Henry opened her mouth. "I don't have a friend named Rosalind."
He stared at her blankly. "What?"
"Rosalind. She doesn't exist. I—" She looked away, too ashamed to meet his gaze. "I wrote the letter knowing you would get it. I wrote the letter to try to goad you into breaking off the engagement."
He touched her chin, forcing her gaze back to his. "Why, Henry?" he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Why?"
She swallowed nervously. "Because I thought you'd been with your mistress. I couldn't understand how you could be with me, then be with her, and—"
"I didn't betray you," he said fiercely.
"I know. I know now. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She threw her arms around him, burying herself in the haven of his chest. "Can you forgive me?"
"But, Hen, why didn't you trust me?"
Henry swallowed uncomfortably, shame coloring her cheeks pink. Finally she told him about Lady Wolcott's lies. But she couldn't blame Lady Wolcott for everything; if she had been truly secure in Dunford's love, she wouldn't have fallen for her lies.
Dunford looked at her in disbelief. "And you believed her?"
"Yes. No. Not at first. Then I followed you." Henry paused, forcing herself to look him in the eye. She owed him that measure of honesty. "You were in there so long. I didn't know what to think."
"Henry, why would you think I would want another woman? I love you. You knew I loved you. Didn't I tell you enough?" He leaned down and rested his chin against the top of her head, breathing in the heady fragrance of her wet hair.
"I suppose I thought I didn't please you," she said. "That I wasn't pretty enough or feminine enough. I tried so hard to learn how to be a proper lady. I even enjoyed learning. London was so lovely. But deep down I'm always going to be the same person. The mannish freak—"
His hands grew fierce around her upper arms. "I believe I told you once before never to refer to yourself that way."
"But I'm never going to be like Belle. I'm never going to—"
"If I wanted Belle," he cut in, "I would have asked her to marry me." He pulled her more tightly against him. "Henry, I love you. I'd love you if you wore a sackcloth. I'd love you if you had a mustache." He paused and tweaked her nose. "Well, the mustache would be diflicult. Please promise me you won't grow one."
Henry giggled despite herself. "You truly don't want me to change?"
He smiled. "Do you want me to change?"
"No!" she said, very quickly. "I mean, I very much like you the way you are."
This time he grinned—that familiar deadly grin that always made her go limp. "You only like me?"
"Well," she said coyly, "I believe I said I very much like you."
He tangled his hand in her hair and gave it a tug to tip her face up toward his. "Not good enough, minx," he murmured.
She touched his cheek. "I love you. I'm so sorry for making a muck of everything. How can I make it up to you?"
"You could tell me you love me again."
"I love you."
"You could tell me tomorrow."
She grinned. "I won't need even the tiniest reminder. I could even tell you twice."
"And the next day."
"I could probably manage that."
"And the next. . ."
Epilogue
"I'm going to kiiiiiillllll him!"
Emma touched Dunford's arm. "I don't think she meant it," she whispered.
Dunford swallowed, his face pinched and white with worry. "She's been in there so long."
Emma wrapped her hand around his wrist and pulled him away from the sickroom door. "I was even longer with William," she said, "and I emerged healthy as a horse. Now, come with me. You shouldn't have come to the door. You'll make yourself sick, listening to her screams."
Dunford let the duchess lead him away. It had taken him and Henry over five years to conceive. They had wanted a baby so desperately; it had seemed a miracle. But now that Henry was actually giving birth, a baby no longer seemed quite as necessary.
Henry was in pain. And he couldn't do anything about it.
It ripped his heart apart.
He and Emma made their way back down to the sitting room, where Alex was playing with his children. Six-year-old William had engaged the duke in a mock duel and was soundly trouncing his father, who was somewhat handicapped by the presence of four-year-old Julian on his back. Not to mention two-year-old Claire, happily wrapped around his left ankle.
"Did she have it yet?" Alex asked, a bit too flippantly for Dunford's taste.
Dunford made a growling sort of sound.
"I believe that was a no," Emma said.
"I've killed you now!" William screamed gleefully, stabbing his sword into Alex's midsection.
Alex shot his best friend a sidelong glance. "And you're sure you want one of these?"
Dunford sank into a chair. "Just so long as she's all right," he sighed. "That's all I care about."
"She'll be fine," Emma said soothingly. "You'll see— Oh, Belle!"
Belle stood in the doorway, a bit sweaty and disheveled.
Dunford sprang to his feet. "How is she?"
"Henry? Oh, she's—" Belle blinked. "Where is John?"
"Out in the garden rocking Letitia," Emma replied. "How is Henry?"
"All done," Belle said with a big smile. "It's a— I say, what happened to Dunford?"
The new father had already run out of the room.