Minx (40 page)

His hand closed around her upper arm, holding her in place as he circumnavigated the chair. "Maybe there's a little of that, too," he said with chilling softness.

His lips captured hers. It was a hard, cruel kiss, unlike any other he'd given her, and she clearly was not enjoying it. "Why so resistant, Hen? Don't you want to marry me?"

She twisted her head away from him.

"Don't you want to marry me?" he repeated, his voice a cold singsong. "Don't you want all I have to offer you? Don't you want security, a comfortable life, and a home? Ah, yes, a home. Don't you want that?"

He felt her struggle in his arms, then go still, and he knew he should release her. He should let her go, turn around, and walk out of the room and out of her life. But he wanted her so much...

Lord, he wanted her, and that lust overtook him, turning his fury into desire. His lips grew softer, demanding only pleasure. He trailed kisses along her jawline to her ear, down her neck to the tender skin ringed by her pale yellow bodice. "Tell me you can't feel this," he whispered, his words a dare. "Tell me."

Henry only shook her head, not sure whether she was signaling him to stop or admitting the sense of need he whipped up in her.

Dunford heard her whimper with desire, and for a split second he didn't know whether he'd lost or won. Then he realized it really didn't matter.

"God, I'm an ass," he whispered harshly, furious with himself for letting his desire take over his body.

She had betrayed him—betrayed him—and still he couldn't keep his hands off her.

"What did you just say?"

Dunford saw no reason to answer her. It wasn't really necessary to expound at length on how much he wanted her and, damn it, still loved her despite her lies. All he did was murmur, "Shut up, Hen," and lower her onto the sofa.

Henry stiffened. His tone had been soft, but his words had not. Still, this was probably the last time she would be able to hold him like this, the last time she could pretend he still loved her.

She felt herself sinking into the plush cushions, felt the heat of his body as it covered hers. His hands cupped her bottom, pulling her toward his obvious desire. His lips were on her earlobe, then her neck, then her collarbone. He was traveling lower, lower.

Henry couldn't quite make her arms encircle him, but neither did she possess the fortitude to pull herself away. Did he love her? His mouth loved her. It was loving her with startling intensity, circling around her taut nipple through the thin muslin of her gown.

She stared down, her mind strangely detached from her burning body. His kisses had left an indecent stain on her bodice. Not that he would care. He was doing this to punish her. He would—

"No!" she cried out, pushing at him so violently that he fell to the floor in surprise.

He was silent as he slowly rose to his feet. When he finally leveled his gaze at her face, Henry knew panic like none she had ever imagined. His eyes were slits.

"Suddenly worried about our virtue, are we?" he asked rudely. "It's a bit late for that, don't you think?"

Henry hastily scrambled into an upright position, refusing to reply.

"Rather an about-face for the girl who told me she didn't care two figs for her reputation."

"That was before," she said in a low voice.

"Before what, Hen? Before you came to London? Before you learned what women are supposed to want from marriage?"

"I—I don't know what you're talking about." She awkwardly rose to her feet.

Dunford let out a short bark of angry laughter. God, she wasn't even a good liar. She stumbled over her words, her eyes refused to meet his, and her cheeks were flushed pink.

Of course that might only be passion. He could still make her feel passion. It might be the only thing he could make her feel, but he knew he could raise her body to fever pitch. He could make her need him, bind her to him with lips, hands, the heat of his skin.

His body grew aroused as his thoughts grew more erotic. He could see her as she had been at Westonbirt, her soft skin glowing in the candlelight. She had moaned with desire, arched her body toward his. She had cried out in rapture. He had given her that.

Dunford took a step forward. "You want me, Henry."

She stood utterly still, unable to deny it.

"You want me now."

Somehow she managed to shake her head. He could tell it took all her fortitude to do it.

"Yes," he said silkily. "You do."

"No, Dunford. I don't. I don—"

But her words were cut off by the pressure of his lips on hers. They were cruel, demanding. Henry felt as if she were suffocating, smothered by the weight of both his anger and her own insensible desire for him.

She couldn't let him do this. She couldn't let him use his fury to make her want him. With a wrench of her head she tore her lips from his.

"That's all right," he murmured, cupping her breast with his hand. "Your lying mouth is not the part of you that most interests me."

"Stop!" She pushed against his chest, but his arms were closed around her like a vise. "You can't do this!"

One corner of his mouth tilted up in a mockery of a smile. "Can't I?"

"You are not my husband," she said, her voice shaking with fury as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "You have no rights over my person*."

He let her go and leaned back against the doorjamb, his posture deceptively lazy. "Are you telling me you wish to call off the wedding?"

"Wh-why would you think I want to do that?" she asked, knowing he thought she wanted to marry him for Stannage Park.

"I can't fathom even a single reason," he said in a very hard voice. "In fact, I seem to have everything you require in a husband."

"We're feeling a bit superior today, aren't we?" she retorted.

He moved like lightning, pinning her against the wall, his hands planted firmly on either side of her shoulders. "We," he said with unconcealed sarcasm, "are feeling just a bit confused. We are wondering why our fiancée is acting so oddly. We are wondering if perhaps there is something she wants to say."

Henry felt all the breath leave her body. Wasn't this what she wanted? Why did she feel so utterly wretched?

"Henry?"

She stared at his face, remembering all of his kindnesses toward her. He had bought her a dress when no one else had thought to. He had badgered her into coming to London and then made sure she had a lovely time once she arrived. And he had smiled the entire time.

