"Did I ever tell you, Henry, that when I met you I thought you were the most remarkably self-possessed young woman I had ever met?"

"Obviously I'm not," she said, choking on the words.

"Tell me this, Hen. If you can supervise two dozen servants, take charge of a working farm, and build a pigpen, for God's sake, why do you think you won't be up to the task of a London season?"

"Because I can do all that!" she burst out. "I know how to ride a horse, and I know how to build a pigpen, and I know how to run a farm. But I don't know how to be a girl!"

Dunford was shocked into silence by the vehemence of her reply.

"I don't like doing anything if I don't do it well," she bit out.

"It seems to me," he began slowly, "that all you need is a little practice."

She shot him a scathing look. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not. I'll be the first to admit I thought you didn't know how to wear a dress, but look how well you did with the yellow frock. And you obviously have very good taste when you choose to exert it. I do know a thing or two about ladies' fashion, you know, and the dresses you chose are lovely."

"I don't know how to dance." She crossed her arms defiantly. "And I don't know how to flirt, and I don't know who should sit next to whom at a dinner party, and—and I didn't even know about port!"

"But Henry—"

"And I won't go to London to make a fool of myself. I won't!"

He could only watch as she raced from the room.

Dunford set the date of their departure back by a day, recognizing that there was no way he could push Henry any further while she was in such a state and still live with his conscience. He walked quietly by her room several times, his ears straining for signs that she was crying, but all he heard was silence. He never even once heard her moving about.

She didn't come down for the noonday meal, which surprised him. Henry did not have a delicate appetite, and he rather thought she would be famished by now. She had not, after ally had the chance to eat very much of her breakfast. He wandered down to the kitchen to ask if she'd requested a tray to be sent up to her room. When he was informed she had not, he cursed under his breath and shook his head. If she did not appear for supper, he'd go up to her room and drag her down himself.

As it happened, such drastic measures were not necessary, for Henry appeared in the drawing room at teatime, her eyes slightly red-rimmed but nonetheless dry. Dunford stood immediately and motioned to the chair next to him. She flashed him a grateful smile, probably because he'd resisted the temptation to make a crack about her behavior that morning.

"I-I am sorry for making such a cake of myself at breakfast," she said. "I assure you I am ready to discuss the matter like a civilized adult. I hope we can do so."

Dunford thought wryly that part of the reason he liked her so well was that she was so unlike any of the civilized adults he knew. And he hated this overly correct speech of hers. Maybe taking her to London would be a mistake. Maybe society would beat the freshness and spontaneity out of her. He sighed. No, no, he'd keep an eye on her. She wouldn't lose her sparkle; in fact, he'd make sure she shone even more brightly. He glanced over at her. She looked nervous. And expectant.

"Yes?" he said, inclining his head slightly.

She cleared her throat. "I thought—I thought perhaps you could tell me why you want me to come to London."

"So you may come up with logical reasons why you should not go?" he guessed.

"Something like that," she admitted, with just the barest hint of her signature cheeky smile.

Her honesty—and the sparkle in her eyes—quite disarmed him. He smiled back at her, another one of those devastating grins, and was gratified to see her lips part slightly in reaction. "Please sit," he said, motioning again to the chair. She sat down, and he followed suit. "Tell me what you want to know," he said with an expansive motion of his arm.

"Well, to start with, I think—" She stopped, her expression one of utmost consternation. "Don't look at me that way."

"What way?"

"Like...like..." Dear Lord, had she been about to say like you're going to devour me? "Oh, never mind."

He smiled again, hiding this one beneath a cough and his hand. "Do go on."

"Right." She looked at his face, then decided that that was a mistake as he was far too handsome and his eyes were glinting and—

"You were saying?" he was saying.

Henry blinked herself back into reality. "Right. I was saying, um, what I was saying is that I'd like to know what exactly you hope to accomplish by taking me to London."

"I see."

He didn't say anything more, which so irritated her that she was finally compelled to retort, "Well?"

Dunford had clearly been using the delay to frame a response. "I suppose I hope to accomplish many things," he replied. "First and foremost, I'd like you to have a bit of fun."

"I can have—"

"No, please," He held up a hand. "Let me finish, and then you shall have your turn."

She nodded rather imperiously and waited for him to continue.

"As I was saying, I'd like for you to have some fun. I think you might enjoy a bit of the season if you would only let yourself. You are also badly in need of a new wardrobe, and please do not argue with me on that score because I know you know you're sadly lacking in that area." He paused.

"Is that all?"

He couldn't help but chuckle. She was so eager to argue her case. "No," he said. "I was merely pausing for breath." When she did not smile at his teasing, he added, "You do breathe from time to time, don't you?"