Minx

by Julia Quinn

  No response.

  She knocked again.

  Still nothing.

  Did she dare?

  She did.

  She grasped the doorknob and turned, letting herself into his room. He was sleeping soundly. Very soundly.

  Henry almost felt guilty for what she was about to do. “Good morning!” she said in what she hoped was an ingratiatingly cheerful voice.

  He didn’t move.

  “Dunford?”

  He mumbled something, but other than that there was no indication he was the least bit awake.

  She stepped closer and tried again. “Good morning!”

  He made another sleepy noise and rolled over to face her.

  Henry caught her breath. Lord, but he was handsome. Just the sort of man who had never paid any attention to her at county dances. Without thinking, she reached out to touch his finely molded lips, then caught herself when she was but an inch away. She jerked back as if she’d been burned, an odd reaction as she hadn’t even touched him.

  Don’t lose your courage now, Henry. She gulped and reached out again, this time toward his shoulder. She poked him gingerly. “Dunford? Dunford?”

  “Mmm,” he said sleepily. “Lovely hair.”

  Henry’s hand flew to her hair. Had he been talking about her? Or to her? Impossible. The man was still asleep.

  “Dunford?” Another poke.

  “Smell good,” he mumbled.

  Now she knew he wasn’t talking about her.

  “Dunford, it’s time to wake up.”

  “Be quiet, sweetie, and get back into bed.”

  Sweetie? Who was sweetie?

  “Dunford . . .”

  Before she realized what was happening, his hand landed heavily on the back of her neck and she tumbled into the bed. “Dunford!”

  “Shhh, sweetie, kiss me.”

  Kiss him? Henry thought frantically. Was he crazy? Or was she crazy because for a split second she was tempted to oblige him?

  “Mmm, so sweet.” He nuzzled her neck, his lips trailing upward to the underside of her chin.

  “Dunford,” she said shakily, “I think you’re still asleep.”

  “Mmm-hmm, whatever you say, sweetie.” His hand stole around to her backside, pulling her more tightly against him.

  Henry gasped. They were separated by her clothing and the blankets, but she could still feel his hardness burning against her. She had grown up on a farm; she knew what it meant. “Dunford, I think you’ve made a mistake . . .”

  He seemed not to hear. His lips had moved to her earlobe, and he was nibbling sweetly, so sweetly that Henry could feel herself melting. Dear God, she was melting right here in the arms of a man who had obviously mistaken her for someone else. Not to mention the small fact that he was sort of her enemy.

  But the tingles traveling up and down her spine proved far stronger than common sense. What would it feel like to be kissed? To be kissed, truly and deeply, right on the mouth? No man had ever so much as given her a peck before, and it didn’t seem likely that one would anytime soon. And if she had to take advantage of Dunford’s sleepy state . . . well, so be it. Arching her neck ever so slightly, she turned her face to his, offering him her lips.

  He took them greedily, his lips and tongue moving expertly against her mouth. Henry felt the breath leave her body, felt herself straining for something more. Hesitantly, she touched her hand to his shoulder. His muscle leaped at the contact, and he groaned and pulled her closer.

  So this was passion. Surely this wasn’t so sinful. Surely she could allow herself to enjoy this, at least until he woke up.

  Until he woke up? Henry froze. How on earth would she be able to explain this to him? Frantically, she began to struggle in his arms. “Dunford! Dunford, stop!” Summoning all her strength, she shoved against him so hard she landed on the floor with a loud thump.

  “What on earth?”

  Henry swallowed nervously. He sounded awake.

  His face appeared over the side of the bed. “Curse it, woman! What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Waking you up?” Her words came out more like a question than she would have liked.

  “What the—” He uttered a word Henry had never heard, then exploded with, “For Chrissakes, it’s still dark out!”

  “That’s when we get up around here,” she said loftily, lying through her teeth.

  “Well, good for you. Now get out!”

  “I thought you wanted me to show you the estate.”

  “In the morning,” he ground out.

  “It is morning.”

  “It is still night, you miserable little hellion.” He clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to get up, stride across the room, and pull open the curtains to prove to her that the sun had not yet come up. In all truth the only thing stopping him was his nakedness. His nakedness and his . . . arousal.

  What the hell?

  He looked back over at her. She was still sitting on the floor, her eyes wide with an expression that hovered somewhere between nervousness and desire.

  Desire?

  He looked at her a little more closely. Wisps of hair floated around her face; he couldn’t imagine that someone as efficient as Henry would have arranged them that way on purpose if she were planning to spend the day outside. Her lips looked unbearably pink and slightly swollen, as if she’d just been kissed.

  “What are you doing on the floor?” he asked in a very low voice.

  “Well, as I said, I came in to wake you up—”

  “Save it, Henry. What are you doing on the floor?”

  She had the grace at least to blush. “Oh. That’s a long story, actually.”

  “Obviously,” he drawled out, “I have all day.”

  “Hmmm, yes, so you do.” Her mind spun frantically until she realized there was nothing she could say that would be remotely plausible, even the truth. He certainly wouldn’t believe he had initiated a kiss with her.

