"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.
And just in time, too, because the carriage rolled to a halt, and Dunford said flatly, "We're here."
Henry wanted nothing more than to just go home.
All the way back to Cornwall.
Chapter 14
Henry held her head high as Dunford helped her down from the carriage. It nearly broke her heart when his hand touched hers, but she was learning how to keep her emotions off her face. If Dunford happened to glance her way, all he would see was a perfectly composed visage, with no sign of grief or anger—but with no sign of happiness either.
They had just alighted when the Blackwoods' carriage arrived behind them. Henry watched as John helped Belle down. Belle immediately rushed to her side, not bothering to wait while Alex disembarked. "What's wrong?" she exclaimed, noting Henry's uncharacteristically tense face.
"Nothing," Henry lied.
But Belle heard the hollowness in her voice. "Obviously something is wrong."
"It's nothing, really. I'm just nervous, that's all."
Belle rather doubted Henry could have grown quite that nervous during the short carriage ride. She shot a withering glare in Dunford's direction. He immediately turned away and struck up a conversation with John and Alex.
"What did he do to you?" Belle whispered angrily.
"Nothing!"
"If that is true," Belle said as she gave her a look indicating she didn't for a second believe it was, "then you still had best compose yourself immediately before we go in."