by Julia Quinn
He rolled his eyes. “Now what are you sorry for?”
“For making you eat that awful mutton. And the porridge. I hate porridge.”
He smiled gently. “It is a testament to your love of Stannage Park that you were able to eat an entire bowl of that slop yesterday.”
“I didn’t,” she admitted. “I ate only a few spoonfuls. I dumped the rest of it into an urn when you weren’t looking. I had to go back and clean it out later.”
He chuckled, unable to help himself. “Henry, you are like no one I have ever met.”
“I’m not certain that’s such a good thing.”
“Nonsense. Of course it is. Now, then, shall we be off?”
She reached out and grabbed the hand he was holding out to her. Slowly she rose to her feet. “Simpy makes very good biscuits,” she said softly, the very tone of her voice implying a peace offering. “With butter and ginger and sugar. They’re delicious.”
“Splendid. If she doesn’t have some on hand, we shall have to coerce her into making a batch. I say, we don’t have to finish the pigpen, do we?”
She shook her head. “I was working on it Saturday, but mostly just supervising. I think the men were a bit surprised by my help this morning.”
“I know they were surprised. Tommy’s jaw dropped halfway to his knees. And please tell me you don’t usually get up this early.”
“No. I’m dreadful in the morning. I can’t get anything done before nine o’clock unless I absolutely have to.”
Dunford smiled wryly as he realized the extent of her previous determination to be rid of him. She really must have wanted him gone to get up at half past five in the morning. “If you detest morning people as much as I do, then I think we shall get on famously.”
“I expect so.” She smiled tremulously as they walked to the house. A friend. That was what he was going to be to her. It was a thrilling thought. She really hadn’t had any friends since she’d reached adulthood. Oh, she got on very well with all the servants, but there was always that air of employer and employee that kept them from getting too close. With Dunford, however, she had found friendship, even if they had gotten off to a rocky start. Still, there was one thing she wanted to know. Softly she said his name.
“Yes?”
“When you said you weren’t angry . . .”
“Yes?”
“Were you?”
“I was rather annoyed,” he admitted.
“But not angry?” She sounded as if she didn’t believe him.
“Believe me, Henry, when I get angry, you’ll know.”
“What happens?”
His eyes clouded over slightly before he answered. “You don’t want to know.”
She believed him.
An hour or so later, after they had both bathed, Henry and Dunford met in the kitchen over a plate of Mrs. Simpson’s ginger biscuits. While they were busy fighting over the last one, Yates arrived.
“A letter arrived for you earlier this morning, my lord,” he intoned. “From your solicitor. I left it in the study.”
“Excellent,” Dunford replied, pushing out his chair and rising to his feet. “That must be the rest of the papers concerning Stannage Park. A copy of Carlyle’s will, I think. Would you care to read it, Henry?” He didn’t know if she felt slighted by the fact that the property had gone to him. It was entailed, that was true, and Henry couldn’t have inherited in any case, but that did not mean she wasn’t hurt by it. By asking her if she wanted to read Carlyle’s will, he was trying to assure her that she was still an important figure at Stannage Park.
Henry shrugged as she followed him into the hall. “If you wish. It is rather straightforward, I think. Everything to you.”
“Carlyle didn’t leave you anything?” Dunford raised his brows in shock. It was unconscionable to leave a young woman penniless and adrift.
“I suppose he thought you would take care of me.”
“I will certainly make sure you are comfortably situated, and you will always have a home here, but Carlyle should have provided for you. I never even met the man. He couldn’t have had any idea if I had any sort of principles whatsoever.”
“I imagine he thought you couldn’t be that bad if you were related to him,” she teased.
“Still . . .” Dunford opened the door to the study and walked in. But when he reached the desk there was no letter waiting for him, just a pile of shredded paper. “What on earth?”
The blood drained from Henry’s face. “Oh, no.”
