"Henry," he said in what he hoped was his most affable tone. "I've been thinking."

"Have you? How very prodigious of you."

"Henry..." His voice held an unmistakable air of warning.

Which she ignored. "I have always admired a man who attempts to broaden his mind. Thinking is a good starting point, although it might tax you—"

"Henry."

This time she shut up.

"I was thinking..."He paused, as if daring her to make a comment. When she wisely did not, he continued. "I should like to leave for London. This afternoon, I think."

Henry felt an inexplicable knot of sadness ball up in her throat. He was leaving? It was true that she was annoyed with him, angry even, but she didn't want him to go. She was becoming accustomed to having him around.

"You're coming with me."

For the rest of his life Dunford wished he had had some way of preserving the expression on her face. Shock did not describe it. Neither did horror. Neither did dismay nor fury nor exasperation. Finally she spluttered, "Are you insane?"

"That is a distinct possibility."

"I am not going to London."

"I say you are."

"What would I do in London?" She threw up her arms. "And even more importantly, who will take my place here?"

"I'm sure we can come up with someone. There is no end of good servants at Stannage Park. After all, you trained them."

Henry chose to ignore the fact that he had just paid her a compliment. "I'm not going to London."

"You don't have a choice." His voice was deceptively mild.

"Since when?"

"Since I became your guardian."

She glared furiously at him.

He took a sip of his coffee and assessed her over the rim of his cup. "I suggest you don one of your new gowns before we depart."

"I told you, I'm not leaving."

"Don't push me, Henry."

"Don't push me!" she burst out. "Why are you dragging me off to London? I don't want to go! Don't my feelings count for anything?"

"Henry, you've never been to London."

"There are millions of people in this world, my lord, who live perfectly happy lives without ever setting one foot in our nation's capital. I assure you I am one of them."

"If you don't like it, you can leave."

She rather doubted that. She certainly wouldn't put it past him to tell a few white lies to get her to bend to his will. She decided to try a different tactic. "Taking me to London isn't going to solve my chaperonage dilemma," she said, trying to sound levelheaded. "In fact, leaving me here is a much better solution. Everything will go back to the way it was before you arrived."

Dunford sighed wearily. "Henry, tell me why you don't want to go to London."

"I'm too busy here."

"The real reason, Henry."

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. "I just—I just don't think I would enjoy it. Parties and balls and all that. It's not for me."

"How do you know? You've never been."

"Look at me!" she exclaimed in humiliated fury. "Just look at me." She stood and motioned to her attire. "I would be laughed out of even the most undiscriminating of drawing rooms."

"Nothing that a dress wouldn't fix. Didn't two of them arrive just this morning, by the way?"

"Don't mock me! It is much deeper than that. It's not just my clothing, Dunford, it's me!" She gave her chair a frustrated kick and moved to the window. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart, but it didn't seem to work. Finally she said in a very low voice, "Do you think I would amuse your London friends? Is that it? I have no desire to become some sort of freak-show entertainment. Are you going to—"

He moved so swiftly and silently she didn't even realize he'd changed places until his hands were on her, whirling her around to face him. "I believe I told you last night not to refer to yourself as a freak."

"But that's what I am!" Henry was mortified by the catch in her voice and the tears trailing down her cheeks, and she tried to wriggle out of his grasp. If she had to act the weak fool, couldn't he let her do it in private?

But Dunford held firm. "Don't you see, Henry?" he said, his voice achingly tender. "That is why I'm taking you to London. To prove to you that you're not a freak, that you're a lovely and desirable woman, and any man would be proud to call you his own."

She stared at him, unblinking, barely able to digest his words.

"And any woman," he continued softly, "would be proud to call you her friend."

"I can't do it," she whispered.

"Of course you can. If you put your mind to it." He let out a rich chuckle. "Sometimes, Henry, I think you can do anything."

She shook her head. "No," she said softly.

Dunford let his hands drop to his sides and walked over to the adjacent window. He was stunned by the depth of his concern for her, amazed at how badly he wanted to repair her self-confidence. "I can hardly believe this is you speaking, Henry. Is this the same girl who runs what is possibly the best-tended estate I have ever seen? The same girl who boasted to me she could ride any horse in Cornwall? The same girl who took a decade off my life when she stuck her hand in an active beehive? After all that, it is difficult to imagine that London will present much of a challenge to you."

"It's different," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Not really.”

She didn't answer.