by Julia Quinn
“Perhaps I don’t want to dance with you,” Henry ground out.
He arched a brow. “You don’t have any choice.”
“For a man who is intensely eager to have me married off, you’re doing quite a good job of scaring away my suitors.”
“I didn’t scare Billington away. Trust me, he’ll show up on your doorstep tomorrow morning, flowers in one hand, chocolates in the other.”
Henry smiled dreamily, mostly just to irritate him. When they reached the dance floor, however, she noticed that the orchestra had begun a waltz. It was still a relatively new dance, and debutantes were not allowed to waltz without the approval of society’s leading matrons. She ground to a stubborn halt. “I can’t,” she said. “I don’t have permission.”
“Caroline took care of it,” he said brusquely.
“Are you certain?”
“If you do not start dancing with me in one second, I will yank you forcibly into my arms, creating such a scene that—”
Henry put her hand on his shoulder with alacrity. “I don’t understand you, Dunford,” she said as he began to twirl her across the floor.
“Don’t you?” he said darkly.
Her eyes flew to his. What did that mean? “No,” she said with quiet dignity. “I don’t.”
He tightened his hold on her waist, unable to resist the temptation of her soft body under his hand. Hell, he didn’t even understand himself these days.
“Why is everyone staring at us?” Henry whispered.
“Because, my dear, you are the latest craze. This season’s Incomparable. Surely you realize that.”
His tone and expression made her flush angrily. “You might try to be a little happy for me. I thought the purpose of this trip was to give me some social polish. Now that I’ve got it, you can’t stand the sight of me.”
“That,” he said, “is about as far from the truth as anything I’ve heard.”
“Then why . . .” Her words trailed off. She didn’t know how to ask what was in her heart.
Dunford could feel the conversation veering toward dangerous waters and sought to bail out quickly. “Billington,” he said curtly, “is reputed to be quite a catch.”
“Almost as good as you?” she sneered.
“Better, I imagine. But I would advise you to watch your step around him. He’s not some young dandy you can wrap around your finger.”
“That is precisely why I like him so much.”
His hand tightened yet again around her waist. “If you tease him, you may find yourself getting what you ask for.”
Her silvery eyes turned hard. “I was not teasing him, and you know it.”
He shrugged disdainfully. “People are already talking.”
“They are not! I know they aren’t. Belle would have said something to me.”
“When would she have had the chance? Before or after you teased him into trying to get you on a first-name basis?”
“You’re horrid, Dunford. I don’t know what has happened to you, but I don’t like you very much anymore.”
Funny, he didn’t like himself much, either. And he liked himself even less when he said, “I saw the way you looked at him, Henry. Having been the recipient of that expression myself, I know exactly what it meant. He thinks you want him, and not just as a matrimonial prize.”
“You bastard,” she hissed, trying to pull away from him.
His grip turned to steel. “Don’t even think about leaving me in the middle of the dance floor.”
“I’d leave you in hell if I could.”
“I’m sure you would,” he said coolly, “and I have no doubt I’ll meet the devil in time. But as long as I’m here on this earth, you will dance with me, and you will do so with a smile on your face.”
“Smiling,” she said hotly, “is not part of the deal.”
“And what deal would that be, dear Hen?”
She narrowed her eyes. “One of these days, Dunford, you’re going to have to decide whether you like me or you don’t, because quite honestly, I cannot be expected to anticipate your moods. One moment you’re quite the nicest man I know, and the next you’re the devil himself.”
“ ‘Nice’ is such a bland word.”
“I wouldn’t trouble myself over it if I were you, because that is not the adjective I would use to describe you right now.”
“I assure you, I was not having palpitations over it.”
“Tell me, Dunford, what is it that makes you so horrid every now and then? Earlier this evening you were so lovely.” Her eyes grew wistful. “So kind to assure me I looked all right.”
He thought wryly that she looked far better than “all right.” And that was at the root of the problem.
“You made me feel like a princess, an angel. And now . . .”
“And now what?” he asked in a low voice.
She looked him straight in the eye. “Now you’re trying to make me feel like a whore.”
Dunford felt as if he’d been punched, but he welcomed the pain. He deserved no less. “That, Hen,” he finally said, “is the agony of unfulfilled desire.”
She missed a step. “Whaaaat?”
“You heard me. You cannot have failed to realize I want you.”
She blushed and swallowed nervously, wondering if it were at all possible that the other five hundred partygoers did not notice her distress. “There is a difference between wanting and loving, my lord, and I will not accept one without the other.”
“As you wish.” The music ended, and Dunford executed a smart bow.
Before Henry had a chance to react, he disappeared into the crowd. Guided by instinct, she made her way to the perimeter of the ballroom, intending to find a washroom where she might have a few moments of privacy to regain her composure. She was waylaid, however, by Belle, who said that there were a few people she wanted Henry to meet.
“Could it wait for a few minutes? I really need to go to the retiring room. I think—I think I have a small tear in my dress.”
