy this afternoon?”

“I suppose I ought to be home to receive callers.”

“Nonsense. They’ll want you more if they think you’re not available.”

She rolled her eyes. “If I could find a nice man, I wouldn’t have to play these games.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll probably never know, as I don’t think there exists a man as nice as you want.”

Except Dunford, Henry thought sadly. Before he’d turned so cruel. She remembered him at the dress shop in Truro. Don’t be shy, minx... Why on earth would I laugh? How could I give that dress to my sister when it looks so utterly charming on you? But he didn’t have a sister. He’d brought her to the dress shop just to make her feel better. All he had wanted to do was help her build her self-confidence.

She shook her head. She would never understand him.

“Henry?”

She blinked. “What? Oh, I’m sorry, Ned. I was wool-gathering, I suppose.”

“Would you like to go for an excursion? I thought we might make a round of the shops, pick up a trinket or two.”

Her eyes focused on his face. He was grinning boyishly, his bright eyes expectant. Ned liked her. Ned wanted to be with her. Why didn’t Dunford? No, don’t think of that man. Just because one person rejected her didn’t mean she was wholly unlovable. Ned liked her. She had sat here at breakfast just being herself and Ned had liked her just fine. And Billington had liked her the night before. And Belle certainly did—and so did her parents.

“Henry?”

“Ned,” she said decisively, “I would love to spend the day with you. Shall we be off now?”

“Why not? Why don’t you collect your maid and meet me in the foyer in fifteen minutes?”

“Let’s try for ten.”

He gave her a jaunty salute.

Henry hurried up the stairs. Maybe this trip to London wouldn’t turn out to be a complete disaster after all.

A half mile away, Dunford was lying on his bed, nursing a hellish hangover. He was still dressed in his evening clothes, much to his valet’s profound consternation. He’d barely drunk anything at the ball, he’d come home nauseatingly sober. Then he’d proceeded to down almost an entire bottle of whiskey, as if the drink could expunge the evening from his memory.

It didn’t work.

Instead, he stank like a tavern, his head felt as if it had been run over by the entire British cavalry, and his bedclothes were a mess from the boots he hadn’t managed to take off the night before.

All because of a woman.

He shuddered. He’d never thought he’d get it this bad. Oh, he’d seen his friends topple, one by one, bitten by that bug they call marriage, all nauseatingly in love with their spouses. It was insane, really—no one married for love, no one.

Except his friends.

Which had led him to wondering. Why not him? Why couldn’t he settle down with someone about whom he actually cared? And then Henry had virtually been dropped in his lap. One look in those silver eyes, and he should have known not even to try to fight it.

Well, maybe not, he amended. He wasn’t so hung over that he couldn’t admit it hadn’t quite been love at first sight. Certainly these feelings had not begun until sometime after the pigpen incident. Perhaps it had been in Truro, when he’d bought her the yellow dress. Maybe that was when it had started.

He sighed. Hell, did it really matter?

He stood up, moved to a chair by the window, and stared aimlessly at the people walking up and down Half Moon Street. What the bloody hell was he supposed to do now? She hated him. If he hadn’t been so damned set on playing a bloody hero, he could have married her twice by now. But no, he had to bring her to London, had to insist she be allowed to meet all of the ton’s eligible gentlemen before she made any decisions. He had to push her away and push her away and push her away, all because he was afraid he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

He should have just ravished her and hauled her off to the altar before she had a chance to think straight. That’s what a real hero would have done.

He stood abruptly. He could win her back. He just had to stop acting like such a jealous bastard and start being nice to her again. He could do that.

Couldn’t he?