hat may have been the only explanation, but it didn’t mean Henry felt particularly chipper about it. As midnight grew near, her thoughts became increasingly fixed on Dunford’s upcoming meeting with Christine Fowler. Even the Smythe-Smith musicale, dreadful as it was, failed to distract her.

On the other hand, perhaps Dunford’s meeting with Christine Fowler was a blessing in disguise; at least it was distracting her from the Smythe-Smith string quartet.

Dunford had not underestimated their musical skill.

To her credit, Henry managed to sit still throughout the performance, concentrating on discovering a method to somehow close up her ears from the inside out. She looked discreetly up at the clock. It was quarter past ten. She wondered if he was at White’s now, enjoying a game of cards before his meeting.

The concert finally drew to its last discordant note, and the audience breathed a collective sigh of relief. As she stood, Henry heard someone say, “Thank goodness they didn’t perform an original composition.”

Henry almost laughed, but then she saw that one of the Smythe-Smith girls had heard the comment, too. To her surprise, the girl did not look ready to burst into tears. She looked furious. Henry found herself nodding approvingly. At least the girl had spirit. Then she realized that the seething glare was not directed at the rude guest but at the girl’s mother. Curious, Henry immediately decided to introduce herself. She made her way through the crowd and onto the makeshift stage. The other three Smythe-Smith daughters had begun to mingle in the crowd, but the one with the forbidding expression on her face played the cello, which she couldn’t very well carry around with her. She seemed reluctant to leave it unattended.

“Hello,” Henry said, holding out her hand. “I am Miss Henrietta Barrett. I know that it is forward of me to introduce myself, but I thought we might make an exception as we are soon to be cousins.”

The girl stared at her blankly for a moment and then said, “Oh, yes. You must be betrothed to Dunford. Is he here?”

“No, he was otherwise engaged. He has a very busy schedule this evening.”

“Please, you don’t have to make excuses for him. This”—she waved her hand at the chairs and music stands still in place—“is hideous. He’s a very kind man and has come to three of these already. Actually, I’m quite glad he didn’t come. I shouldn’t want to be responsible for his deafness, which is sure to ensue if he attends too many of our musicales.”

Henry smothered a giggle.

“No, please go ahead and laugh,” the girl said. “I’d much rather you did that than compliment me as all these people are bound to do soon.”

“But tell me,” Henry said, leaning forward. “Why does everyone keep coming?”

The girl looked bewildered. “I don’t know. I think it must be out of respect for my late papa. Oh, but I am sorry, I have not even told you my name. I am Charlotte Smythe-Smith.”

“I know.” Henry motioned to her program, which listed the daughters’ names and their respective instruments.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “It has been lovely meeting you, Miss Barrett. I hope we will have a chance to do so again soon. But please, I beg of you, do not attend another one of our performances. I should not like to be responsible for the loss of your sanity, which is sure to occur if you do not find yourself deaf first.”

Henry bit back a smile. “It’s not as bad as that.”

“Oh, but I know that it is.”

“Well, it certainly is not good,” Henry admitted. “But I am glad I came. You’re the first of Dunford’s relatives I have met.”

“And you are the first of his fiancées I have met.”

Henry’s heart skipped a beat. “I beg your pardon.”

“Oh, dear,” Charlotte said quickly, her face growing pink. “I have gone and done it again. Somehow the things I say sound so much different in my head than they do aloud.”

Henry smiled, seeing quite a bit of herself in Dunford’s cousin.

“You are, of course, his first—and one would hope only—fiancée. It is just that it is most exciting to hear that he is betrothed. He has always been such a rake, and— Oh, dear, you didn’t really want to hear that, did you?”

Henry tried to smile again but just couldn’t manage it. The last thing she wanted to hear tonight were tales of Dunford’s rakehell days.

Caroline and Henry took their leave soon thereafter, Caroline fanning herself vigorously in the coach and declaring, “I swear I will never attend one of those recitals again.”

“How many have you attended?”

“This is my third.”

“One would think you would have learned your lesson by now.”

“Yes.” Caroline sighed. “One would.”

“Why do you go?”

“I don’t know. The girls are really quite sweet, and I shouldn’t want to hurt their feelings.”

“At least we may make an early evening of it. All of that noise exhausted me.”

“Myself as well. With any luck I’ll be in bed before midnight.”

Midnight. Henry cleared her throat. “What time is it now?”

“It is probably near to half past eleven. The clock said fifteen minutes past the hour when we left.”

Henry wished there was some way to stop her heart from beating quite so fast. Dunford was probably preparing to leave his club at that very minute. Soon he would be on his way to Bloomsbury, to number fourteen, Russell Square. Silently, she cursed Lady Wolcott for having given her the address. She hadn’t been able to stop herself from looking it up on a map. It made it all the more difficult, knowing precisely where he was going.