Belle knew precisely with whom Henry had been dancing and guessed something was amiss. “I’ll go with you,” she declared, much to the consternation of her husband, who was prompted to ask Alex why it was that ladies always seemed to need to go to the retiring room in pairs.
Alex shrugged. “It’s destined to be one of the great mysteries of life, I think. I for one am deathly afraid of finding out what exactly goes on in these retiring rooms.”
“It’s where they keep all the good liquor,” Belle said pertly.
“That explains it, then. Oh, by the by, have any of you seen Dunford? I wanted to ask him something.” He turned to Henry. “Weren’t you just dancing with him?”
“I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea where he is.”
Belle smiled stiffly. “We’ll see you later, Alex. John.” She turned to Henry. “Follow me. I know the way.” She navigated her way around the edge of the ballroom with remarkable speed, stopping only to pluck two glasses of champagne off a tray. “Here,” she said, handing one to Henry. “We might need these.”
“In the washroom?”
“With no men about? It’s the perfect place for a toast.”
“I don’t much feel like celebrating right now, I must say.”
“I thought not, but a drink might be just the thing.”
They turned into a hallway, and Henry followed Belle into a small chamber which was lit with half a dozen candles. A large mirror covered one wall. Belle shut the door and turned the key. “Now,” she said briskly, “what is wrong?”
“Noth—”
“And don’t say ‘nothing,’ for I won’t believe it.”
“Belle . . .”
“You might as well tell me, for I’m dreadfully nosy and always find out everything sooner or later. If you don’t believe me, just ask my family. They’ll be first to confirm it.”
> “It is only the excitement of the evening, I tell you.”
“It’s Dunford.”
Henry looked away.
“It’s quite obvious to me you’re more than halfway in love with him,” Belle said bluntly, “so you might as well be honest.”
Henry’s head whipped back to face her. “Does everyone else know?” she asked in a whisper that hovered somewhere between terror and humiliation.
“No, I don’t think so,” Belle lied. “And if they do, I’m sure they are all cheering you on.”
“It’s no use. He doesn’t want me.”
Belle raised her brows. She had seen the way Dunford looked at Henry when he thought no one was looking. “Oh, I think he wants you.”
“What I meant was, he doesn’t—he doesn’t love me,” Henry stammered.
“That question is also open to debate,” Belle said with a thoughtful expression. “Has he kissed you?”
Henry’s blush was answer enough.
“So he has! I thought as much. That is a very good sign.”
“I don’t think so.” Henry’s eyes slid to the floor. She and Belle had become very good friends this past fortnight, but they had never spoken quite so frankly. “He, um, he, um . . .”
“He what?” Belle prodded.
“He seemed so utterly in control afterward, and he moved all the way across the carriage as if he wanted nothing to do with me. He didn’t even hold my hand.”
Belle was more experienced than Henry, and she immediately recognized that Dunford was terrified he would lose control. She wasn’t entirely certain why he was trying to behave so honorably. Any fool could see they were a perfect couple. A small indiscretion before marriage could easily be overlooked. “Men,” Belle finally declared, taking a swig of champagne, “can be idiots.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t know why people persist in believing women are inferior, when it is quite clear that men are the more feeble-minded of the two.”
Henry stared at her blankly.
“Consider this: Alex tried to convince himself he wasn’t in love with my cousin only because he thought he didn’t want to get married. And John—now this one is even more asinine—he tried to push me away because he had it in his head that something that happened in his past made him unworthy of me. Dunford obviously has some equally featherbrained reason for trying to keep you at arm’s length.”
“But why?”
Belle shrugged. “If I knew that, I’d probably be prime minister. The woman who finally understands men will rule the world, mark my words. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“It cannot be that wager.”
“What wager?”
“A few months ago I wagered Dunford he would be married within a year.” She looked over at Henry apol-ogetically.
“You did?”
Belle swallowed uncomfortably. “I believe I said he would be ‘tied up, leg-shackled, and loving it.’ ”
“He is making me miserable because of a bet?” Henry’s voice rose considerably on the last word.
“It might not be the wager,” Belle said quickly, realizing she had not improved the situation.
“I would like to wring . . . his . . . neck.” Henry punctuated the sentence by tossing back the contents of her champagne glass.
“Try not to do it here at the ball.”
Henry stood up and planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I care.”
Belle chewed nervously on her lip as she watched Henry stalk from the room. Henry did care. Very much.
Chapter 15
Dunford had slipped away to the card room, where he proceeded to win a staggering amount of money through no ability of his own. Lord knew he was finding it difficult to keep his mind on the game.
After a few rounds Alex wandered over. “Mind if I join you?”
Dunford shrugged. “Not at all.”
The other men at the vingt-et-un table shifted their chairs to make room for the duke.
“Who is winning?” Alex inquired.
“Dunford,” Lord Tarryton replied. “Quite handily.”
Dunford shrugged again, a disinterested expression affixed to his face.
