He sighed.

Henry moved to a nearby sofa and sat, feeling much more like herself than she had at dinner. It was the silence that had been so difficult. Once he started talking to her, she found it was easy to respond. They were back on familiar territory now—laughing and teasing one another mercilessly—and she could practically feel her misplaced self-confidence flowing back through her veins.

He poured a glass of brandy and held it out to her. "Henry," he said. He cleared his throat before continuing with, "About this afternoon..."

Her hand closed so tightly around the glass she was surprised it didn't shatter. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She swallowed, trying to moisten her throat. So much for feeling like herself again. Finally she managed to say, "Yes?"

He coughed again. "I should never have behaved as I did. I... ah... I behaved badly, and I apologize."

"Think nothing of it," she replied, trying very hard to sound carefree. "I won't."

He frowned. It certainly had been his intention to put the kiss behind him—he was eight different kinds of a cad for even thinking of taking advantage of her—but he was oddly disappointed that she intended to forget about it completely. "That is probably for the best." He cleared his throat yet again. "I suppose."

"I say, is something wrong with your throat? Simpy makes an excellent home remedy. I'm sure she could—"

"There is nothing wrong with my throat. I'm just a trifle..." He searched for a word. "...uncomfortable. That is all."

"Oh." She smiled weakly. It was so much easier to try to be helpful than to deal with the fact that he was so disappointed with their kiss. Or maybe he had been disappointed because she had broken it off. She frowned. Surely he didn't think she was the sort of woman who would...She couldn't even complete the thought. Glancing up at him nervously, she opened her mouth and her words came out in a violent tumble.

"I'm sure you're right. It's for the best, I suppose, to forget about everything, because the thing is, I wouldn't want you to think that I... well, that I m the kind of woman who—"

"I don't think that of you," he cut in, his voice oddly curt.

She heaved a great sigh of relief. "Oh, good. I don't know really what came over me, I'm afraid."

Dunford knew exactly what had come over her, and he knew it had been entirely his fault. "Henry, don't worry—"

"But I do worry! You see, I don't want this to spoil our friendship, and—We are friends, aren't we?"

"Of course." He looked affronted that she had even asked.

"I know I'm being forward, but I don't want to lose you. I really like having you as my friend, and the truth is—" She let out a choked laugh. "The truth is, you're just about the only friend I've got, besides Simpy, but that really isn't the same thing, and—"

"Enough!" He couldn't bear to hear her broken voice, to hear the loneliness in her every word. Henry had always thought she led a perfect existence here at Stannage Park—she had told him as much on numerous occasions. She didn't even realize there was an entire world past the Cornwall border, a world of parties and dances and...friends.

He set his brandy snifter down on a table and crossed the room, driven simply by a need to comfort her. "Don't talk like that," he said, surprised by the sternness of his voice. He pulled her into a benign hug, resting his chin on the top of her head. "I'll always be your friend, Henry. No matter what happens."

"Truly?"

"Truly. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know." She pulled away just far enough so she could see his face. "Lots of people seem to find reasons."

"Hush up, minx. You're a funny one, but you're certainly more likable than unlikable."

She grimaced. "What a lovely way of phrasing it."

He laughed out loud as he let her go. "And that, my dear Henry, is exactly why I like you so damned much."

Dunford was preparing for bed later that night when Yates rapped on his door. It was customary for servants to enter rooms without knocking, but Dun-ford had always found that practice to be singularly unappealing when the room in question was one's bedroom, and he had instructed the Stannage Park servants accordingly.

At Dunford's answer, Yates entered the room, carrying a rather large envelope. "This arrived from London today, my lord. I placed it on the desk in your study, but—"

"But I didn't go into my study today," Dunford finished for him. He took the envelope from Yates's hand. "Thank you for bringing it up. I think it's the former Lord Stannage's will. I've been eager to read it."

Yates nodded and left the room.

Too lazy to get up to find a letter opener, Dunford slipped his index finger under the envelope flap and pulled the sealing wax apart. Carlyle's will, just as he had expected. He skimmed the document for Henry's name; he could read the rest of it at length the next day. For now his main concern was how Carlyle had provided for his ward.

He reached the third page before the words "Miss Henrietta Barrett" jumped out at him. Then, to his utter surprise, he saw his own name.

Dunford's jaw dropped. He was Henry's guardian.

Henry was his ward.

That made him a—good God, he was one of those appalling men who took advantage of their wards. The gossip mill was rife with tales of lecherous old men who either seduced their wards or sold them off to the highest bidder. If he had felt shame over his behavior that afternoon, the emotion had now tripled. "Oh, my God," he whispered. "Oh, my God"