Minx (43 page)

She finished her chores, put the shovel away, and walked slowly back to the house, heading for the servants' entrance. She was a mess, and if she tracked any of the slop on the front hall carpet, they d never be able to get the stench out.

A maid was standing on the steps, feeding a carrot to Rufus. Henry asked her to see to her bath, leaning down to give the rabbit a pat on the head. She then pushed open the door, unable to muster the energy to call out her customary hello to Mrs. Simpson. She smiled faintly at the housekeeper, reached for an apple, took a bite, then looked back at the housekeeper. Simpy's expression was rather odd, almost strained.

"Is something amiss, Simpy?" Henry inquired before lifting the apple to her mouth for another bite.

"He's back."

Henry froze, her teeth lodged in the apple. She slowly removed the fruit from her mouth, leaving perfect little toothprints. "I assume you mean my husband?" she said carefully.

Mrs. Simpson nodded as she let loose a torrent of words. "I would've told him what I think of him, too, and hang the consequences. He'd have to be a monster to leave you the way he did. He..."

Henry didn't hear the rest of her words. Her feet, acting with no direction from her brain, were already carrying her out of the kitchen and up the side stairs. She didn't know if she was fleeing to him or away from him. She had no idea where he was. He could be in the study, the sitting room, or the bedroom.

She gulped, hoping he wasn't in the bedroom.

She pushed open the door.

She swallowed. She'd never been an exceptionally lucky person.

He was standing by the window, looking unbearably handsome. He'd taken off his coat and loosened his cravat. He inclined his head. "Henry."

"You're home," she said dumbly.

He shrugged.

"I... I need a bath."

A glimmer of a smile touched his face. "So you do." He walked over to the bellpull.

"I already ordered one drawn. The maids should be here any minute to fill it."

Dunford lowered his hand and turned around. "I suppose you're wondering why I'm back."

"I... well, yes. I don't suppose it had anything to do with me."

He winced. "Emma had a baby boy. I thought you'd like to know." He watched her expression change from forlorn distrust to complete joy.

"Oh, but that's wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Have they named him?"

"William," he said sheepishly. "After me."

"You must be so very proud."

"I am quite. I'm to be godfather. It's quite an honor."

"Oh, yes. You must be delighted. They must be delighted."

"They are quite."

It was at that point that they ran out of things to say. Henry stared at Dunford's feet, he stared at her forehead. Finally she blurted out, "I really need to bathe."

A knock sounded on the door, and two maids entered with steaming buckets of water. They pulled the bath out of its storage space in the dressing room and began to fill it.

Henry stared at the bath.

Dunford stared at Henry, imagining her in the bath. Finally he swore and left the room.

When Henry next encountered her husband, she was smelling a bit more like flowers and less like a pigpen. She even donned one of her gowns, lest he think she was wearing her mannish clothing just to annoy him. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was so frequently in her thoughts.

He was waiting for her in the sitting room before dinner, a glass of whiskey next to him on an end table. He rose when she entered, his eyes resting on her face with an expression that could only be called tortured.

"You look lovely, Hen." He sounded as if he wished she didn't.

"Thank you. You look nice, too. You always look nice."

"Would you like a drink?"

"I... yes. No. No. I mean yes. Yes, I would."

He turned his back to her as he fussed with the decanter so she wouldn't see him smile. "What would you like?"

"Anything," she said weakly, sitting down. "Anything would be fine."

Dunford poured her a glass of sherry. "Here you are."

She took the glass from his outstretched hand, making sure her hand never touched his. She took a sip, let the wine fortify her, and asked, "How long do you plan to stay?"

His lips twisted. "That anxious to be rid of me, eh, Hen?"

"No," she said quickly. "Although I rather thought you wouldn't want to remain overlong with me. I'm perfectly happy to have you stay." And then she added, just for pride, "You won't interrupt my routine."

"Ah, yes, of course not. I'm a nice enough fellow. I'd almost forgotten."

Henry cringed at the bitterness laced in his words. "I wouldn't want to go to London and interrupt your routine," she shot back. "Heaven forbid I pull you away from your social life."

He stared at her blankly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

“That’s because you're too polite to discuss it," she muttered, almost wishing he would discuss his mistress. "Or maybe you think I'm too polite."

He stood. "I've traveled all day, and I'm far too weary to waste my energy trying to solve your little riddles. If you'll excuse me, I'm going in to supper. Join me if you like." He walked off.

Henry now knew enough about society to know he'd just been unforgivably rude to her. And she knew enough about him to know he'd done it on purpose. She stamped out of the room after him, turned toward his retreating form, and yelled, "I'm not hungry!"

Then she ran up the stairs to her room, ignoring the rumblings of her stomach.

Supper tasted like sawdust. Dunford stared straight ahead as he ate, ignoring the servants as they motioned to the empty place setting across from him, obviously wondering if they should clear it away.

He finished his meal in ten minutes, eating the first course and ignoring the rest. It was a damning feeling, sitting there across from where Henry should have been, under the hostile regard of the servants, all of whom loved her to distraction.

With a shove of his chair, he rose and retired to his study, where he poured himself a glass of whiskey. And another. And another. Not enough to get stinking drunk, just enough to make him overly contemplative. And enough to pass the time until he could be sure Henry had fallen asleep.

He made his way up to his bedroom, weaving ever so slightly as he walked. What was he going to do with his wife? God, what a mess. He loved her but he didn't want to love her. He wanted to hate her but he couldn't—despite her lack of love for him, she was still as nice a woman as they came, and no one could find fault with her love and devotion for the land. He wanted her and he despised himself for the weakness. And who the hell knew what she thought?