“Who would do such a thing?” He planted his hands on his hips and turned to face her. “Henry, do you know all the servants personally? Who do you think—”
“It’s not the servants.” She sighed. “Rufus? Rufus?”
“Who the hell is Rufus?”
“My rmbblet,” she mumbled, getting down on her hands and knees.
“Your what?”
“My rabbit. Rufus? Rufus? Where are you?”
“Do you mean to tell me you have a pet rabbit?” Dear God, did this woman do anything normal?
“He’s usually very sweet,” she said weakly. “Rufus!”
A small bundle of black-and-white fur darted across the room.
“Rufus! Come back here! Bad bunny! Bad bunny!”
Dunford started to shake with mirth. Henry was chasing the rabbit around the room, stooped down with her arms outstretched. Every time she tried to grab it, however, it wriggled out of her grasp.
“Rufus!” she said warningly.
“I don’t suppose you could have acted like the rest of humanity and gotten a cat or dog.”
Henry, recognizing a reply wasn’t necessary, didn’t say anything. She stood straight, planted her hands on her hips, and sighed. Where had he gone off to?
“I think he darted behind the bookcase,” Dunford said helpfully.
Henry tiptoed over and peered behind the large wooden piece. “Shhh. Go stand on the other side.”
He followed her orders.
“Do something to scare him.”
He looked over at her with a doubtful expression. Finally he got down on his hands and knees and said in a gruesome voice, “Hello, little bunny. Rabbit stew for supper tonight.”
Rufus scrambled to his feet and ran straight into Henry’s waiting arms. Realizing he had been trapped, he started to squirm, but Henry kept a firm hand on him, calming him down by saying, “Shhhh.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
“Put him back in the kitchen where he belongs.”
“I should think he belongs outside. Or in the stew pot.”
“Dunford, he’s my pet!” She looked stricken.
“Loves pigs and rabbits,” he muttered. “A kind-hearted lass.”
They marched back to the kitchen in silence, the only sound being Rufus’s growl when Dunford tried to pet him.
“Can a rabbit growl?” he asked, unable to believe his ears.
“Obviously he can.”
When they reached the kitchen, Henry deposited her furry bundle on the floor. “Simpy, would you give me a carrot for Rufus?”
“Did that little imp escape again? He must have slipped out when the door was open.” The housekeeper picked up a carrot from a pile of root vegetables and dangled it in front of the rabbit. He sank his teeth into it and pulled it out of her hand. Dunford watched with interest as Rufus gnawed the carrot into nothingness.
“I’m really very sorry about your papers,” Henry said, aware she had apologized more that day than she had in the past year.
“So am I,” he said absentmindedly, “but I can always write a note to Leverett and have him send out another copy. Another week or so won’t hurt.”
“Are you certain? I shouldn’t want to ruin any of your plans.”
He sighed, wondering how his life had been turned upside down by this woman in less than fort
y-eight hours. Correction: by this woman, a pig, and a rabbit.
He assured Henry that the destroyed papers were not a permanent setback and then took his leave of her, returning to his rooms to read over some documents he’d brought with him and to sneak some much needed rest. Even though he and Henry had reached a truce, he was still somehow loath to admit to her that she had exhausted him. It somehow made him feel like less of a man.
He would have felt much better had he known that Henry had retired to her room for the exact same reason.
Later that night Dunford was reading in bed when it suddenly occurred to him that it was going to be another week before he found out exactly how Carlyle had provided for Henry in his will. That was really the only reason he’d been eager to read the document. Although Henry had insisted that Carlyle had not bothered with her, Dunford found that hard to believe. At the very least Carlyle would have had to appoint a guardian for her, wouldn’t he? After all, Henry was only twenty.
She was an amazing woman, his Henry. One had to admire her single-minded determination. Yet for all her capability, he still felt an odd sort of responsibility for her. Perhaps it had been the wobble in her voice when she had apologized for her schemes to oust him from Stannage Park. Or the sheer agony in her eyes when she had admitted she had no place else to go.
