She stared at him, unblinking. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, which had suddenly gone dry. Unfamiliar with the highly charged tension that now surrounded her, she tried to resort to levity, but her voice came out shaky and sad. "Then there are many, many fools in Cornwall, for no one has ever looked twice at me."
He leaned in closer. "Provincial idiots."
Her lips parted in surprise.
Dunford lost the ability to reason, lost all sense of what was right and good and proper. He knew only what was necessary, and it was suddenly very necessary that he kiss her. How was it that he had never noticed how pink her mouth was? And had he ever before seen lips that trembled so deliriously? Would she taste like lemons, like that faint maddening scent that seemed to follow her everywhere?
He didn't just want to find out. He had to.
He brushed his lips gently against hers, shocked by the electric tingle that traveled through him at this barest of touches. He drew back slightly, just far enough for him to see her face. Her eyes were open very wide, their gray depths filled with wonder and longing. A question seemed to be forming on her lips, but he could see that she had no idea how to put it into words.
"Ah, Lord, Henry," he murmured. "Who would have guessed?"
As his mouth descended once again, Henry gave in to her wildest desire and reached up to touch his hair. It was unbelievably soft, and she couldn't bear to let go, even when his tongue darted out to trace the outline of her lips and every other muscle in her body went limp with longing. His lips moved sideways, traveling lightly along her jawline to her ear. Her hand still retained its hold on his hair.
"It's so soft," she said, wonder making her voice husky. "Almost as soft as Rufus."
A deep chuckle rumbled in Dunford's chest. "Oh, Henry," he laughed. "That is certainly the first time I have been compared to a rabbit. Was I found wanting?"
Henry, suddenly shy, only shook her head.
"Rabbit got your tongue?" he teased.
She shook her head again. "No, you do."
Dunford groaned and leaned down to capture her mouth again. He'd been holding back during the last two kisses, he realized, out of concern for her innocence. But now he found his restraint was gone, and he plunged his tongue into the warm recesses of her mouth, exploring her intimately. God, she was sweet, and he wanted her... he wanted every inch of her. He took a ragged breath and slid his hand under her jacket to cup her breast. It was far fuller than he'd expected, and so very womanly. It was sinful how thin the fabric of her shirt was. He could feel the heat of her, feel her heartbeat speeding up, feel her nipple puckering beneath his touch. He moaned again. He was lost.
Henry gasped at this new intimacy. No man had ever touched her there. She didn't even touch her breasts unless she was bathing. It felt...good, but it also felt wrong, and panic began to rise within her. "No!" she cried out, wrenching away from him. "I can't."
Dunford groaned her name, his voice painfully hoarse.
Henry only shook her head as she scrambled to her feet, unable to say anything else. Words just couldn't manage to get by this choking feeling in her throat. She couldn't do this, she just couldn't, even if part of her wanted so desperately for him to touch his lips to hers again. The kisses she could justify. They made her feel so warm and tingly and so very loved that she could just manage to convince herself they weren't so very sinful, and she wasn't a fallen woman, and he really did care for her...
She stole a peek at him. He had risen from the bed and was cursing violently under his breath. She didn't understand why he wanted her. No man had ever wanted her before, and certainly no man had ever, even for an instant, come close to loving her. She looked at him again. His face was haggard. "Dunford?" Her voice was hesitant.
"It won't happen again," he said roughly.
Henry's heart sank, and she realized suddenly that she did want it to happen again, only...only she wanted him to love her, and that, she supposed, was why she'd pulled away from him.
"It's—it's all right," she said softly, wondering why on earth she was trying to comfort him.
"No, it isn't," he bit out, intending to say that she deserved better, but so filled with self-loathing he couldn't bear the sound of his own voice.
Henry heard only his harshness, and she gulped convulsively. He didn't want her, after all. Or at least he didn't want to want her. She was a freak—a boyish, plain-speaking, unattractive freak. No wonder he was so horrified by his actions. If there had been another eligible woman anywhere near Stannage Park, he surely wouldn't have paid Henry the least bit of mind. No, Henry thought, that wasn't true. They still would have been friends, Dunford hadn't been faking that. But he certainly never would have kissed her.
Henry wondered if she could possibly hold back her tears until they got back home.
Chapter 8
Supper that night was a silent affair. Henry wore her new yellow dress, and Dunford complimented her on it, but beyond that they seemed unable to converse.
As he finished the last few bites of his dessert, Dunford thought he'd like nothing better than to retire to his room with a bottle of whiskey, but after having to watch Henry's stricken expression all through the meal, he realized that he was going to have to do something to mend this rift. Setting down his napkin, he cleared his throat and said, "I thought I might have a glass of port. Since there are no ladies here with whom you may retire, I would be honored if you would join me."
Henry's eyes flew to his face. Surely he wasn't trying to tell her he thought of her as a man? "I've never had port before. I don't know if we have any."