"First of all, no more devious little plots to try to get rid of me."

Her throat worked convulsively.

"And no lies!"

She gasped for breath.

"And—" He paused to look down at her. "Oh, Christ. Don't cry."

She bawled.

"No, please, don't cry." He reached for his handkerchief, realized it was stained with slop, then shoved it back in his pocket. "Don't cry, Henry."

"I never cry," she gasped, barely able to get the words out between sobs.

"I know," he said soothingly, crouching down to her level. "I know."

"I haven't cried in years."

He believed her. It was impossible to imagine her crying—it was impossible to believe it even though she was doing so right in front of him. She was so capable, so self-possessed, not at all the sort to give way to tears. And the fact that he had been the one to drive her to this—it wrenched his heart. "There you go," he murmured, awkwardly patting her shoulder. "Now, now. It's all right."

She took great gulps of air, trying to still her sobs, but they had no effect.

Dunford looked around frantically, as if the green hills would somehow tell him how to get her to stop crying. "Don't do that." This was awful.

"I have no place to go," she wailed. "No place. And no one. I have no family."

"Shhh. It's all right."

"I just wanted to stay." She gasped and sniffled. "I just wanted to stay. Is that so bad?"

"Of course not, dear."

"It's just that this is my home." She looked up at him, her gray eyes made silver by her watery tears. "Or it was, at least. And now it's yours, and you can do whatever you want with it. And with me. And— Oh, God, I'm such a fool. You must hate me."

"I don't hate you," he replied automatically. It was the truth, of course. She'd irritated and annoyed the hell out of him, but he didn't hate her. In fact, she'd somehow managed to earn his respect, something he never gave unless deserved. Her methods may have been skewed, but she had been fighting for the one thing in the world she truly loved. Few men could claim such purity of purpose.

He patted her hand again, trying to calm her down. What had she said about his being able to do whatever he wanted with her? That certainly made no sense. He supposed he could force her to leave Stannage Park if he so desired, but that didn't quite constitute anything. Although he supposed that was the worst fate Henry could imagine; it was understandable she'd be a bit melodramatic about it. Still, something struck him as odd. He made a mental note to discuss it with her later, when she wasn't so distraught.

"Now, Henry," he said, thinking that the time had come to lay her fears to rest. "I'm not going to send you away. Why on earth would I do that? And furthermore, have I given you any indication that was my intention?"

She gulped. She had just assumed she would have to take the offensive in this battle of wills. She glanced up at him. His brown eyes looked very concerned.

Perhaps there had never been need for a battle. Maybe she should have waited to assess the new Lord Stannage before deciding she had to send him back to London.

"Have I?" he asked softly.

She shook her head.

"Think about it, Henry. I'd be a fool to send you away. I'm the first to admit I don't know a thing about farming. Either I run the estate into the ground or I hire someone to oversee it. And why should I bring in a stranger when I've someone who already knows everything there is to know?"

Henry looked down, unable to face him. Why did he have to be so reasonable and so just plain nice? She felt wretchedly guilty about all her schemes to oust him from the district, including those she hadn't yet carried out. "I'm sorry, Dunford. I'm really sorry."

He brushed aside her apology, not wanting her to feel any worse than she already did. "No harm done." He looked down at himself wryly. "Well, except to my clothing perhaps."

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" She burst into tears again, this time horrified. His clothing must have been terribly expensive. She'd never seen anything so fine in her life. She didn't think they made garments like his in Cornwall.

"Please don't trouble yourself over it, Henry," he said, surprised to hear he sounded almost as if he were begging her not to feel badly. When had her feelings grown quite so important to him? "If this morning wasn't enjoyable, at least it was...shall we say...interesting, and my clothing was worth the sacrifice if it means we've reached a truce of sorts. I have no wish to be awakened before dawn next week only to be informed I have to single-handedly slaughter a cow."

Her eyes widened. How did he know?

Dunford caught the change in her expression, interpreted it correctly, and winced. "You, dear girl, could probably teach Napoleon a thing or two."

Henry's lips twitched. It was watery, but it was definitely a smile.

"Now," he continued, standing up. "Shall we head back to the house? I'm starving."

"Oh!" she said, swallowing uncomfortably. "I'm sorry."

He rolled his eyes. "Now what are you sorry for?"

"For making you eat that awful mutton. And the porridge. I hate porridge."

He smiled gently. "It is a testament to your love of Stannage Park that you were able to eat an entire bowl of that slop yesterday."

"I didn't," she admitted. "I ate only a few spoonfuls. I dumped the rest of it into an urn when you weren't looking. I had to go back and clean it out later."

He chuckled, unable to help himself. "Henry, you are like no one I have ever met."