Minx

  “Close your eyes and go to sleep, then. You won’t see a thing.”

  Henry lay back down and managed to stay in that position for a full minute. “I can’t do it,” she burst out, bolting upright again. “I just can’t do it.”

  “Can’t do what, Henry?” He sighed—a very long-suffering sort of sigh.

  “I can’t lie here when you’re so uncomfortable.”

  “The only place I’m going to be more comfortable is in the bed.”

  There was a very long pause. Finally—“I can do it if you can do it.”

  Dunford decided that they had vastly different interpretations of the word “it.”

  “I’ll scoot very, very far over to the side.” She started to scoot. “Very far.”

  Against all better judgment, he actually considered the idea. He lifted his head to watch her. She was so far to the edge of the bed that one of her legs was falling over the side.

  “You can sleep on the other side,” she was saying. “Just stay at the edge.”

  “Henry . . .”

  “If-you’re-going-to-do-it-do-it-now,” she said, the entire sentence coming out as one long word. “For in a moment I will surely regain my senses and rescind the offer.”

  Dunford looked at the empty spot on the bed and then down at his body, which was sporting an enormous erection. Then he looked at Henry. No, don’t do that! His gaze quickly shifted back to the empty spot on the bed. It looked very, very comfortable—so comfortable, in fact, that it might just be possible for him to relax enough for his body to calm down.

  He looked back at Henry. He hadn’t meant to do it, hadn’t wanted to do it, but his eyes were inclined to follow the dictates of a body part other than his mind. She was sitting up and staring at him. Her thick, straight, brown hair had been pulled back into a plait which was surprisingly erotic. Her eyes—well, by all rights it should have been too dark to see them, but he could swear he could see them glow silver in the moonlight.

  “No,” he said hoarsely, “the chair will do just fine, thank you.”

  “If I know you are uncomfortable, I shan’t be able to sleep.” She sounded remarkably like a damsel in distress.

  Dunford shuddered. He had never been able to resist playing hero. Slowly he got to his feet and walked to the empty side of the bed.

  How bad could it be?

  Chapter 11

  Very, very bad.

  Very, very, very bad.

  An hour later Dunford was still wide awake, his entire body stiff as a board for fear that he might accidentally brush up against her. Furthermore, he couldn’t risk lying in any position other than on his back because when he’d first crawled in and lay on his side, he could smell her on the pillow.

  Curse it, why couldn’t she have stayed in just one place? Was there any reason why she should have lain on one side of the bed and then moved to the other to make room for him? Now all of the pillows smelled like her, like that vague lemony scent that always wafted around her face. And the blasted chit moved so much in her sleep that even staying on his back didn’t protect him completely.

  Don’t breathe through your nose, he chanted internally. Don’t breathe through your nose.

  She rolled over, emitting a soft sigh.

  Close your ears.

  She made some funny little snapping sound with her lips, then rolled over again.

  It’s not her, a little piece of his mind screamed. This would happen with any woman.

  Oh, give it up, the rest of his brain replied. You want Henry, and you want her bad.

  Dunford gritted his teeth and prayed for sleep.

  He prayed hard.

  And he was not a religious man.

  Henry felt warm. Warm and soft and . . . content. She was having the most beautiful dream. She wasn’t entirely certain what was happening in the dream, but whatever it was, it was leaving her feeling utterly indulged and languid. She shifted in her sleep, sighing contentedly as the smell of warm wood and brandy drifted under her nose. It was a lovely smell. Rather like Dunford. He always smelled like warm wood and brandy, even when he hadn’t had a drop of drink. Funny how he managed that. Funny how his smell was in her bed.

  Henry’s eyelids fluttered open.

  Funny how he was in her bed.

  She let out an involuntary gasp before she remembered she was at an inn on the way to London and had done what no gently bred lady would ever ever do. She had offered to share her bed with a gentleman.

  Henry bit her lip and sat up. He had looked so uncomfortable. Surely it wasn’t such a sin to spare him a night of tossing and turning followed by several days of an aching back. And it wasn’t as if he’d touched her. Hell, she thought indelicately, he didn’t need to. The man was a human furnace. She probably would have felt the warmth of his body clear across the room.

  The sun was beginning to come up, and the entire room was bathed in a rosy glow. Henry looked down at the man lying next to her. She rather hoped this entire escapade did not ruin her reputation before she even managed to acquire one, but if it did, she thought wryly, it would be rather ironic, considering she’d done nothing of which to be ashamed—besides wanting him, of course.

  She admitted that to herself now. These strange sensations he elicited in her—they were desire, plain and simple. Even if she knew she couldn’t act on these feelings, there was no use lying to herself about them.

  This honesty was becoming painful, however. She knew she couldn’t have him. He didn’t love her, and he wasn’t going to. He was bringing her to London to marry her off. He’d said as much.

  If only he weren’t so darned nice.

  If she could hate him, everything would be so much easier. She could be mean and vicious and convince him to release her from his life. If he were insulting to her, her desire for him would certainly wither and fade.