It was difficult to reconcile this image with the cruel, mocking man standing before her. But still, she couldn't bring herself to humiliate him publicly. "I won't call off the wedding, my lord."

He tilted his head. "I can only surmise from your inflection that you wish me to do so."

She said nothing.

"Surely you realize that, as a gentleman of honor, I cannot do so."

Her lips parted slightly. It was several seconds before she was able to say, "What do you mean?"

Dunford regarded her closely. Why the hell was she so interested in whether or not he could jilt her? That was the one thing he was certain she didn't want him to do. If he did, she would lose Stannage Park forever.

"Why can't you cry off?" she pressed. "Why?"

"I see we have not educated you in the ways of society as well as we thought. A gentleman of honor never jilts a lady. Not unless she has proven herself unfaithful, and perhaps not even then."

"I have never betrayed you," she blurted out.

Not with your body, he thought. Only with your soul. How could she ever love him as much as she loved her land? No one's heart was that big. He sighed. "I know you haven't."

Again she said nothing, just stood there looking pained. How baffled she must be at his anger, he thought. She couldn't know that he knew her true motives for marrying him. "Well," he said wearily, dreading her reply. "Are you going to jilt me?"

"Do you want me to?" she whispered.

"It is not my decision," he said stiffly, unable to say the words that would force her to let him go. "If you're going to call it off, do it."

"I can't," she said, wringing her hands. Her words sounded as if they were wrenched from her very soul.

"Let it be on your head then," he said flatly. He left the room without a backward glance.

Henry was aware of very little during the next two weeks, aside from the dull pain wrapped around her heart like a shroud. Nothing seemed to bring her joy. She supposed her friends attributed her strange mood to prenuptial nerves.

Luckily she saw Dunford infrequently. He seemed to know exactly how to cross paths with hers at parties for only the shortest of times. He would arrive with time enough for only one dance before she left. They never waltzed.

Her wedding day loomed closer and closer, until finally she woke up one morning with the most intense feeling of dread. This was the day on which she would bind herself forever to a man she couldn't satisfy.

A man who now hated her.

With slow movements she rose from her bed and pulled on her dressing gown. The only consolation in all of this was that at least she would get to live at her beloved Stannage Park.

Although it no longer seemed quite so precious.

The wedding was agony.

Henry had thought a small ceremony would be easier, but she discovered that it was harder to maintain a cheerful facade in front of a dozen good friends than it would have been in front of three hundred passing acquaintances.

Henry did her bit, said, "I will," when it was time, but only one thought was running through her mind.

Why was he doing this?

But by the time she mustered up the nerve to ask him, the priest was telling Dunford he could kiss his bride. Henry barely had time to turn her head before his lips descended onto hers in a passionless kiss.

"Why?" she whispered against his mouth. "Why?"

If he heard her, he didn't reply. All he did was grab her hand and practically drag her back up the aisle of the church.

Henry hoped her friends didn't see her stumble as she tried to keep up with her new husband.

The next evening Henry found herself on the doorstep of Stannage Park, a gold band now joining her engagement ring on her left hand. None of the servants were out to greet them; it was well past eleven, so she thought they must all be in bed.

Besides, she had written that they were to arrive the next day. She had never dreamed that Dunford would insist they leave for Cornwall directly following their wedding. They had stayed at their reception a mere thirty minutes before she was hustled into a waiting carriage.

Her ride across England had been silent and uncomfortable. Dunford had brought along a book and ignored her the entire way. By the time they arrived at the inn—the same one they had visited on their earlier journey—her nerves were utterly shot. She had spent the entire day dreading the night. What would it be like to be made love to in anger? She couldn't bear to find out.

And then he had completely stunned her by putting her in a room clear down the hall from his, saying, "I think our wedding night ought to be at Stannage Park. It seems so... appropriate, don't you think?"

She had nodded gratefully and fled to her room.

But now she was here, and he would demand his wedding night. The fire burning in his eyes was proof enough of his intentions.

She stared out over the front gardens. There wasn't very much light coming from the house, but Henry knew every inch of the landscape so well that she could picture every last tree branch. She could feel Dunford watching her as she watched the chilly wind rustle the leaves.

"Does it feel good to be back, Henry?"

She nodded jerkily, lacking the courage to face him.

"I thought it might," he muttered.

She turned around. "Are you glad to be back?"

There was a long pause before he replied, "I don't know yet." And then he added more curtly, "Come inside, Henry."

She stiffened at his tone but walked into the house nonetheless.

Dunford lit several tapers in a candelabra. "It's time to go upstairs."

Henry looked back through the open door at the still-f carriage, searching for anything that would delay the inevitable. "My things..."

"The footmen will bring them up in the morning. It's time for bed."

She swallowed and nodded, dreading what was ahead. She ached for the closeness they had shared at Westonbirt, that all-encompassing feeling of love and contentment she had found in his arms. But that had been a lie. It had to have been a lie, or he wouldn't have needed a night of additional sport in his mistress's bed.

Henry ascended the stairs, making her way toward her old bedroom.

"No." Dunford's hands descended upon her shoulders. "I sent word to have your belongings moved to the master suite."

She whirled around. "You had no right."

"I had every right," he bit out, half dragging her into his bedroom. "I still have every right." He paused, then continued in a softer tone, as if realizing he had overreacted. "At the time I thought you would be in favor of the idea."