enry’s fingers shook as she changed out of her traveling dress. Both Belle and Emma had contributed to her trousseau, and as a result she now had a valise full of ultrasheer nightgowns. They all seemed vaguely indecent to a young woman who had never worn anything other than thick, white cotton to bed before, but somehow feeling it was her duty to wear these now that she was married, she slipped one over her head.

She glanced down at her body, gasped, and jumped into bed. The pale pink silk did not even pretend to hide the contours of her body or the dark rosiness of her nipples. Henry quickly pulled the covers up to her chin.

When Dunford returned he was clad in only a dark green robe that fell to his knees. Henry swallowed and looked away.

“Why so nervous, Hen?” he asked flatly. “It isn’t as if we haven’t done this before.”

“It was different then.”

“Why?” Dunford looked at her intently, his thoughts racing in the most depressing of directions. Was it different because she no longer had to pretend she loved him? Stannage Park was safely hers now; she was probably trying to figure out how to scare him off the premises most quickly.

She was silent for a full minute before she finally said, “I don’t know.”

He regarded her, saw insincerity in her eyes, and felt anger rising within him. “Well, I don’t care,” he all but snarled. “I don’t care if it’s different.” He tore off his robe and moved onto the bed with feral grace. He hovered above her on his hands and knees, watching as her eyes grew wide with apprehension.

“I can make you want me,” he whispered. “I know I can do that.” He slid down until he was lying on his side, still atop the covers beneath which she had burrowed. One of his hands snaked out behind her neck, pulling her toward him.

Henry felt his hot breath on her mouth a split second before his lips touched hers. As he coaxed her response, she wildly tried to make sense of his behavior. He certainly acted as if he wanted her.

And yet she knew he didn’t, at least not enough for him to forsake all other women.

Something within her was lacking, but she didn’t know what. Suddenly self-conscious, she pulled away, her fingers rising to cover her swollen lips.

He raised a sardonic brow.

“I’m not good at kissing,” she blurted out.

That made him laugh. “I taught you, Hen. You’re quite proficient.” And then, as if to prove it, he kissed her anew, his mouth hot and demanding.

She was unable to stifle her response, and heat rose within her, licking her skin from the inside out. Her brain, however, remained curiously detached, and as she felt his tongue explore the contours of her face, she hastily inventoried her body, trying to figure out what it was about her that wasn’t enough to keep his interest.

Dunford didn’t seem to notice her lack of concentration, and his hands fanned the warmth of her body, burning through the thin silk of her gown. The fastenings slid open, baring her skin to the cool night air. He traveled upward, along the flat plane of her stomach, until he reached her—

Breast!

“Oh, God!” Henry blurted out. “Don’t!”

Dunford lifted his head so he could see into her face. “What the hell is wrong now, Henry?”

“You can’t. I can’t.”

“You can,” he ground out.

“No, they’re too—” She looked down, objectivity unexpectedly piercing her pain. Wait a second, they weren’t too small. What the hell was wrong with him that he couldn’t enjoy a perfectly good pair of breasts? She tilted her head, trying to analyze their shape.

Dunford blinked. The girl—his wife—was twisting her neck in what appeared to be an extremely uncomfortable manner and staring at her breasts as if she’d never seen anything like them in the world.

“What are you doing?” he asked, too baffled to maintain his anger.

“I don’t know.” She looked up at him, her eyes filled with an odd combination of hesitation and annoyance. “They’re wrong somehow.”

Exasperated, he bit out, “What is wrong?”

“My breasts.”

If she had begun a lecture on the comparative differences between Judaism and Islam he would not have been more surprised. “Your breasts?” he echoed, his voice coming out a bit more sternly that he’d intended. “For Christ’s sake, Henry, they’re fine.”

Fine? Fine? She didn’t want them to be fine. She wanted them to be perfect, spectacular, utterly ravishing. She wanted him to want her so much that he’d think her the most beautiful woman in the world, even if she weighed fifteen stone and had a wart on her nose. She wanted him to want her so much that he lost all sense of himself.

Most of all she wanted him to want her so much that he would never need another woman.

“Fine” was something she couldn’t tolerate, and even as his mouth captured one of her nipples in a hot kiss, she twisted herself out of his grasp and scrambled out of bed, frantically clutching her open nightgown against her body.

Dunford’s breath came in short pants. He was painfully hard, and he was clearly losing patience with his new wife. “Henry,” he ordered. “Get back into bed now.”

She shook her head, hating herself for cowering in the corner, but doing it all the same.

He jumped out of bed, unconcerned with the way his erection jutted out from his naked body. Henry stared at him with both fright and wonder—fright because he was advancing toward her like a menacing god, and wonder because it was plainly clear there was something about her he liked. The man definitely wanted her.

Dunford grabbed her by the shoulders and shook. When that failed to shake words from her mouth, he shook again. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know,” she cried out, surprised by the volume of her reply. “I don’t know, and it’s killing me.”