Alex took a sip of whiskey as his hand was dealt and then took a look at the face-down card. Glancing sideways at Dunford, he said, “Your Henry turned out to be quite a success.”
“She isn’t ‘my’ Henry,” Dunford all but snapped.
“Isn’t Miss Barrett your ward?” Lord Tarryton asked.
Dunford looked at him, nodded curtly, and said, “Deal me another card.”
Tarryton did so, but not before saying, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Billington came up to scratch on this gel.”
“Billington, Farnsworth, and a few others,” Alex said with his most affable smile.
“Ashbourne?” Dunford’s voice was colder than ice.
“Dunford?”
“Shut up.”
Alex suppressed a smile and asked for another card.
“What I don’t understand,” Lord Symington, a graying man in his mid-fifties, was saying, “is why no one ever heard of her before. Who are her people?”
“I believe Dunford is ‘her people’ now,” Alex said.
“She comes from Cornwall,” Dunford replied tersely, regarding his pair of fives with a bored expression. “Before that, Manchester.”
“Has she a dowry?” Symington persisted.
Dunford paused. He hadn’t even thought of that. He could see Alex looking at him with a quizzical expression, one eyebrow arrogantly raised. It would be so easy to say that no, Henry didn’t have a dowry. It was the truth, after all. Carlyle had left the chit penniless.
Her chances at an advantageous marriage would be greatly reduced.
She could end up dependent on him forever.
It was damned appealing . . .
Dunford sighed, cursing himself once again for this revolting impulse of his to play the hero. “Yes,” he sighed. “Yes, she does.”
“Well, that’s good news for the chit,” Symington replied. “ ’Course she probably wouldn’t have had too much trouble without it. Lucky for you, Dunford. Wards can be deuced annoying business. I have one I’ve been trying to unload for three years. Why God invented Poor Relations I’ll never know.”
Dunford studiously ignored him, then flipped over his card, an ace. “Twenty-one,” he said, not sounding the least bit excited at the fact that he had just won nearly a thousand pounds.
Alex leaned back and smiled broadly. “This must be your lucky night.”
Dunford shoved his chair back and stood up, pushing the other cardplayers’ vouchers carelessly into his pocket. “Indeed,” he drawled as he made his way back to the door leading to the ballroom. “The luckiest bloody night of my life.”
Henry decided that she would capture at least three more hearts before she had to leave, and she succeeded handily. It seemed so easy—she wondered why she had never before realized that men could be managed so effortlessly.
Most men, that is. The men she didn’t want.
She was letting Viscount Haverly twirl her around the dance floor when she spied Dunford. Her heart missed a beat and her feet missed a step before she could remind herself that she was furious with him.
But every time Haverly turned her around, there was Dunford, leaning lazily against a pillar with his arms folded. The expression on his face did not invite the other partygoers to come over and try to engage him in conversation. He looked terribly sophisticated in his black evening clothes, unbearably arrogant, and very, very male.
And his eyes were following her, a lazy, hooded gaze—one that sent shivers up and down her spine.
The dance came to an end, and Henry sank into a respectful curtsy. Haverly bowed and said, �
�Shall I return you to your guardian? I see him just over there.”
Henry thought of a thousand things to say—she had another partner for the next dance and he was on the other side of the room; she was thirsty and wanted a glass of lemonade; she needed to talk to Belle—but in the end she only nodded, seemingly having lost the power to speak.
“Here you are, Dunford,” Haverly said with a good-natured grin as he deposited Henry by his side. “Or perhaps I should say Stannage now. I understand you’ve come into a title.”
“Dunford is still fine,” he replied with such urbane blandness that Haverly quickly stammered his goodbyes and was off.
Henry frowned. “You didn’t have to scare him like that.”
“Didn’t I? You seem to be acquiring an unseemly number of beaux.”
“I have not behaved in an untoward manner and you know it,” she retorted, hot anger staining her cheeks.
“Hush, minx, you are attracting attention.”
Henry thought she might cry upon hearing him use her friendly nickname in such derisive tones. “I don’t care! I don’t. I just want . . .”
“What do you want?” he asked, his voice low and intense.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“I should think you don’t want to attract attention. That might endanger your quest to become the reigning belle of the season.”
“You are the one who is endangering it, scaring off my suitors like that.”
“Hmmm. I shall have to rectify my damage then, won’t I?”
Henry regarded him suspiciously, unable to discern his motives. “What do you want, Dunford?”
“Why, just to dance with you.” He took her arm and prepared to lead her back onto the dance floor. “If only to put to rest any nasty gossip that we do not deal well with one another.”
“We don’t deal well with one another. Not anymore, at least.”
“Yes,” he said dryly, “but no one else needs to know that, do they?” He pulled her into his arms, wondering what on earth had prompted him to dance with her again. It was a mistake, of course, just as any prolonged contact with her these days was a mistake, certain only to lead to a hard and intense longing.
And this longing was moving inexorably from his body to his soul.