Whatever the case, he wanted to make certain she had a secure place in the world.
But before he could do that, he had to see how Carlyle had provided for her in his will, if at all. Another week wouldn’t make much of a difference, would it? He shrugged and turned his attention back to his book. He read for several minutes until his concentration was interrupted by a noise on the carpet.
He looked up but saw nothing. Dismissing it as the creaking of an old house, he started reading again.
Patter, patter, patter. There it was again.
This time when Dunford looked up, he saw a pair of long, black ears poke up over the edge of the bed. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he groaned. “Rufus.”
As if on cue, the rabbit vaulted up onto the bed, landing squarely on top of the book. He looked up at Dunford, his little pink nose twitching up and down.
“What do you want, bunny?”
Rufus quirked an ear and leaned forward as if to say, “Pet me.”
Dunford placed his hand between the rabbit’s ears and began to scratch. With a sigh, he said, “This certainly isn’t London.”
Then, as the rabbit rested its head against his chest, he realized with surprise that he didn’t want to be in London.
In fact, he didn’t want to be anywhere but here.
Chapter 6
Henry spent the next few days introducing Dunford to Stannage Park. He wanted to learn every last detail about his new property, and she liked nothing better than to expound upon the many excellent qualities of the estate. While they toured the house and surrounding lands, they chatted about this and that, sometimes about nothing in particular, sometimes about the great mysteries of life. For Henry, Dunford was the first person who ever had wanted to spend this kind of time with her. He was interested in what she had to say, not only about estate matters, but also about philosophy, religion, and just plain life in general. Even more flattering was the fact that he seemed to care about her opinion of him. He tried to look offended when she didn’t laugh at his jokes, rolled his eyes when he didn’t laugh at hers, and elbowed her in the ribs when neither of them could summon up the mirth to laugh at someone else’s.
In short, he became her friend. And if her stomach did strange things every time he smiled . . . Well, she could learn to live with that. She supposed he had that effect on all women.
It didn’t occur to Henry that these were the happiest few days of her life, although if she had taken the time to think about it, she would have realized that was exactly what they were.
Dunford was equally taken with his companion. Henry’s love for Stannage Park was infectious, and he found himself not just interested in but actually caring about the details of the estate and its people. When one of the tenants safely gave birth to her first child, it had been his idea to bring by a basket of food so she wouldn’t have to tax herself with cooking for the next week. And he surprised even himself when he stopped by the newly constructed pigpen to slip a raspberry tart to Porkus. The pig did seem to have a sweet tooth, he rationalized, and for all his size he was actually kind of cute.
But he would have enjoyed himself even if Stannage Park hadn’t been his. Henry was delightful company. She possessed a freshness and an honesty he hadn’t seen in years. Dunford had been blessed with wonderful friends, but after so long in London, he had begun to think that no one’s soul was free of at least a little cynicism. Henry, on the other hand, was marvelously open and direct. Not once had he seen the familiar mask of world-weary boredom cloud her features. Henry seemed to care too much about everything and everyone to allow herself to be bored.
This was not to say she was a wide-eyed innocent willing to believe the best of everyone. She had a wicked wit and was not above employing it from time to time when pointing out a villager she found exceedingly foolish. Dunford was inclined to forgive her this weakness; he usually agreed with her assessment of foolish people.
And if every now and then he found himself looking at her oddly, wondering how her brown hair turned gold in the sun or why she always smelled vaguely of lemons . . . Well, that was only to be expected. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. His mistress had been in Birmingham for a fortnight, visiting her mother, when he left. And Henry could be rather fetching in her own unconventional way.
Not that what he felt for her was anything remotely resembling desire. But she was a woman, and he was a man, and so naturally he’d be aware of her. And of course he had kissed her once, even if that had been an accident. It was to be expected that he’d remember that kiss every now and then when she was near.