  Henry was discovering that love and desire were, for her at least, irrevocably entwined. And part of the reason she was so crazy about him was that he was such a good person. If he were a lesser man, he wouldn’t own up to his responsibility as her guardian, and he wouldn’t insist on taking her to London and giving her a season.

  And he certainly wouldn’t be doing all this because he wanted her to be happy.

  Clearly, he was not an easy man to hate.

  Hesitantly, she reached out her hand and brushed a lock of dark brown hair away from his eyes. Dunford mumbled sleepily and then yawned. Henry jerked her arm back, fearful that she had woken him.

  He yawned again, this time very loudly, and lazily opened his eyes.

  “I’m sorry I woke you up,” she said quickly.

  “Was I sleeping?”

  She nodded.

  “So there really is a God,” he muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just a little morning prayer of thanks,” he said dryly.

  “Oh.” Henry blinked in surprise. “I had no idea you were so religious.”

  “I’m not. That is—” He paused and exhaled. “It’s remarkable what can prompt a man to discover religion.”

  “I’m sure,” she murmured, having not a clue what he was talking about.

  Dunford turned his head on the pillow so that he was facing her. Henry looked damned good first thing in the morning. Wispy tendrils of hair had escaped from her braid and were curling gently around her face. The soft light of morning seemed to turn these errant strands to spun gold. He took a deep breath and shuddered, willing his body not to react.

  It did not, of course, obey.

  Henry, meanwhile, had suddenly realized her clothing was on a chair clear across the room. “I say,” she said nervously, “this certainly is awkward.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I . . . um . . . I’ll be wanting to get my clothes, and I’ll need to get up to get them.”

  “Yes?” r />
  “Well, I don’t think you ought to be seeing me in my nightgown, even if you did sleep with me last night. Oh, dear,” she said in a choked voice, “that didn’t come out quite the way I intended. What I meant to say was that we slept in the same bed, which I suppose is almost as bad.”

  Dunford reflected—rather painfully—that almost didn’t really count.

  “At any rate,” she prattled on, awkwardness making her words run together, “I really can’t get up to get my clothing, and my dressing gown appears to be just out of reach. I’m not exactly certain how this is so, but it is, so perhaps you ought to get up first, as I’ve already seen you—”

  “Henry?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Oh.”

  He closed his eyes in agony. He wanted nothing other than to stay motionless under the covers all day. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. What he really wanted to do involved the young woman sitting next to him, but that wasn’t going to happen, so he was opting for staying hidden. Unfortunately, part of his body really didn’t want to stay hidden, and he had no idea how he was meant to get up first without scaring ten years off of her life.

  Henry sat stock still until she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Dunford?”

  “Yes?” It was amazing how a single word could convey such feeling. And not good feelings, either.

  “What are we going to do?”

  He took a deep breath—possibly his twentieth of the morning. “You are going to bury yourself under the covers as you did last night, and I am going to get dressed.”

  She obeyed his order with alacrity.

  He rose with an unabashed groan and crossed the room to where he’d left his clothing. “My valet will have a fit,” he muttered.

  “What?” she yelled from beneath the covers.

  “I said,” he said more loudly, “that my valet will have a fit.”

  “Oh, no,” she moaned, sounding considerably distressed.

  He sighed. “What is it now, Hen?”

  “You really should have your valet,” came the muffled reply. “I feel dreadful.”

  “Don’t,” he ordered sharply.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t feel dreadful,” he practically snapped.

  “But I can’t help it. We’re going to be arriving in London today, and you’ll want to look nice for your friends and . . . and for whomever else you want to look nice and . . .”

  How was it, he wondered, that she managed to sound as if she would be irrevocably hurt if he did not avail himself of his valet?

  “It’s not as if I have a maid, so I’m sure to look rumpled anyway, but there is no need for you to do so.”

  He sighed.

  “Therefore you must get back into bed.”

  That, he thought, was a very bad idea.

  “Hurry up now,” she said briskly.

  He voiced his feelings. “This is a very bad idea, Hen.”

  “Trust me.”

  He couldn’t help the short bark of ragged laughter that flew from his mouth.

  “Just get back into bed and hide under the covers,” she explained patiently. “I’ll get up and get dressed. Then I’ll go downstairs and summon your valet. You’ll look beautiful.”

  Dunford turned to face the large, extremely vocal lump in the bed. “Beautiful?” he echoed.

  “Beautiful, handsome, whatever it is you want to be called.”

  He had been called handsome many times, by many different women, but never had he felt as pleased as he did that very moment. “Oh, all right,” he sighed. “If you insist.” A few seconds later he was back in the bed, and she was scurrying out and across the room.

  “Don’t peek,” she called out as she pulled her dress over her head. It was the same one she’d worn the previous day, but she had laid it carefully on a chair the night before, and she supposed it was less wrinkled than those in her valise.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he lied blandly.

  A few moments later she said, “I’ll summon your valet.” Then he heard the click of the door.