  “Henry . . .” There was no mistaking the threat in his voice.

  “Well,” she stalled, deciding with a sense of dread she’d have to tell him the truth and face his horrified reaction. “I, um, I came in to wake you up, and you, um, you seem to be a rather sound sleeper.” She looked up hopefully at him, praying that he might possibly decide that that was explanation enough.

  He crossed his arms, obviously waiting for more.

  “You . . . I think you mistook me for someone else,” she continued, painfully aware of the blush creeping across her face.

  “And who, pray tell, was that?”

  “Someone you call sweetie, I’m afraid.”

  Sweetie? That was what he called Christine, his mistress, who was tucked away in London. An uncomfortable feeling began to form in the pit of his stomach. “And then what happened?”

  “Well, you grabbed my neck, and I fell on the bed.”

  “And?”

  “And that’s all,” Henry said quickly, suddenly realizing she could avoid telling the entire truth. “I shoved against you and woke you up, and in the process I fell on the floor.”

  His eyes narrowed. Was she leaving something out? He had always been very active in his sleep. He couldn’t count the number of times he had woken up in the middle of making love to Christine. He didn’t even want to think about what he might have initiated with Henry. “I see,” he said in clipped tones. “I apologize for any untoward behavior committed against your person while I was asleep.”

  “Oh, it was nothing, I assure you,” Henry said gratefully.

  He looked down at her expectantly.

  She looked back, an innocent smile on her face.

  “Henry,” he finally said. “What time is it?”

  “What time is it?” she echoed. “Why, I think it must be almost six by now.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Exc
use me?”

  “Get out of my room.”

  “Oh.” She scrambled to her feet. “You’ll be wanting to get dressed, of course.”

  “I’ll be wanting to go back to sleep.”

  “Hmm, yes, of course you will, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it’s highly unlikely you’ll be able to fall asleep again. You might as well just get dressed.”

  “Henry?”

  “Yes?”

  “Get out!”

  She flew from the room.

  Twenty minutes later Dunford joined Henry at the breakfast table. He was dressed casually, but Henry could tell with one glance that his clothes were far too fine for building a pigpen. She thought briefly about telling him this, then thought better of it. If he ruined his clothing, all the more reason for him to want to leave.

  Besides, she rather doubted he owned anything suitable for building a pigpen.

  He sat down across from her and grabbed a piece of toast with a movement so vicious she knew he was fuming.

  “Couldn’t get back to sleep?” Henry murmured.

  He glared at her.

  Henry pretended not to notice. “Would you like to look at the Times? I’m nearly done with it.” Without waiting for him to reply, she pushed the paper across the table.

  Dunford glanced down and scowled. “I read that two days ago.”

  “Oh. So sorry,” she replied, unable to keep a trace of mischief out of her voice. “It takes a few days for the paper to get all the way out here. We’re the end of the world, you know.”

  “So I’m coming to realize.”

  She suppressed a smile, pleased with how well her plans were progressing. After the bizarre scene earlier that morning, her determination to see him back in London had quadrupled. She was horribly aware of what one of his smiles did to her insides—she didn’t particularly want to know what one of his kisses would do if she let it go to completion.

  Well, that was not entirely true. She was dying to know what one of his kisses would do—she was just painfully certain he would never care to let her find out. The only way he was going to kiss her again was if he mistook her for another woman, and the chances of that happening twice were small indeed. Besides, Henry did have a measure of pride, even if she had conveniently forgotten about it that morning. Much as she’d enjoyed his kiss, she didn’t particularly relish knowing he really wanted someone else.

  Men like him didn’t want women like her, and the sooner he left, the sooner she could go back to feeling good about herself.

  “Oh, look!” she exclaimed, her face a miracle of cheerfulness. “The sun is coming up.”

  “I can hardly contain my excitement.”

  Henry choked on her toast. At least getting rid of him was going to be interesting. She decided not to provoke him further until he finished his breakfast. Men could be nasty on empty stomachs. At least that’s what Viola had always told her. Downing a forkful of eggs, she turned her attention to the brilliant sunrise unfolding through the window. First the sky tinted lavender, then striped itself in orange and pink. Henry was certain there was no place on earth as beautiful as Stannage Park that very minute. Unable to contain herself, she sighed.

  Dunford heard the noise and regarded her curiously. She was gazing, enraptured, out the window. The look of awe on her face was humbling. He had always enjoyed outdoor pursuits, but never before had he seen a human being so obviously filled with respect and wonder for the forces of nature. She was a complex woman, his Henry.

  His Henry? When had he started thinking of her in possessive terms?

  Since she tumbled into your bed this morning, his mind replied wryly. And stop pretending you don’t remember you kissed her.

