"Oh, it was nothing, I assure you," Henry said gratefully.

He looked down at her expectantly.

She looked back, an innocent smile on her face.

"Henry," he finally said. "What time is it?"

"What time is it?" she echoed. "Why, I think it must be almost six by now."

"Precisely."

"Excuse me?"

"Get out of my room."

"Oh." She scrambled to her feet. "You'll be wanting to get dressed, of course."

"I'll be wanting to go back to sleep."

"Hmm, yes, of course you will, but if you don't mind my saying so, it's highly unlikely you'll be able to fall asleep again. You might as well just get dressed."

"Henry?"

"Yes?"

"Get out."

She flew from the room.

Twenty minutes later Dunford joined Henry at the breakfast table. He was dressed casually, but Henry could tell with one glance that his clothes were far too fine for building a pigpen. She thought briefly about telling him this, then thought better of it. If he ruined his clothing, all the more reason for him to want to leave.

Besides, she rather doubted he owned anything suitable for building a pigpen.

He sat down across from her and grabbed a piece of toast with a movement so vicious she knew he was fuming.

"Couldn't get back to sleep?" Henry murmured.

He glared at her.

Henry pretended not to notice. "Would you like to look at the Times? I'm nearly done with it." Without waiting for him to reply, she pushed the paper across the table.

Dunford glanced down and scowled. "I read that two days ago."

"Oh. So sorry," she replied, unable to keep a trace of mischief out of her voice. "It takes a few days for the paper to get all the way out here. We're the end of the world, you know."

"So I'm coming to realize."

She suppressed a smile, pleased with how well her plans were progressing. After the bizarre scene earlier that morning, her determination to see him back in London had quadrupled. She was horribly aware of what one of his smiles did to her insides—she didn't particularly want to know what one of his kisses would do if she let it go to completion.

Well, that was not entirely true. She was dying to know what one of his kisses would do—she was just painfully certain he would never care to let her find out. The only way he was going to kiss her again was if he mistook her for another woman, and the chances of that happening twice were small indeed. Besides, Henry did have a measure of pride, even if she had conveniently forgotten about it that morning. Much as she'd enjoyed his kiss, she didn't particularly relish knowing he really wanted someone else.

Men like him didn't want women like her, and the sooner he left, the sooner she could go back to feeling good about herself.

"Oh, look!" she exclaimed, her face a miracle of cheerfulness. "The sun is coming up."

"I can hardly contain my excitement."

Henry choked on her toast. At least getting rid of him was going to be interesting. She decided not to provoke him further until he finished his breakfast. Men could be nasty on empty stomachs. At least that's what Viola had always told her. Downing a forkful of eggs, she turned her attention to the brilliant sunrise unfolding through the window. First the sky tinted lavender, then striped itself in orange and pink. Henry was certain there was no place on earth as beautiful as Stannage Park that very minute. Unable to contain herself, she sighed.

Dunford heard the noise and regarded her curiously. She was gazing, enraptured, out the window. The look of awe on her face was humbling. He had always enjoyed outdoor pursuits, but never before had he seen a human being so obviously filled with respect and wonder for the forces of nature. She was a complex woman, his Henry.

His Henry? When had he started thinking of her in possessive terms?

Since she tumbled into your bed this morning, his mind replied wryly. And stop pretending you don't remember you kissed her.

It had all come back to him while he'd been getting dressed. He hadn't meant to kiss her, hadn't even realized at the time that it was Henry in his arms. But that didn't mean he didn't remember every little detail now: the curve of her lips, the silky feel of her hair against his bare chest, the now familiar scent of her. Lemons. For some reason she smelled like lemons. He couldn't quite stop his lips from twitching as he hoped the lemony fragrance was more de rigueur than her piggy scent of the day they met.

"What's so funny?"

He looked up. Henry was regarding him curiously. He quickly schooled his features back into a scowl. "Do I look as if something is funny?"

"You did," she muttered, turning back to her breakfast.

He watched her eat. She took a bite and then returned her gaze to the window, where the sun was still painting the sky. She sighed again. She obviously loved Stannage Park very much, he reflected. More than he'd ever seen one person love a piece of land.

That was it! He couldn't believe what a fool he'd been not to have realized it before. Of course she wanted to get rid of him. She'd been running Stannage Park for six years. She'd poured her entire adult life and a good portion of her childhood into this estate. She couldn't possibly welcome interference from a total stranger. Hell, he could probably boot her off the premises if he wanted. She was no relation to him.

He'd have to obtain a copy of Carlyle's will to see the exact terms as pertained to Miss Henrietta Barrett, if there were any. The solicitor who'd come by to tell him about his inheritance...what was his name...? Leverett...yes, Leverett had said he'd forward a copy of the will, but it hadn't reached him by the time he left for Cornwall.