The carriage drew to a halt in front of the Blydon mansion, and a footman immediately came out to help the two ladies down. As they entered the front hall, Caroline wearily pulled off her gloves and said, “I’m going directly to bed, Henry. I don’t know why, but I am exhausted. Would you please be so kind as to ask the staff not to disturb me?”

Henry nodded. “I think I shall browse the library for something to read. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Caroline yawned. “If I wake up by then.”

Henry watched her climb the stairs and then wandered down the hall to the library. She picked a candelabra up off of a side table and entered the room, nosing the flames closer to the books so she could read the titles. No, she mused, she didn’t much feel like another Shakespeare. Richardson’s Pamela was much too long. The tome looked to be over a thousand pages.

She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Moonlight spilled through the windows onto its face, making it very easy for Henry to see the time. Half past eleven. She gritted her teeth. There was no way she was going to be able to sleep that night.

The minute hand moved lazily to the left. Henry stared at the clock until it was thirty-three minutes past the hour. This was insane. She couldn’t just sit there and watch the clock all night. She had to do something.

She raced upstairs to her room, not quite certain what she was planning to do until she threw open her closet and saw her men’s breeches and jacket folded up in a corner. It looked as if the maid had been trying to hide them. Henry picked up the garments and fingered them thoughtfully. The jacket was dark blue and the breeches, charcoal gray. Both would blend well into the night.

Her decision made, she hastily shrugged off her evening gown and pulled on the masculine attire, slipping a key to the house into the pocket of her breeches. She pulled her hair back like a pony’s tail and then tucked the end into the collar of the jacket. No one who got a good look at her would mistake her for a boy, but she wouldn’t attract attention from afar.

She put her hand on the doorknob, then remembered how she had been mesmerized by the ticking of the clock in the library. She dashed back across the room, picked up the very small clock that sat on her dressing table, and ran back to the door. Poking her head out into the hallway, she ascertained that it was empty and hurried out. She made it downstairs and out the door without being noticed. She took off at a brisk pace, making sure she walked as if she knew where she was going. Mayfair was the safest part of town, but a woman still couldn’t be too careful. There was a spot where hacks queued up only a few blocks away. She’d get one to take her to Bloomsbury, wait with her while she spied on Christine Fowler’s house, and then return her to Mayfair.

She reached her destination quickly, her hand still clutching the clock. Glancing down, she saw it was 11:44. She’d have to get across town quickly.

There were several hacks queued up, and Henry hopped into the first one, giving the driver Christine Fowler’s address. “And step lively about it,” she said crisply, trying to imitate Dunford’s tones when he wanted to get something done immediately.

The driver turned onto Oxford Street, then headed along that road for several minutes until he made a series of twists and turns that led them to Russell Square.

“Here you are,” he said, obviously expecting her to step down.

Henry glanced at the clock. 11:56. Dunford wouldn’t have arrived yet. He was extremely punctual but not the sort who inconvenienced hosts by arriving early. “Er, I’ll just wait a moment,” she called out. “I’m meeting someone, and he’s not here yet.”

“It’ll cost you extra.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

The driver took a good look at her, decided that only someone with money to burn would be dressed in such an outrageous getup, and sat back, figuring that sitting still in Bloomsbury was a hell of a lot easier than looking around for another fare.

Henry stared at her little clock, watching the minute hand slowly sweep toward the twelve. Finally she heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and looking up, she recognized the carriage coming down the street as Dunford’s.

She held her breath. He stepped down, looking very elegant and, as always, extremely handsome. She exhaled with an irritated sigh. His mistress wasn’t going to want to let him go when he looked like that.

“Is that the person yer waitin’ for?” the driver asked.

“Not really,” she hedged. “I’m going to have to wait a bit longer.”

He shrugged. “It’s yer money.”

Dunford ascended the steps and rapped on the door. The sound of the heavy brass knocker echoed down the street, straining Henry’s already jangled nerves. She pressed her face to the window. Christine Fowler would probably have a manservant to answer the door, but Henry wanted to get a good look just in case.

The door opened to reveal a startlingly lovely woman with thick, black hair that cascaded down her back in rippling curls. She obviously wasn’t dressed to receive ordinary visitors. Henry looked down, taking in her own decidedly unfeminine attire, and tried to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach.

Just before the door shut, Christine placed her hand at the back of Dunford’s head, pulling his lips down to hers. Henry’s fists clenched. The door shut before she could see just how deeply they kissed.

She looked down at her hands. Her fingernails had drawn blood on her palms.

