Darn, darn, darn, Henry thought wildly, resisting the urge to stamp her foot. Why on earth had she let her temper get the better of her? Now he knew she didn't want him here and would be suspicious of her every word and action. He was no corkbrain, this one.
That was her first problem. He was supposed to have been stupid. Men of his sort usually were, or so she'd heard.
Problem number two: he was too young. He wasn't going to have any trouble keeping up with her tomorrow. So much for exhausting him into realizing he wouldn't like it here at Stannage Park.
Problem number three, of course, was that he was quite the best-looking man she'd ever seen. She hadn't seen too many men, that was true, but that didn't diminish the fact that he made her feel like...Henry frowned. What did he make her feel like? She sighed and shook her head. She didn't want to know.
Her fourth problem was obvious. Despite the fact that she didn't want to admit the new Lord Stannage could be correct about anything, there was no way around the truth.
She stank.
Not even bothering to conceal a groan, Henry returned to the house and stomped up the stairs to her room.
Dunford followed Mrs. Simpson as she led him to the master suite. "I hope you find your rooms comfortable," she was saying. "Henry's done her best to keep the house modernized."
"Ah, Henry," he said enigmatically.
"She's our Henry, she is."
Dunford smiled at her, another one of those devastating combinations of lips and teeth that had slain women for years. "Just who is Henry?"
"You don't know?"
He shrugged and raised his brows.
"Why, she's been living here for years, ever since her parents died. And she's been running the place for... let me see, it must be at least six years now, since Lady Stannage passed on, God bless her heart."
"Where was Lord Stannage?" Dunford asked curiously. Best to find out as much as possible as soon as possible. He'd always believed that nothing could arm a man like a bit of research.
"Mourning Lady Stannage."
"For six years?"
Mrs. Simpson sighed. "They were quite devoted to one another."
"Allow me to assure myself that I understand the situation correctly. Henry, er, Miss Barrett has been running Stannage Park for six years?" That couldn't be possible. Had she taken over the reins when she was ten? "How old is she?"
"Twenty, milord."
Twenty. She certainly didn't look it. "I see. And just what is her relation to Lord Stannage?"
"Why, you're Lord Stannage now."
"The former Lord Stannage, I mean," Dunford said, careful not to let any of his impatience show.
"A distant cousin of his wife's. She had no place else to go, poor dear."
"Ah. How generous of them. Well, thank you for showing me to my rooms, Mrs. Simpson. I think I'll take a short rest and then change for supper. You do keep country hours here?"
"It's the country, after all," she said with a nod. Then she picked up her skirts and left the room.
A poor relation, Dunford thought. How intriguing. A poor relation who dressed like a man, stank to high heaven, and had Stannage Park running as smoothly as the most posh London household. His time in Cornwall certainly wouldn't be dull.
Now, if he could only find out what she looked like in a dress.
Two hours later Dunford was wishing he hadn't wondered. Words could not describe the sight of Miss Henrietta Barrett in a dress. Never before had he seen a woman—and he had seen many women—who looked quite so... well, wrong.
Her gown was an irritating shade of lavender with far too many bows and fripperies. In addition to its general ugliness, it was also obviously uncomfortable because she kept tugging awkwardly at the material. Either that or the dress simply didn't fit her, which, Dunford noted upon closer inspection, it didn't. The hem was a bit too short, the bodice slightly too tight, and if he didn't know better, he'd swear there was a small tear in the right sleeve.
Hell, he did know better, and he would swear the dress was torn.
Put plainly, Miss Henrietta Barrett looked a fright.
But, on the brighter side, she smelled quite pleasant. Almost like—he sniffed discreetly—lemons.
"Good evening, my lord," she said when she met him before dinner in the parlor. "I trust you settled in nicely."
He bowed graciously to her. "Perfectly, Miss Barrett. May I commend you again on this smoothly running household."
"Call me Henry," she said automatically.
"Everybody does," he finished for her.
Despite herself, Henry felt a laugh welling up in her throat. Good God, she'd never even considered that she might come to like the man. That would be a disaster.
"May I escort you in to dinner?" Dunford inquired politely, offering her his arm.
Henry placed her hand on his elbow as he led her into the dining room, deciding there was no harm in spending an enjoyable evening in the company of the man who was—and she had to remind herself of this fact—the enemy. After all, she wanted to lull him into thinking she had befriended him, didn't she? This Mr. Dunford didn't strike her as a numskull, and she was fairly certain that if he even suspected she was trying to get rid of him it would take half of His Majesty's army to eject him from Cornwall. No, better just to let him reach his own conclusion that life at Stannage Park was not quite his cup of tea.
Besides, no man had ever offered her his arm before. Breeches and all, Henry was still too much of a female to resist his courtly gesture.
"Are you enjoying yourself here, my lord?" she asked once they were seated.