Minx (24 page)

Alex burst out laughing.

"Ashbourne is permissible," Dunford said with a half-suppressed groan.

"I hope I'm not off limits too," John added.

Henry looked askance at her beleaguered guardian.

"John is fine as well," he said, his voice growing slightly irritable.

"My congratulations, Dunford," Alex said, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. "I predict you'll have a resounding success on your hands. The suitors will be breaking down your door."

If Dunford was pleased by his friend's pronouncement, it didn't show on his face.

Henry beamed. "Do you really think so? I must confess I know very little about going about in society. Caroline has told me I am oftentimes a touch too candid."

"That," Alex said in a self-assured voice, "is why you are going to be a success."

"We should be on our way," Belle cut in. "Mama and Papa have already left for the ball, and I told them we would be along shortly. Shall we all go in one carriage? I think we'll be able to squeeze in."

"Henry and I will go alone," Dunford said smoothly, taking her arm. "There are a few things I would like to discuss with her before she is presented." He steered her toward the doorway, and together they swept from the room.

It was probably just as well that he couldn't see the three identical smiles of amusement directed at their backs.

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" Henry asked once their carriage had started out.

"Nothing," he admitted. "I thought you might like a few moments of peace before we arrive at the party."

"That is very thoughtful of you, my lord."

"Oh, for God's sake," he scowled. "Whatever you do, do not call me 'my lord.'"

"I was just practicing," she murmured.

There was a moment of silence, then he asked, "Are you nervous?"

"A bit," she admitted. "Your friends are lovely, though, and they put me quite at ease."

"Good." He patted her hand in a paternal manner.

Henry could feel the heat of his hand through both of their gloves, and she ached to prolong the touch. But she didn't know how to do this, so she did what she always did when her emotions bubbled too close to the surface: she grinned impishly. Then she patted his hand.

Dunford leaned back, thinking that Henry must be marvelously self-contained to tease him in such a manner on the eve of her debut. She turned abruptly away from him to stare out the window as London rolled by. He studied her profile, noting curiously that the jaunty look that had been in her eye had disappeared. He was about to ask her about this when she wet her lips.

Dunford's heart slammed in his chest.

He had never dreamed Henry would be so transformed by a fortnight in London, never thought the cheeky country girl could grow into this alluring—although equally cheeky—woman. He longed to touch the line of her throat, to run his hand along the embroidered edge of her neckline, to delve his fingers into the magnificent warmth that lay below it...

He shuddered, well aware that his thoughts were leading his body in a rather uncomfortable direction. And he was becoming painfully cognizant of the fact that he was beginning to care for her too damned much, and certainly not in the way a guardian was meant to care for his ward.

It would be so easy to seduce her. He knew he had the power to do so, and even though Henry had grown frightened at their last encounter, he didn't think she would try to stop him again. He could wash her over with pleasure. She'd never even know what had hit her.

He shuddered, as if the physical motion could restrain him from leaning across the seat and taking the first step toward his goal. He hadn't brought Henry to London to seduce her. Good Lord, he thought wryly, how many times had he had to repeat that refrain during the past few weeks? But it was true, and she had a right to meet all of London's eligible bachelors. He was going to have to back off and let her see for herself who else was out there.

It was that damned chivalrous instinct. Life would be a lot simpler if his honor didn't always intrude when it came to this girl.

Henry turned back to face him, and her lips parted slightly, startled by the harsh expression etched in his face. "Is something wrong?" she quietly asked.

"No," he replied, a little more gruffly than he'd intended.

"You're upset with me."

"Why on earth would I be upset with you?" he all but snapped.

"You certainly sound as if you're upset with me."

He sighed. "I'm upset with myself."

"But why is that?" Henry asked, her face showing her concern.

Dunford cursed himself under his breath. Now what was he to say? I'm upset because I want to seduce you? I'm upset because you smell like lemons and I'm dying to know why? I'm upset because—

"You don't have to say anything," Henry said, clearly sensing he did not want to share his feelings with her. "Just let me cheer you up."

His groin tightened at the thought.

"Shall I tell you what happened to Belle and me yesterday? It was most amusing. It was...No, I can see that you do not want to hear."

"That's not true," he forced himself to say.

"Well, we went to Hardiman's Tea Shoppe, and...You're not listening."

"I am," he assured her, working his face back into a more pleasant expression.

"All right," she said slowly, giving him an assessing glance. "This lady came in, and her hair was quite green..."

Dunford made no remark.

"You're not listening," she accused.

"I was," he started to protest. Then he saw her dubious expression and admitted with a boyish grin, "I wasn't."

She smiled at him then, not the familiar cheeky smile to which he'd grown so accustomed, but one born of sheer mirth, artless in its beauty.

Dunford was entranced. He leaned forward, not realizing what he was doing.

"You want to kiss me," she whispered with wonder.

He shook his head.

"You do," she persisted. "I can see it in your eyes. You're looking at me the way I always want to look at you, but I don't know how, and—

"Shhh." He pressed his finger to her lips.

"I wouldn't mind," she whispered against him.

Dunford's blood pounded. She was an inch away from him, a vision in white silk, and she was giving him permission to kiss her. Permission to do what he'd been aching to do...

His finger slid from her mouth, catching on her full lower lip in its descent.

"Please," she whispered.

"This doesn't mean anything," he murmured.

She shook her head. "Nothing."

He leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands. "You're going to go to the ball, meet some nice gentleman..."

She nodded. "Anything you say."

