Minx (28 page)

Ned started to wonder where he got the fortitude not to laugh. "Really?" he drawled again, in exactly the same awful tone.

Henry let out a chuckle. "Very good, my lord, but do you want to know why I do not think you could ever be a proper rake?"

He plunked his elbows down on the table and leaned forward. "You can see I'm waiting in desperate anticipation."

"You're too nice!" She said this with a flourish of her arm.

He sat back. "Is that a compliment?"

"To be sure, it is."

Ned's eyes twinkled. "I cannot express the depth of my relief."

"Frankly—and I believe we have already established the fact that I am usually frank—"

"Oh, indeed."

She shot him a vaguely annoyed look. "Frankly, I am beginning to find the dark and brooding type to be vastly overrated. I met several last night, and I think I shall contrive not to receive them today should they call."

"They'll be crushed, I'm sure."

Henry ignored him. "I'm going to endeavor to look for a nice man."

"Then I should be at the top of your list, shouldn't I?" Ned was surprised to discover he didn't half mind the idea.

She sipped nonchalantly at her tea. "We should never suit."

"Why is that?"

"Because, my lord, you don't want to be nice. You need time to get over your delusions of rakehood."

This time Ned did laugh. Quite heartily. When he finally settled down, he said, "Your Dunford is quite a rake, and he is a rather nice chap. A bit domineering at times, but nice nonetheless."

Henry's face turned to stone. "First of all, he is not 'my' Dunford. And more importantly, he isn't nice at all."

Ned immediately sat up a little straighter. He didn't think he had ever met anyone who didn't like Dunford. It was exactly why he was so successful at being a rake. He was utterly charming unless one managed to get him really angry, and then he was deadly.

Ned gave Henry a sideways glance and wondered if she'd gotten Dunford really angry. He'd wager she had.

"Say, Henry, are you busy this afternoon?"

"I suppose I ought to be home to receive callers."

"Nonsense. They'll want you more if they think you're not available."

She rolled her eyes. "If I could find a nice man, I wouldn't have to play these games."

"Maybe. Maybe not. We'll probably never know, as I don't think there exists a man as nice as you want."

Except Dunford, Henry thought sadly. Before he'd turned so cruel. She remembered him at the dress shop in Truro. Don't be shy, minx...Why on earth would I laugh? How could I give that dress to my sister when it looks so utterly charming on you? But he didn't have a sister. He'd brought her to the dress shop just to make her feel better. All he had wanted to do was help her build her self-confidence.

She shook her head. She would never understand him.

"Henry?"

She blinked. "What? Oh, I'm sorry, Ned. I was wool-gathering, I suppose."

"Would you like to go for an excursion? I thought we might make a round of the shops, pick up a trinket or two."

Her eyes focused on his face. He was grinning boyishly, his bright eyes expectant. Ned liked her. Ned wanted to be with her. Why didn't Dunford? No, don't think of that man. Just because one person rejected her didn't mean she was wholly unlovable. Ned liked her. She had sat here at breakfast just being herself and Ned had liked her just fine. And Billington had liked her the night before. And Belle certainly did—and so did her parents.

"Henry?"

"Ned," she said decisively, "I would love to spend the day with you. Shall we be off now?"

"Why not? Why don't you collect your maid and meet me in the foyer in fifteen minutes?"

"Let's try for ten."

He gave her a jaunty salute.

Henry hurried up the stairs. Maybe this trip to London wouldn't turn out to be a complete disaster after all.

A half mile away, Dunford was lying on his bed, nursing a hellish hangover. He was still dressed in his evening clothes, much to his valet's profound consternation. He'd barely drunk anything at the ball, he'd come home nauseatingly sober. Then he'd proceeded to down almost an entire bottle of whiskey, as if the drink could expunge the evening from his memory.

It didn't work.

Instead, he stank like a tavern, his head felt as if it had been run over by the entire British cavalry, and his bedclothes were a mess from the boots he hadn't managed to take off the night before.

All because of a woman.

He shuddered. He'd never thought he'd get it this bad. Oh, he'd seen his friends topple, one by one, bitten by that bug they call marriage, all nauseatingly in love with their spouses. It was insane, really—no one married for love, no one.

Except his friends.

Which had led him to wondering. Why not him? Why couldn't he settle down with someone about whom he actually cared? And then Henry had virtually been dropped in his lap. One look in those silver eyes, and he should have known not even to try to fight it.

Well, maybe not, he amended. He wasn't so hung over that he couldn't admit it hadn't quite been love at first sight. Certainly these feelings had not begun until sometime after the pigpen incident. Perhaps it had been in Truro, when he'd bought her the yellow dress. Maybe that was when it had started.

He sighed. Hell, did it really matter?

He stood up, moved to a chair by the window, and stared aimlessly at the people walking up and down Half Moon Street. What the bloody hell was he supposed to do now? She hated him. If he hadn't been so damned set on playing a bloody hero, he could have married her twice by now. But no, he had to bring her to London, had to insist she be allowed to meet all of the ton's eligible gentlemen before she made any decisions. He had to push her away and push her away and push her away, all because he was afraid he couldn't keep his hands off her.

He should have just ravished her and hauled her off to the altar before she had a chance to think straight. That's what a real hero would have done.

He stood abruptly. He could win her back. He just had to stop acting like such a jealous bastard and start being nice to her again. He could do that.

Couldn't he?

Chapter 16

Apparently he couldn't. Dunford was walking up Bond Street, intending to purchase a bouquet at a florist before heading to Grosvenor Square to call on Henry.