Besides the fact that she didn't love him. That much was clear.

I wish I could...I wish I could love you.

Well, you couldn't fault the girl for lack of trying.

He turned the doorknob and stumbled into the room. His eyes fell on the bed. Henry!

He caught his breath. Had she waited for him? Did this mean she wanted him?

No, he thought perversely, it just meant there wasn't a bed in the other bedroom.

She was lying there, asleep, her chest gently moving with the rhythm of her breaths. The moon was nearly full, and its light shone through the open windows. She looked perfect—everything he had ever wanted. He sank down into a cushioned chair, his eyes never leaving her sleeping form.

For now this would be enough. Just to watch her as she slept.

Henry blinked herself awake the next morning. She'd slept uncommonly well, a surprise considering the stress of the evening before.

She yawned, stretched, and sat up.

And then she saw him.

He'd fallen asleep in the chair across the room. He was still fully clothed and looked frightfully uncomfortable. Why had he done that? Had he thought she would not want to receive him in the bed? Or was he so repulsed by her that he couldn't bear the thought himself?

With a silent sigh, she slipped out of bed and made her way to the dressing room. She pulled on her breeches and shirt and crept back into the bedroom.

Dunford hadn't moved. His dark hair was still in his eyes, his lips looked just as kissable, and his large frame was still lodged most awkwardly in the small chair.

Henry couldn't bear it. She didn't care that he'd left her the day after they'd returned to Cornwall. She didn't care that he'd been unbelievably rude to her the night before. She didn't even care that he didn't desire her enough to give up his mistress.

The only thought in her heart was that she still loved him despite all that, and she couldn't bear to see him so uncomfortable. She padded over to where he sat, put her hands under his arms, and tugged. "Up with you, Dunford," she murmured, trying to heave him onto his feet.

His eyes gave a few sleepy blinks. "Hen?"

"Time for bed, Dunford."

He grinned sloppily. "You coming?"

Her heart lurched. "I... Ah... No, Dunford, I'm all dressed. I... Ah...have chores to do. Yes, chores." Keep talking, Hen, lest you get tempted to jump in right after him.

He looked utterly crestfallen, and leaned forward drunkenly. "Can I kiss you?"

Henry swallowed, not at all certain he was awake. He'd kissed her once before in his sleep; what harm could there be in doing it one more time? And she wanted it so badly...wanted him so badly.

She leaned up and brushed her lips against his. She heard him groan, then felt his arms come around her, his hands searching the planes of her back.

"Oh, minx," he moaned. If he was still asleep, she thought, at least he had the right person this time. At least he wanted her. Right now, at least, he wanted her. Only her.

They tumbled onto the bed, arms and legs tangling on the way down, fairly tearing each other's clothes off as they went. He kissed her desperately, tasting her skin like a starving man. She was just as frantic, wrapping her legs around him, trying to pull him closer and closer to her—right to the point where they could be one person.

Before she knew it, he was inside her, and it felt as if heaven itself had descended into their bedroom and wrapped them in its perfect embrace.

"Oh, Dunford, I love you I love you I love you." The words flew straight from her heart to her mouth, her pride be damned. She no longer cared that she wasn't enough of a woman for him. She loved him, and he loved her in his own way, and she'd say anything, do whatever it took to keep him by her side. She'd swallow her pride, she'd humble herself— anything to avoid the aching loneliness of the previous month.

He didn't seem to have heard her, so violent were his physical needs. He plunged into her, groans being ripped from his mouth with each thrust. Henry couldn't tell from his face whether he was in agony or ecstasy—perhaps it was a bit of both. Finally, just as her muscles began to quiver around him, he surged forward with stunning power, shouting her name as he poured his very life into her.

Henry's breath stopped as she was overcome by the power of her own release. She welcomed Dunford's weight as he collapsed upon her, savoring the jerky movements that accompanied his ragged breathing. They lay that way for several minutes, silent and content, until Dunford groaned and rolled off of her.

They were side by side now, facing each other, and Henry couldn't take her eyes off him as he leaned forward and kissed her.

"Did you say you loved me?" he whispered.

Henry said nothing, feeling utterly trapped.

His hand clutched her hip. "Did you?"

She tried to say yes, she tried to say no, but neither came out. Choking on her words, she wrenched herself out of his grasp and scrambled off the bed.

"Henry." His voice was low and demanded an answer.

"I can't love you!" she cried out, thrusting her arms into the shirt she recently had torn off her body.

Dunford stared at her in shock for several seconds before finally saying, "What do you mean?"

By now she was tucking the shirt into her breeches. "You need more than I can give you," she said, gasping back her sobs. "And because of that, you can never be what I need."

Dunford's bruised heart skimmed over her first sentence and focused only on the second. His expression turned to granite, and he stalked out of bed to retrieve his own clothing. "Very well then," he said in the clipped tones of one who is trying very hard not to show emotion. "I will leave for London posthaste. This afternoon, if I can manage it."

Henry swallowed convulsively.

"Is that soon enough for you?"

"You—you're going?" she asked, her voice very small.

"Isn't that what you want?" he bit out, looming over her like a dangerous—and naked—god. "Isn't it?"

She shook her head. It was a tiny movement, but he caught it. "Then what the hell do you want?" he snapped. "Do you even know?"

She stared at him mutely.

Dunford swore viciously. "I have had enough of your little games, Henry. When you decide just what it is you want out of marriage, pen me a note. I'll be in London, where my acquaintances don't try to rip my soul to shreds."