"I didn't think you cared about ton gossip."

"I care for you, minx. I don't want to see you hurt."

"I won't be. I promise. One month?"

There was nothing he wanted more than to have the wedding in one week, but he was trying to be mature about the matter. "Six weeks."

"Five."

"All right," he said, giving in easily because his heart was on her side even if his mind was not.

"Five weeks," she said, not sounding terribly pleased with her victory. "It's so long."

"Not so long, minx. You'll have many things to keep you busy."

"I will?"

"Caroline will want to help you shop for your trousseau, and I expect that Belle and Emma will want to take part as well. I'm certain my mother would also want to assist, but she is vacationing on the Continent."

"You have a mother?"

He quirked a brow. "Did you think mine was some sort of divine birth? My father was a remarkable man, but even he was not that talented."

Henry screwed up her face to show him that his teasing would not be taken seriously. "You never mention her. You rarely mention your parents at all."

"I don't see much of my mother now that my father has passed on. She prefers the warmer climes of the Mediterranean."

An awkward silence fell between them as Henry suddenly realized she was sitting on the floor of her bedroom in her dressing gown in the company of a rakishly virile man who was exhibiting no intentions of leaving anytime soon.

And the most appalling thing was that she was not the least bit uncomfortable about it. She sighed, thinking she must have the soul of a fallen woman.

"What's that about, darling?" Dunford murmured, touching her cheek.

"I was just thinking I ought to ask you to leave," she whispered.

"You ought to?"

She nodded. "But I don't want to."

He took a ragged breath. "Sometimes I think you don't know what you say."

She placed her hand in his. "I do know."

He felt like a man being willingly led to torture. He leaned forward, knowing that this could only end in a solitary frigid bath but unable to resist the temptation of a few stolen kisses. He traced the outline of her lips with his tongue, savoring the sweet taste of her. "You're so lovely," he murmured. "Exactly what I wanted."

"Exactly?" she echoed with a quavering laugh.

"Mmm-hmm." He slipped his hand inside her dressing gown and let it rest on her chemise-covered breast. "Not that I knew it at the time."

Henry let her head fall back as his lips trailed down the line of her throat. The heat of him seemed to be everywhere, and she was helpless against this onslaught of her senses. Her breath came in irregular pants and then stopped altogether when his hand on her breast gently squeezed. "Oh, God, Dunford," she gasped, fighting for air, "oh, my God."

His other hand slid down the length of her back until it cupped the round firmness of her derriere. "It's not enough," he said fiercely. "Lord help me, it's not enough." Holding her tightly against his frame, he lowered her down until her back laid against the carpet. In the flickering candlelight her brown hair seemed to sparkle with tiny sunbursts of gold. Her eyes were like molten silver, languid and drugged with desire. They were beckoning him...

With shaking hands he parted the silky folds of her robe. Her nightgown was white cotton, sleeveless yet almost virginal. The thought raced through his mind that he was the first man ever to see her like this—and the only man who ever would. He'd never dreamed he could feel this possessive, but the sight—and the feel and the smell—of her untouched body created a firestorm of primitive instinct that made him want to brand her as his.

He wanted to own her, to devour her. God help him, he wanted to lock her away where no other man could see her.

Henry stared at his face, watching it turn into a mask of fierce emotion. "Dunford?" she said hesitatingly. "What's wrong?"

He gazed at her for a moment, as if trying to memorize her features, right down to the tiny birthmark next to her right ear. "Nothing," he finally said. "It's just..."

"Just what?"

He let out a hoarse, self-deprecating laugh. "It's just—the things you make me feel—" He lifted her hand and placed it over his racing heart. "It's so strong—it frightens me."

Henry's breath caught in her throat. She'd never dreamed he could be frightened by anything. His eyes were blazing with an unfamiliar intensity, and she wildly wondered if her own looked the same. His grip on her hand loosened, and she moved her fingers up to his face, gently running one over his lips.

He growled with pleasure, then caught her hand once more, imprisoning it at his mouth. He kissed her fingertips, lingering over each one as if it were a delectable sweet. Then he moved back to her index finger, tracing lazy circles around its tip with his tongue.

"Dunford," she gasped, barely able to think with the bolts of pleasure shooting up her arm.

He took her finger further into his mouth, sucking gently as he ran his tongue over her fingernail. "You've been washing your hair," he said softly.

"H-how did you know?"

He sucked again gently before replying. "You taste like lemons."

"They have an orangery here," she said, barely recognizing her voice. "There is a lemon tree, and Emma said I might—"

"Hen?"

"What?"

He smiled, slowly and lazily. "I don't want to hear about Emma's lemon tree."