Then he saw them. Henry and Ned, to be precise. Damn it, he had told her very specifically to stay away from the young Viscount Burwick. Henry was just the sort of young lady Ned would find fascinating and probably utterly necessary to his establishment of a rake's reputation.

Dunford hung back, watching them as they peered into the window of a bookshop. They appeared on excellent terms. Ned was laughing at something Henry was saying, and she was poking him playfully in the arm. They looked quite disgustingly happy together.

Suddenly it seemed quite logical that Henry would set her cap for Ned. He was young, handsome, personable, and rich. Most importantly, he was the brother of Henry's newfound best friend. Dunford knew the Earl and Countess of Worth would just love to welcome Henry into the family.

Dunford had been irritated by all the attention paid to Henry the previous night, but nothing in his life had ever prepared him for the violent surge of jealousy that ripped through him when she leaned up and whispered something in Ned's ear.

He acted without thinking—he must have, he later reflected, because he never would have behaved like such an idiotic boor if his mind had been working properly. Within seconds he managed to plant himself firmly between them. "Hello, Henry," he said, flashing her an even, white smile which did not even pretend to reach his eyes.

She gnashed her teeth, presumably as a prelude to a stinging rebuke.

"Good to see you're back from university, Ned." He said this without even glancing at the younger man.

"Just keeping Henry company," Ned said with a knowing tilt of his head.

"I cannot thank you enough for your services," Dunford replied tightly, "but they are no longer necessary."

"I think they are," Henry cut in.

Dunford fixed a deadly stare on Ned. "I find myself in need of a discussion with my ward."

"In the middle of the street?" Ned asked, his eyes wide with mock innocence. "Surely you'd rather I returned her home. Then you could speak with her in the comfort of our sitting room, with tea and—"

"Edward." Dunford's voice was like velvet-covered steel.

"Yes?"

"Do you remember the last time we crossed purposes?"

"Ah, but I'm much older and wiser now."

"Not nearly as old and wise as I am."

"Ah, but whereas you are nearing the realm of old and feeble, I am still young and strong."

"Is this a game?" Henry asked.

"Be quiet," Dunford snapped. "This is none of your concern."

"Isn't it?" Unable to believe his nerve and Ned's sudden defection to the camp of stupid, mindless, arrogant males, she threw up her arms and walked away. The two of them probably wouldn't even notice her absence until she was halfway down the street, so obsessed were they with their rooster-like strutting.

She was wrong.

She'd taken only three steps when a firm hand closed around the sash at her waist and reeled her back in.

"You," Dunford said icily, "aren't going anywhere." He turned his gaze to Ned. "And you are. Make yourself scarce, Edward."

Ned looked at Henry, his expression telling her that if she just said the word, he'd take her back home that instant. She doubted he could best Dunford in an out-and-out fight, although a draw was possible. But surely Dunford wouldn't want to cause such a scene in the middle of Bond Street. Chin up, she told him so.

"Do you really believe that, Henry?" he asked, his voice low.

She nodded jerkily.

He leaned forward. "I'm angry, Henry."

Her eyes widened as she remembered his words back at Stannage Park.

Don't make the mistake of making me angry, Henry.

You're not angry now?

Believe me, when I get angry you'll know.

"Uhh, Ned," she said quickly, "perhaps you had better leave."

"Are you certain?"

"There is no need to play the knight in bloody shining armor," Dunford snapped.

"You'd better go," Henry said. "I'll be fine."

Ned didn't look convinced, but he acceded to her wishes and walked stiffly away.

"What was the meaning of that?" Henry demanded, turning on Dunford. "You were deplorably rude, and—"

"Hush," he said, looking disgustingly composed. "We'll cause a scene, if we haven't done so already."

"You just said you didn't care if we caused a scene."

"I didn't say I didn't care. I merely implied that I would be willing to cause one to get what I want." He took her arm. "Come along, Hen. We need to talk."

"But my maid..."

"Where is she?"

"Right there." She motioned to a woman standing a few paces away. Dunford went over to speak with her, and she scurried off with alacrity.

"What did you say to her?" Henry asked.

"Nothing other than that I am your guardian, and you will be safe with me."

"Somehow I doubt that," she muttered.

Dunford was inclined to agree with her, considering how badly he wanted to drag her back to his town house, haul her up the stairs, and have his wicked way with her. But he remained silent, partly because he didn't care to frighten her, and partly because he realized his thoughts were sounding like a bad novel and he didn't want his words to do the same.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"For a carriage ride."

"A carriage ride?" she echoed doubtfully, glancing about for a carriage.

He began to walk, skillfully moving her along so she didn't realize she was being pulled. "We are going to my house, and then we are getting into one of my carriages and riding around London, because that is just about the only place I can get you alone without utterly destroying your reputation."

For a moment Henry forgot he had humiliated her the previous night. She even forgot that she was thoroughly furious with him, so heartened was she by his desire to be alone with her. But then she remembered. Good God, Henry, is that what you think this is about? It hadn't been his words that were so damning; it had been the tone of his voice and the expression on his face.

She chewed nervously on her lower lip as she quickened her pace to keep up with his long strides.

No, he certainly was not enamored of her, and that meant she should not be the least bit excited by the fact that he wanted to be alone with her. He most likely was planning to deliver a blistering set-down about her supposedly scandalous behavior the night before. In all truth Henry did not think she had behaved in any improper fashion, but Dunford certainly seemed to think that she had done something wrong, and no doubt he wanted to tell her precisely why.