Emma was at her side with remarkable speed for one who was seven months pregnant. "What was that all about?"
"Nothing, really," Henry mumbled, knowing she was a bad liar and yet trying to attempt to brazen it out nonetheless.
Emma snorted her disbelief.
"No, really. He just, ummm—he told me to behave myself."
"To behave yourself?" Emma said doubtfully.
"You know, not to make a spectacle of myself or anything like that."
"Now that is a clanker if ever I heard one," Emma retorted. "Even Dunford must realize it would be impossible for you to create any kind of scene in my drawing room with only me for company."
Henry smiled weakly.
"It is apparent, however," Emma continued, "that I'm not going to get the truth out of you, so I won't waste my valuable energy trying."
"Thank you," Henry murmured as they resumed their walk toward the drawing room. As she strode alongside Emma, she clenched her fist into an excited little ball. Tonight he would tell her he loved her. She could feel it.
Chapter 18
11:57.
Henry clutched at the folds of her dressing gown as she glanced at the clock on her bedside table. She was a fool for going along with this, an idiot for being so in love with him that she had agreed to this scheme even though she knew her behavior was beyond indecent. She chuckled wryly to herself when she remembered how unconcerned with etiquette she'd been back at Stannage Park. Unconcerned and unknowing. A fortnight in London had made clear to her that if there was one thing a young lady was not to do, it was let a man into her bedroom, especially when the rest of the house was dark and asleep.
But she couldn't seem to manage to summon enough maidenly fear to refuse him. What she wanted and what she knew was right were two distinctly different things, and desire was winning out over propriety by a vast margin.
11:58 .
She sat down on the bed and then, realizing where she was, jumped up as if burned. "Calm yourself, Henry," she muttered, crossing her arms, uncrossing them, then crossing them again. As she paced across the room, she wandered by a mirror, caught sight of her stern countenance, and then uncrossed her arms again. She didn't want to receive him lounging on her bed, but there was no need to look quite so forbidding.
11:59 .
A light rap sounded on the door. Henry flew across the room and opened it. "You're early," she whispered frantically.
"I am?" Dunford reached into his pocket for his watch.
"Will you come inside?" she hissed, yanking him in. "Anyone could see you out there."
Dunford dropped his watch back into his pocket, smiling broadly all the while.
"And stop smiling!" she added rather fiercely.
"Why?"
"Because it—it does things to me!"
Dunford shifted his gaze up to the ceiling in an attempt to keep from laughing out loud. If she thought that statement would get him to stop smiling, she was addled in the brain.
"What did you need to talk with me about?" she whispered.
He moved to her side in two easy paces. "In a minute," he murmured. "First I have to..."
He let his lips complete the sentence as they captured hers in a searing kiss. He hadn't meant to kiss her right away, but she'd looked so damned adorable in her dressing gown with her hair floating around her face. She made a soft mewling sound, and her body shifted slightly, settling into his large frame.
Reluctantly, he drew himself away. "We're not going to get anything done if we continue on like..." His words trailed off as he caught the dazed expression on Henry's face. Her lips looked unbearably pink, even in the candlelight, and they were slightly parted and damp. "Well, perhaps one more..."
He pulled her against him again, his lips searching hers in another remarkably thorough kiss. She was kissing him back with just as much feeling, and he dimly realized that her arms had wound themselves around his neck. A tiny spark of reason, however, somehow managed to remain active in his brain, and once again he disentangled himself.
"That's enough," he muttered, the scolding intended solely for himself. Taking a shuddering breath, he looked up.
Big mistake. Another fiery bolt of need rocked through him at the sight of her. "Why don't you just sit over there?" he said hoarsely, waving his hand in no particular direction.
Henry had no idea that the kiss had left him as shaken as it had her, and she took his direction literally. Her eyes followed his arm's motion, and she said, "On the bed?"
"No! I mean—" He cleared his throat. "Please do not sit on the bed."
"All right," she said slowly, moving to a straight-backed, blue-and-white-striped chair.
Dunford walked over to the window and looked out, trying to give his body time to cool down. Now that he was actually here, in Henry's room at midnight, he wasn't at all certain that he was following the wisest course of action. In fact, he was convinced he was not. He had originally planned to take Henry out for a picnic the next day and propose to her then. But that night at dinner, it had suddenly hit him that his feelings went beyond affection and desire. He loved her.
No, he didn't just love her. He needed her. He needed her like he needed food and water, like the flowers at Stannage Park needed the sun. He smiled wryly. He needed her like she needed Stannage Park. He remembered how, one morning at breakfast back in Cornwall, she'd been gazing out the window with an expression of pure rapture. He imagined that must be how his face looked every time he saw her.
And so while he was sitting there in Westonbirt's informal dining room, a piece of asparagus dangling off his fork, it suddenly had become imperative that he tell her all this that night. These feelings were so powerful they were painful to keep inside. Making a secret assignation had seemed the only option.