  After sending Hastings up to his employer, she wandered into the dining room, hopeful that she could order some breakfast. She had a feeling she wasn’t supposed to be there unescorted, but she didn’t know what else to do. The innkeeper spied her and hurried to her side. She had just finished ordering when she saw a little old lady with blue hair out of the corner of her eye. She looked unbelievably regal and haughty. The Dowager Duchess of Beresford. It had to be. Dunford had warned her not to let the lady see her at all costs.

  “In our room,” Henry blurted out in a strangled voice. “We’d like breakfast in our room.” Then she took off like a shot, praying the duchess hadn’t seen her.

  Henry ran up the stairs and burst into the room, not giving a thought to its inhabitants. With slowly dawning horror, she realized Dunford was only half dressed. “Oh, my,” she breathed, staring at his naked chest, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Henry, what happened?” he asked urgently, oblivious to the shaving lather on his face.

  “Oh, dear. I’m sorry. I–I’ll just stand in the corner with my back turned.”

  “Henry, for God’s sake, what is wrong?”

  She stared at him with wide silver eyes. He was going to come to her, she thought. He was going to touch her, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Then she belatedly noticed the presence of the valet. “I must have entered the wrong room,” she hastily fabricated. “Mine is right next door. It was just . . . I saw the duchess . . . and . . .”

  “Henry,” Dunford said in an unbelievably patient voice. “Why don’t you wait in the hall? We’re almost done here.”

  She nodded jerkily and nearly flew back into the hall. A few minutes later the door opened to reveal Dunford, looking marvelously debonair. Her stomach did a somersault. “I ordered breakfast,” she blurted out. “It should be here any minute now.”

  “Thank you.” Noting her discomfort, he added, “I apologize if our rather unconventional stay here has disturbed you in any way.”

  “Oh, no,” she said quickly, “it hasn’t disturbed me. It’s just . . . I just . . . Well, you’ve got me thinking about reputations and such.”

  “As well you should. London, I’m afraid, will not afford you the same measure of freedom you enjoyed in Cornwall.”

  “I know that. It’s just . . .” She paused thankfully as she watched Hastings slip out of the room. Dunford shut the door a discreet halfway. When she continued, it was in a loud whisper. “It’s just that I know I shouldn’t be seeing you without your shirt on, no matter how nice you may look, because it makes me feel quite odd, and I shouldn’t encourage you after—”

  “Enough,” he said in a strangled voice, holding up a hand as if to ward off the innocently erotic words tumbling from her mouth.

  “But—”

  “I said enough.”

  Henry nodded and then stepped aside to allow the innkeeper to enter with breakfast. She and Dunford watched in silence as he laid the table and left the room. Once she was seated, she looked up at him and said, “I say, Dunford, did you realize—”

  “Henry?” he interrupted, terrified she was going to say something delightfully improper and convinced he would not be able to control his reaction to it.

  “Yes?”

  “Eat your eggs.”

  Many hours later they reached the outskirts of London. Henry practically had her face plastered up against the glass windows of the coach, she was so excited. Dunford pointed out a few of the sights, assuring her there would be plenty of time for her to see the rest of the city. He would take her sightseeing just as soon as they had hired a maid to act as her escort. Until then he would have one of his female friends show her around.

  Henry swallowed nervously. Dunford’s friends were undoubtedly sophisticated and dressed in th
e first stare of fashion. She was nothing more than a country bumpkin. She had a sinking feeling she would not know what to do when she met them. And Lord knew she had no idea what to say.

  This was particularly distressing to a woman who had prided herself on always having a ready retort.

  As their carriage rolled toward Mayfair, the houses grew progressively grander. Henry could barely keep her mouth shut as she stared. Finally she turned to her companion and said, “Please tell me you don’t live in one of these mansions.”

  “I don’t.” He gave her a lopsided smile.

  Henry breathed a sigh of relief.

  “But you will.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You didn’t think you could live in the same house as I, did you?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to stay with one or another of my friends. I’m just going to drop you off at my house to wait until I make arrangements for you.”

  Henry felt rather like a piece of baggage. “Won’t I be an imposition?”

  “In one of these houses?” He quirked a brow and waved his hand at one of the opulent mansions. “You could go for weeks without anyone even noticing your presence.”

  “How very encouraging,” she muttered.

  Dunford chuckled. “Don’t worry, Hen. I have no intention of settling you with a miserable harridan or a doddering old fool. I promise you’ll be happy with your living arrangements.”

  His voice was so rich and reassuring that Henry couldn’t help but believe him.

  The carriage turned into Half Moon Street and came to a stop in front of a neat little town house. Dunford alighted, then turned to help Henry down. “This,” he said with a smile, “is where I live.”

  “Oh, but it’s lovely!” Henry exclaimed, feeling overwhelmingly relieved that his home wasn’t too grand.

  “It’s not mine. I only lease it. It seems silly to purchase a house when we’ve a family home right here in London.”

  “Why don’t you live there?”

  He shrugged. “I’m too lazy to move, I suppose. I probably should. The house has rarely been occupied since my father’s death.”