Whatever thread had been keeping Dunford’s fury in check snapped. How dare she try to make herself out to be the victim in this sordid union? “I’ll tell you what the hell is wrong with you,” he said in a low, menacing voice. “I’ll tell you exactly what is wrong. You—”

He stumbled over his words, unprepared for the look of total desolation that washed over her face. No. No. He would not let himself feel sorry for her. Forcing himself to ignore the stark pain in her eyes, he continued, “You know that your little game is up, don’t you? You heard back from Rosalind, and now you know I’m on to you.”

Henry stared at him, barely able to breathe.

“I know all about you,” he said with a ragged laugh. “I know you think I’m a nice enough fellow. I know you married me for Stannage Park. Well, you did it. You got your precious Stannage Park. But I got you.”

“Why did you marry me?” she whispered.

He snorted. “A gentleman doesn’t jilt a lady. Remember? Lesson number 363 in how to comport oneself in—”

“No!” she burst out. “That wouldn’t have stopped you. Why did you marry me?”

Her eyes seemed to be begging him for an answer, but he didn’t know what she wanted to hear. Hell, he didn’t even know if he wanted to tell her anything. Let her squirm for a little while. Let her suffer as he had suffered. “Do you know something, Henry?” he said in an awful voice. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

He watched as the fire flickered out of her eyes, disgusted with himself for so enjoying her distress but too furious and, yes, aroused to do anything other than yank her into his arms and crush her mouth with his. He tore at her gown until she was as bare as he, her skin hot and flushed against his own.

“But you’re mine now,” he whispered hotly, his words caressing her neck. “Mine forever.”

He kissed her with a fervor born of fury and desperation, and he felt the instant when desire overtook her. Her lips began to move against his temple, her hands roved the corded muscles of his back, and her hips pressed urgently against his.

It was utter torture, and he couldn’t get enough.

He wanted to surround himself with her, bury himself within her and never leave. Mindless in his desire, he wasn’t certain how he maneuvered them back to bed, but he must have done so, for he soon found himself over her, pressing his body primitively into hers.

“You’re mine, Henry,” he whispered. “Mine.”

She moaned incoherently in reply.

He rolled over onto his side, pulling her with him. His hand tugged at her ankle, draping her leg over his hip.

“Oh, Dunford,” she sighed.

“Oh, Dunford, what?” he murmured, nipping her earlobe softly with his teeth.

“I—” She gasped as he squeezed her buttocks.

“Do you need me, Henry?”

“I don—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Her breaths were coming on top of each other now, and she could barely speak.

He smoothed his hand further down her backside until it curved under her and touched her intimately. “Do you need me?”

“Yes! Yes!” Then she opened her eyes and stared into his. “Please.”

Thoughts of anger and revenge slipped from his mind as he stared into the clear, gray depths of her eyes. He could feel only love, remember only the laughter and intimacy they had shared. He kissed her lips and remembered the first time he had seen her smile—that saucy, cheeky grin. He ran his hands along her supple arms and remembered how she had stubbornly hefted rocks onto the pigpen’s stone wall as he sat and watched.

She was Henry, and he loved her. He couldn’t help himself.

“Tell me what you want, Henry,” he whispered.

She stared at him blindly, unable to form words.

“Do you want this?” He rolled her nipple between his thumb and middle finger, watching it harden and peak.

With a strangled gasp, she nodded.

“Do you want this?” He leaned down and treated her other breast to the pleasure of his tongue.

“Oh, my God,” she moaned. “Oh, Lord.”

“What about this?” He gently laid her on her back and placed one hand on each of her thighs. He slowly pushed them apart, meeting no resistance. With an arrogant smile, he leaned forward and kissed her softly on the mouth as his fingers tickled the hot folds of her womanhood.

Her leaping pulse was answer enough.

He smiled devilishly. “Tell me, minx, do you want this?” He kissed a fiery trail down through the valley between her breasts, along the flat planes of her midriff, until his mouth met his fingers.

“Oh, Dunford,” Henry gasped. “Oh, my God.”

He could have spent hours loving her in that way. She was sweet and mysterious and pure woman. But he could feel her inching toward completion, and he wanted to be joined with her when she climaxed. He needed to feel her body tighten around him.

He slid himself up along the length of her until they were face-to-face again. “Do you want me, Henry?” he whispered. “I won’t do this unless you want me.”

Henry looked up at him through passion-clouded eyes. “Dunford. Yes.”

He nearly shuddered with relief, not knowing how he would have had the power to keep his word had she refused him. He was heavy and hard, and his body was crying for release. He pushed upward, entering her slightly. She was warm and wet, but her body was tight with inexperience, and he had to force himself to go slowly.

But Henry would have none of that. She was straining against him, arching her hips to receive his entire length. It was more than Dunford could take, and he thrust forward, sheathing himself completely within her.

It was like coming home, and he lifted himself up on his elbows so he could watch her. Suddenly he couldn’t remember why he was so angry with her. He looked at her and all he could see was her face—laughing, grinning, her mouth quivering in sympathy for the baby who had died in the abandoned cottage.

“Henry,” he groaned. He loved her. He pushed forward again, losing himself in a primitive rhythm. He loved her. He moved. He loved her. He kissed her brow in a desperate attempt to move ever closer to her soul.

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 said 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.”