“It wasn’t his fault,” she muttered under her breath. “He didn’t initiate the kiss. It wasn’t his fault.”

“Did you say something?” the driver called.

“No!”

He sat back, obviously deciding all his theories about the general dim-wittedness of women had been confirmed.

Henry tapped her hand nervously against her seat. How long would it take him to tell Christine she had to find a new protector? Fifteen minutes? A half hour? Surely not longer than that. Forty-five minutes, perhaps, just to be generous, in case he had to make monetary arrangements with her. Henry didn’t particularly care how much gold he gave her, just as long as he got rid of her. For good.

Taking deep breaths to try to control the tension racing through her, Henry perched the clock on her lap. She stared at it until she saw double, until her eyes watered. She watched the minute hand sweep down to the three and then told herself sternly that she had been far too optimistic; he couldn’t possibly conduct his business in only fifteen minutes.

She watched as the minute hand fell ever lower, resting at the six. She swallowed uncomfortably, telling herself that since her fiancé was such a nice man, he’d want to break the news to his mistress gent-ly. That must be what was taking so long.

Another fifteen minutes passed, and she choked back a sob. Even the kindest of men could have gotten rid of a mistress in forty-five minutes.

Somewhere in the distance a clock struck one.

Then it struck two.

And then, unbelievably, three chimes were heard.

Henry finally gave in to her despair, poked the sleeping driver in the back, and said, “Grosvenor Square, please.”

He nodded, and they were off.

She stared straight ahead the entire way home, her eyes glazing over with utter emptiness. There could be only one reason why a man spent so long with his mistress. He hadn’t emerged even after three hours. She thought back to their few stolen moments in her bedroom at Westonbirt. He certainly hadn’t been with her for three hours.

After all this, all these lessons in how to behave with poise and propriety and feminine grace, she still wasn’t woman enough to keep his interest. She could never be more than what she was. She’d been insane to think she could even try.

At Henry’s instruction, the hack pulled up a few houses away from the Blydon mansion. She gave the driver more coins than was necessary and walked blindly home. She slipped noiselessly inside and up to her room, where she peeled off her clothes, kicked them under the bed, and pulled on a nightgown. The first one she grabbed was the one she’d worn when she and Dunford had... No, she couldn’t wear that again. It seemed sullied somehow. She balled it up and threw it into the fireplace, grabbing another.

Her room was warm, but she was shivering as she crawled beneath the sheets.

Dunford finally staggered down Christine’s front steps at half past four in the morning. He had always thought of her as a reasonable woman; he supposed that was why he’d been with her for so long. But tonight he’d almost had to revise his opinion. First she’d cried, and he’d never been the sort of man who could walk out on a woman when she was crying.

Then she’d offered him a drink, and when he’d finished that, she’d offered him several more. He’d refused, smiling mockingly at her and saying that although she was an exceptionally lovely woman, alcohol didn’t tend to seduce him when he didn’t want to be seduced.

Then she’d started to express her worries. She had tucked away some money, but what if she couldn’t find another protector? Dunford had told her about the Earl of Billington and then spent the next hour assuring her he would forward some funds and that she could remain in the house until the lease expired.

Finally she’d just sighed, accepting her fate. He’d prepared to leave, but she had put her hand on his arm and asked him if he’d like a cup of tea. They had been friends as well as lovers, she had said. She didn’t have many friends, her line of work didn’t encourage it. Tea and conversation were all she wanted. Just someone to talk to.

Dunford had looked into her black eyes. She had been telling the truth. If there was one thing you could say for Christine, she was honest. And so, since he’d always liked her, he stayed and talked. They gossiped; they talked politics. She told him about her brother in the army, and he told her about Henry. She didn’t seem the least bit bitter about his betrothed; in fact, she’d smiled when he told her about the pigpen incident and told him she was happy for him.

Finally he’d dropped a light, brotherly kiss on her lips. “You’ll be happy with Billington,” he’d told her. “He’s a good man.”

Her lips curved into a small, sad smile. “If you say so, then it must be true.”

He looked at his pocket watch when he reached his carriage and swore. He hadn’t meant to stay so late. He was going to be tired the next day. Ah well, he supposed he could sleep in past noon if he was so inclined. He didn’t have any plans before his daily afternoon jaunt with Henry.

Henry.

Just the thought of her made him smile.

When Henry woke the next morning, her pillowcase was soaked through with tears. She stared at it uncomprehendingly. She hadn’t cried herself to sleep the night before; in fact, she’d felt strangely hollow and dry. She had never heard of sorrow so great that one actually cried while asleep.

Still, she couldn’t imagine a sorrow greater than hers.