  It had all come back to him while he’d been getting dressed. He hadn’t meant to kiss her, hadn’t even realized at the time that it was Henry in his arms. But that didn’t mean he didn’t remember every little detail now: the curve of her lips, the silky feel of her hair against his bare chest, the now familiar scent of her. Lemons. For some reason she smelled like lemons. He couldn’t quite stop his lips from twitching as he hoped the lemony fragrance was more de rigueur than her piggy scent of the day they met.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He looked up. Henry was regarding him curiously. He quickly schooled his features back into a scowl. “Do I look as if something is funny?”

  “You did,” she muttered, turning back to her breakfast.

  He watched her eat. She took a bite and then returned her gaze to the window, where the sun was still painting the sky. She sighed again. She obviously loved Stannage Park very much, he reflected. More than he’d ever seen one person love a piece of land.

  That was it! He couldn’t believe what a fool he’d been not to have realized it before. Of course she wanted to get rid of him. She’d been running Stannage Park for six years. She’d poured her entire adult life and a good portion of her childhood into this estate. She couldn’t possibly welcome interference from a total stranger. Hell, he could probably boot her off the premises if he wanted. She was no relation to him.

  He’d have to obtain a copy of Carlyle’s will to see the exact terms as pertained to Miss Henrietta Barrett, if there were any. The solicitor who’d come by to tell him about his inheritance . . . what was his name . . . ? Leverett . . . yes, Leverett had said he’d forward a copy of the will, but it hadn’t reached him by the time he left for Cornwall.

  The poor girl was probably terrified. And furious. He glanced up at her impossibly cheerful facade. He’d wager she was more furious than terrified. “You like it here a great deal, don’t you?” he asked abruptly.

  Startled by his sudden willingness to actually converse with her, Henry coughed a bit before finally answering, “Yes. Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Just wondering. One can see it in your face, you know.”

  “See what?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Your love for Stannage Park. I was watching you while you were watching the sunrise.”

  “Y-you were?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” And that, apparently, was all he was going to say on the matter. He turned back to his breakfast and ignored her completely.

  Henry worriedly chewed on her lower lip. This was a bad sign. Why would he care about how she felt unless he were somehow planning to use it against her? If he wanted revenge, nothing could be so excruciatingly painful as being banished from her beloved home.

  But then again, why would he want revenge against her? He might not like her, he might even find her rather annoying, but she’d given him no reason to hate her, had she? Of course not. She was letting her imagination get the better of her.

  Dunford watched her surreptitiously over his eggs. She was worried. Good. She deserved it after hauling him out of bed this morning at a most uncivilized hour. Not to mention her clever little scheme to starve him out of Cornwall. And the bathing situation—he’d have admired her for her ingenuity if her manipulations had been directed at anyone but himself.

  If she thought she could push him around and eventually off of his own property, she was mad.

  He smiled. Cornwall was going to be good fun indeed.

  He continued to eat his breakfast with slow, deliberate bites, fully enjoying her distress. Three times she started to say something then thought the better of it. Twice she nibbled on her lower lip. And once he even heard her mutter something to herself. He thought it sounded rather like “damned fool,” but he couldn’t be certain.

  Finally, after deciding he’d made her wait long enough, he set his napkin down and stood up. “Shall we?”

  “By all means, my lord.” She wasn’t able to keep a trace of sarcasm out of her voice. She’d been finished with her meal for over ten minutes.

  Dunford wasn’t above feeling some perverse satisfaction at her irritation. “Tell me, Henry. What is first on our agenda?”

>   “Don’t you remember? We’re constructing a new pigpen.”

  A singularly unpleasant feeling rolled around in his stomach. “I suppose that is what you were doing when I arrived.” He didn’t have to add, “When you smelled so atrociously bad.”

  She smiled knowingly at him over her shoulder and preceded him out the door.

  Dunford wasn’t sure whether he was furious or amused. She was planning to lead him on a merry chase, he was sure of it. Either that or work him to the bone. Still, he figured he could outsmart her. After all, he knew what she was up to, and she didn’t know he had figured it out.

  Or did she?

  And if she did, did that mean she now had the edge?

  It being barely seven in the morning, his brain refused to compute the ramifications of this.

  He followed Henry out past the stables to a structure he guessed was a barn. His experience with country life had been limited to the aristocracy’s ancestral seats, most of which were quite removed from anything resembling a working farm. Farming was left to tenants, and the ton usually didn’t want to see their tenants unless rents were due. Hence his confusion.

  “This is a barn?” he queried.

  She looked stunned that he would even ask. “Of course. What did you think it was?”

  “A barn,” he snapped.

  “Then why ask?”

  “I was merely wondering why your dear friend Porkus was being kept in the stables rather than here.”

  “Too crowded here,” she replied. “Just look inside. We have lots of cows.”

  Dunford decided to take her word for it.

  “There is plenty of room in the stables,” she continued. “We don’t have very many horses. Good mounts are very expensive, you know.” She smiled innocently at him, hoping he’d had his heart set on inheriting a stable full of Arabians.

  He shot her an irritated look. “I know how much horses cost.”

  “Of course. The team on your carriage was beautiful. They are yours, aren’t they?”

  He ignored her and walked ahead until his foot connected with soft mushy ground. “Shit,” he muttered.

  “Exactly.”