"We don't deal well with one another. Not anymore, at least."

"Yes," he said dryly, "but no one else needs to know that, do they?" He pulled her into his arms, wondering what on earth had prompted him to dance with her again. It was a mistake, of course, just as any prolonged contact with her these days was a mistake, certain only to lead to a hard and intense longing.

And this longing was moving inexorably from his body to his soul.

But the feel of her was too much to resist. The waltz allowed him to get just close enough to her to detect that maddening scent of lemons, and he inhaled it as if it would save his life.

He was coming to care for her. He recognized that now. He wanted her on his arm at these social events, not prancing around with every eligible fop, dandy, and Corinthian in London. He wanted to muck through the fields of Stannage Park, holding her hand. He wanted to lean down—right now—and kiss her until she was senseless with desire.

But she no longer desired only him. He should have snatched her up before introducing her to the ton, for now she'd had a taste of social success and was savoring the triumph. The men were flocking to her side, and she was beginning to realize that she could have her pick of husbands. And, Dunford thought grimly, he had all but promised her she could have that pick. He had to let her have the fun of being courted by dozens of beaux before making any serious attempt for her hand himself.

He closed his eyes, almost in pain. He wasn't used to denying himself anything—at least nothing he really wanted. And he really wanted Henry.

She was watching the emotions filter across his face, growing more apprehensive by the second. He looked angry, as if having to hold her was a dreadful chore. Her pride stung, she summoned up what was left of her courage and said, "I know what this is about, you know."

His eyes snapped open. "What what is about?"

"This. The way you're treating me."

The music drew to a close, and Dunford escorted her to an empty alcove where they could continue the conversation in relative privacy. "How am I treating you?" he finally asked, dreading the answer.

"Horribly. Worse than horribly. And I know why."

He chuckled, unable to help himself. "Really?" he drawled.

"Yes," Henry said, cursing herself for the slight stammer in her voice. "Yes, I do. It's that damned wager."

"What wager?"

"You know which wager. The one with Belle."

He looked at her blankly.

"That you won't get married!" she burst out, mortified that their friendship had come to this. "You bet her a thousand pounds you wouldn't get married."

"Yes," he said hesitantly, not following her logic.

"You don't want to lose a thousand pounds by marrying me."

"Good God, Henry, is that what you think this is about?" Disbelief registered on his face, in his voice, in the stance of his body. He wanted to tell her he'd gladly pay the thousand pounds to have her. He'd pay a hundred thousand pounds if he had to. He hadn't even thought of the damned bet in over a month. Not since he'd met her, and she'd turned his life upside down, and... He fought for words, not at all certain of what to say to salvage this disaster of an evening.

She was about to cry—not tears of sadness, but of hot shame and humiliated fury. When she heard the supreme disbelief in his voice, she knew—positively knew—he cared not a whit for her. Even their friendship seemed to have disintegrated in the space of an evening. It wasn't the thousand pounds that was holding him back. She was a fool for even dreaming that he was pushing her away for something as silly as a bet.

No, he hadn't been thinking about the bet. No man could have faked the surprise she'd seen and heard. He was pushing her away simply because he wanted to push her away, simply because he didn't want her. All he wanted was to get her safely married, off his hands, and out of his life.

"If you'll excuse me," she choked out, pulling desperately away from him, "I have a few more hearts to capture this evening. I'd like an even dozen."

Dunford watched as she disappeared into the crowd, never dreaming she would make her way straight to one of the ladies' retiring rooms, lock the door, and spend the next half hour in miserable solitude.

The bouquets began to arrive early the next morning: roses of every shade, irises, tulips imported from Holland. They filled the Blydons' drawing room and spilled out into the foyer. The scent was so overwhelming and pervasive that the cook even grumbled she couldn't smell the food she was preparing.

Henry was most definitely a success.

She woke relatively early the next morning. Relatively compared to the other members of the household, that was. By the time she made her way downstairs, it was nearly noon. When she reached the breakfast room, she was surprised to see a mahogany-haired stranger sitting at the table. She stopped short, startled by his presence until he looked up at her with eyes of such a bright blue that she knew he had to be Belle's brother.

"You must be Ned," she said, curving her lips into a welcoming smile.

Ned raised a brow as he stood. "I'm afraid you have the advantage over me."

"I'm sorry. I am Miss Henrietta Barrett." She held out her hand. Ned took it and regarded it for a moment, as if trying to decide whether he ought to kiss or shake it. Finally, he kissed it.

"I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Barrett," he said, "although I must confess I am at a bit of a loss as to your presence here at such an early hour."

"I am a houseguest," she explained. "Your mother is sponsoring me for the season."