She couldn’t marry him. That was the only clear thought in her head. She knew most marriages were not based upon love, but how could she commit herself to a man who was so dishonest he could profess his love for her and then make love to his mistress only two weeks before their wedding?

He must have proposed out of pity, that and his blasted sense of responsibility. Why else would he shackle himself to a tomboyish freak who hadn’t even known the difference between a day dress and an evening gown?

He had said he loved her. She had believed him. What an utter fool she was. Unless...

Henry choked on a sob.

Maybe he did love her. Maybe she hadn’t misread him. Maybe she simply wasn’t womanly enough to satisfy him. Maybe he needed more than she could ever be.

Or maybe he had simply lied. She didn’t know which she preferred to believe.

The astounding part was that she didn’t hate him. He had done too much for her, showed her too much kindness for her ever to hate him. She didn’t think he had slept with Christine out of any sense of malice toward her. And she didn’t think he’d done it for some perverse thrill.

No, he’d probably slept with her just because he’d thought it his right. He was a man, and men did things like that.

It wouldn’t have hurt so much if he hadn’t told her he loved her. She even might have been able to go through with the marriage.

But how was she to break it off? All of London was abuzz about their engagement; to cry off now would be the height of embarrassment. She didn’t particularly mind the thought of the gossip for herself. She’d head back to the country—although not to Stannage Park, she thought painfully. He probably wouldn’t allow her to return. But she could go somewhere where the ton couldn’t reach her.

He, however, couldn’t. His life was here in London.

“Oh, God!” she burst out. “Why can’t you just hurt him?”

She loved him still. Somewhere someone had to be laughing about this.

He was going to have to be the one to call off the engagement. That way he wouldn’t suffer the embarrassment of being jilted. But how to make him do it? How?

She laid on her bed for over an hour, her eyes focusing on a tiny crack in the ceiling. What could she do to make him hate her so much he’d break off the engagement? None of her schemes seemed plausible, until... Yes, that was it. That was exactly it.

With a heavy heart she walked over to her desk and pulled open the drawer Caroline had thoughtfully stocked with writing paper, ink, and a quill. Out of nowhere she remembered the imaginary friend she’d had as a child. Rosalind. That name would do as well as any.

With quivering hands, Henry folded the letter and slid it into an envelope addressed “Lord Stannage.” Before she had a chance to rethink her actions, she dashed down the stairs and placed it in the hands of a footman with instructions to see it delivered immediately.

Then she turned around and made her way back up the stairs, each step requiring a staggering amount of energy to ascend. She made her way to her room, shut and locked her door, and laid upon her bed.

She curled up into a tight ball and stayed that way for hours.

Dunford smiled when his butler handed him the white envelope. As he picked it up off the silver tray, he recognized Henry’s handwriting. It was rather like her, he thought, neat and direct with no flowery decoration.

He slit the envelope open and unfolded the note.

The silly girl had gone and mixed up her letters and envelopes. Dunford hoped he was the reason for her uncharacteristic absentmindedness. He started to refold the letter, but then he caught sight of his name. Curiosity won out over scruples, and he smoothed out the sheet of paper.

A few moments later it slipped from his numb fingers and drifted to the ground.

Dear God, what had he done? She didn’t love him. She had never loved him. She probably never would.

How she must have laughed. He sank back into a chair. No, she wouldn’t have laughed. Despite her calculating behavior, she wasn’t cruel. She simply loved Stannage Park more than she could ever love anything—or anyone—else.

His was a love that could never be returned.

God, it was ironic. He still loved her. Even after this, he still loved her. He was so furious with her he damn near hated her, but still he loved her. What the hell was he going to do?

He staggered to his feet and poured himself a drink, oblivious to the fact that the hour had not yet slipped from morning to afternoon. His fingers clutched the glass so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t break. He downed the drink, and when it did nothing to ease his pain, he drank another.

He pictured her face, his mind drawing the delicately winged eyebrows that hung over those spectacular silver eyes. He could see her hair, could detect each one of the myriad colors that made up that mane which was rather insufficiently called light brown. And then her mouth—it was always in motion, smiling, laughing, pouting.

Kissing.

He could feel her lips under his. They had been soft and full and so eager to respond. His body hardened as he remembered the sheer ecstasy of her touch. She was an innocent, yet she instinctively knew how to bind him to her with passion.

He wanted her.

He wanted her with an intensity that threatened to engulf him.

He couldn’t break the engagement yet. He had to see her one last time. He had to touch her and see if he could withstand the torture of it.

Did he love her enough to go through with this marriage, knowing what he did about her?

Did he hate her enough to marry her just to control her and punish her for what she’d made him feel?

Just one more time.

He had to see her just one more time. Then he would know.