"He'll court you...Maybe you'll fall in love."

She said nothing.

He was just a hair's breadth away. "And you'll live happily ever after."

She said, "I hope so," but the words were lost against his mouth as he kissed her with such longing and tenderness that she thought she would surely burst with love. He kissed her again, and then again, his lips soft and gentle, his hands warm on her cheeks. Henry moaned his name, and he dipped his tongue between her lips, unable to resist the soft temptation of her mouth.

The new intimacy shattered whatever control he'd been exerting over himself, and his last rational thought was that he mustn't muss her hair...His hands slid down to her back, and he pressed her against him, reveling in the heat of her body. "Oh, God, Henry," he groaned. "Oh, Hen."

Dunford could feel her acquiescing and knew he was a blackguard. If he had been anywhere other than in a moving carriage on the way to Henry's first ball, he probably would not have had the fortitude to stop, but as it was...Oh, Christ, he couldn't ruin her. He wanted her to have a perfect time.

It didn't occur to him that this might be her idea of a perfect time.

He took a ragged breath and tried to tear his lips from hers, but he made it only to her jawline. Her skin was so soft, so warm, he couldn't resist trailing a kiss all the way up to her ear. Finally he managed to pull away, loathing himself for taking such advantage of her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, needing to keep her at arm's length, then realized that any touch between them was potentially explosive, so he pulled back his hands and moved across the seat cushion. Then he moved to the opposite seat.

Henry touched her tingling lips, too innocent to understand his desire was being held in check by a very thin thread. Why had he moved so far away? She knew he was right to stop the kiss. She knew she ought to thank him for it, but couldn't he have remained by her side and at least held her hand? "That certainly didn't mean anything," she tried to joke, her voice breaking on the words.

"For your sake, it had better not."

What did that mean? Henry cursed herself for not having the courage to ask. "I-I must look a mess," she said instead, her voice sounding very hollow to her ears.

"Your hair is fine," he said flatly. "I was careful not to muss it."

That he could have approached their kiss with such cold, clinical detachment was like a bucket of icy water washing over her. "No, of course not. You wouldn't want to ruin me on my first night out."

On the contrary, he thought wryly, he wanted very much to ruin her. To ruin her over and over and over. He wanted to laugh at the poetic justice of it all. After a couple of years of chasing after women and then a decade of having them chase after him, he'd finally been brought down by a slip of a girl, fresh out of Cornwall, whom he was honor-bound to protect. Good Lord, as her guardian it was practically his sacred duty to keep her pure and chaste for her future husband, whom, incidentally, he was supposed to help her find and choose. He shook his head, as if trying to give himself a stern reminder that this incident was not to be repeated.

Henry saw him shake his head and thought he was replying to her desperate remark about not wanting to ruin her, and cold humiliation prompted her to say, "No, I mustn't do anything to damage my reputation. I might not catch a husband then, and that is the objective here, isn't it?" She glanced over at Dunford. He was pointedly not looking at her, and his jaw was clenched so tightly, she thought his teeth would surely shatter. So he was upset—good! Upset didn’t even come close to what she was feeling. She gave a frantic laugh and then added, "I know you say I may return to Cornwall if I wish, but we both know that is a sham now, don't we?'

Dunford turned, but she didn't give him the chance to speak.

"A season," she was saying, her voice rising in pitch, "has only one purpose, and that is to get the lady in question married off and thus off of one's hands. In this case, I suppose, the hands in question would appear to be yours, although you don't seem to be doing such a very good job of getting me off of them."

"Henry, be quiet," he ordered.

"Oh, certainly, my lord. I'll be quiet. A perfectly prim and proper young miss. I wouldn't want to be anything other than the ideal debutante. Heaven forbid I ruin my chances for a good match. Why, I might even catch a viscount."

"If you are lucky," he bit out.

Henry felt as if she'd been slapped. Oh, she knew his primary goal was to marry her off, but it still hurt so much to hear him say it. "Per-perhaps I won't marry," she said, trying for a defiant tone but not quite succeeding. "I don't have to, you know."

"I would hope that you do not purposefully sabotage your chances for finding a husband just to spite me."

She stiffened. "Don't hold yourself in such high esteem, Dunford. I have more important things to think about than spiting you."

"How fortunate for me," he drawled.

"You are hateful," she spat out. "Hateful and...and...and hateful!"

"Such a vocabulary."

Henry's cheeks flushed red with shame and fury. "You're a cruel man, Dunford. A monster! I don't even know why you kissed me. Did I do something to make you hate me? Did you want to punish me?"

No, his tortured mind responded, he wanted to punish himself.

He let out a ragged sigh and said, "I don't hate you, Henry."

But you don't love me either, she wanted to cry out. You don't love me, and it hurts so much. Was she so awful? Was there something wrong with her? Something that compelled him to degrade her by kissing her so thoroughly yet for no reason other than—God, she couldn't think of any reason. It certainly wasn't the same kind of passion she'd been feeling. He'd been so cold and detached when he was talking about her hair.

She gasped, suddenly realizing to her complete mortification that tears were welling up in her eyes. She hastily turned her face and wiped them away, not caring that the salty drops were probably staining the fine kid of her gloves.

"Oh, God, Hen," Dunford said, compassion in his voice. "Don't—"

"Don't what?" she burst out. "Don't cry? You're a fine one to ask that of me!" She crossed her arms mutinously and used every ounce of her iron will to dry up every tear in her body. After a minute or so she actually felt she was returning to at least some semblance of normality.