Such thoughts, however, were far from his mind as he poured himself a drink in the drawing room one evening a week after his arrival. It was nearly time for them to partake of the evening meal, and Henry would arrive any minute now.
He winced. It would be a ghastly sight. As unconventional as Henry was, she still dressed for dinner, and that meant putting on one of those hideous garments—he shuddered to call them gowns. To give her credit, she seemed to be aware they were awful. To give her even greater credit, however, she managed to act as if it didn’t matter. If he hadn’t grown to know her so well during the past few days, he never would have dreamed she didn’t think her clothing was, if not the height of fashion, at least passably attractive.
But he had noticed how carefully she avoided looking in the mirrors that adorned the walls of the drawing room where they met before dinner. And when she found herself trapped by her reflection, she couldn’t hide the pained grimace that flickered across her features.
He wanted to help her, he realized. He wanted to buy her gowns and teach her to dance and— It was stunning, this. How much he wanted to help her.
“Stealing the liquor again?” Her teasing voice brought him out of his reverie.
“It’s my liquor if you recall, minx.” He turned his head to look at her. She was wearing that abominable lavender creation again. He couldn’t decide if it was the worst or best of the lot.
“So it is.” She shrugged. “Might I have a little then?”
Wordlessly, he poured her a glass of sherry.
Henry sipped at it thoughtfully. It had become her habit to have a glass of wine with him before dinner, but no more than that. She had discovered what a lightweight she was the night he arrived. She had a sinking suspicion she would end up making calf eyes at him all through dinner if she allowed herself more than this one small sherry.
“Was your afternoon pleasant?” Dunford asked suddenly. He had spent the previous few hours by himself, poring over estate documents. Henry had gladly lef
t him alone with the musty papers; she’d already examined them, and he certainly didn’t need her to help him read.
“Yes, it was quite. I checked in on some of the tenants. Mrs. Dalrymple asked me to thank you for the food.”
“I’m glad she enjoyed it.”
“Oh, yes. I cannot think why we have not thought to do it before. Of course, we always send a congratulatory gift, but food for a week is much better, I think.”
They sounded like an old married couple, Dunford thought with surprise. How odd.
Henry sat down on an elegant but faded sofa, tugging awkwardly at her dress as she did so. “Did you finish with those papers?”
“Almost,” he said distractedly. “You know, Henry, I’ve been thinking.”
“Have you?” She smiled impishly. “How very taxing.”
“Minx. Be quiet and listen to what I have to say.”
She tilted her head in a movement that seemed to say, “Well?”
“Why don’t the two of us make a sojourn into town?”
She answered him with a puzzled expression. “We went to the village two days ago. Don’t you recall? You wanted to meet the local merchants.”
“Of course I recall. My mind is not given to forgetfulness, Henry. I’m not that old.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her face a perfect deadpan. “You must be at least thirty.”
“Nine-and-twenty,” he bit out before he realized she was teasing.
She smiled. “Sometimes you’re such an easy mark.”
“My gullibility aside, Henry, I’d like to take a trip into town. And I don’t mean the village. I think we should take ourselves to Truro.”
“Truro?” It was one of Cornwall’s larger towns, and Henry avoided it like the plague.
“You sound less than enthusiastic.”
“I, um, I just . . . Well, to be frank, I just went.” That wasn’t entirely a lie. She’d gone two months ago, but it felt like yesterday. She always felt so awkward among strangers. At least the local people had gotten used to her eccentricities and accepted them. Most even held her in some measure of respect. But strangers were another thing altogether. And Truro was the worst. Although it was not as popular as it had been during the previous century, members of the ton still vacationed there. She could just hear them whispering unkind things about her. Fashionable ladies would laugh at her dress. Men would snicker at her lack of ladylike manners. And then, inevitably, a local would discreetly inform them that she was Miss Henrietta Barrett, but she went by the boy’s name Henry, and don’t you know but she parades around in breeches all the time.