Furthermore, Dunford loved her. He had said he did, and Henry believed him. No man could have gazed upon her with such tenderness, made love to her with such exquisite devotion, if he did not love her.

Unless—what if she hadn't pleased him? When they had made love, Dunford had stopped short of completion. He had told her it was because he hadn't wanted her to become pregnant. At the time she had marveled at his control.

But would a man in love possess that kind of control? Maybe he hadn't felt the same sort of urgency she had. Maybe he would have found a sophisticated woman more desirable. Maybe she was still too much of a green, country-bred girl. No, a tomboy. Maybe she wasn't enough of a girl at all.

When it came right down to it, she still knew very little about being a woman. She had to consult Belle on nearly every matter of importance.

Henry curled into a ball, pressing her hands against her ears as if this could shut out the pessimistic voice inside her. She wouldn't let herself doubt him. He loved her. He'd said so, and she believed him.

Only a man in love could have said in such intense, grave tones, Sometimes I think I would give my life just for one of your smiles.

If Dunford loved her, and she was certain he did, then he couldn't possibly want to keep a mistress. He would never do anything to hurt her so viciously.

But then why would Lady Wolcott have offered a specific time and place for his supposed meeting with this Christine Fowler? As she had said, if she was lying, it would certainly be easy for Henry to find her out. All she would have to do is lurk outside Christine Fowler's house at the appointed time and see if Dunford arrived. If Lady Wolcott was lying, Dunford would never show.

So there must be some sort of truth in Lady Wolcott's story, Henry decided. She didn't know how she could have acquired this information, but she would not put it past the woman to eavesdrop or to read other people's missives. But regardless of Lady Wolcott's treachery, one thing was certain: something was going to happen at midnight on Friday.

All at once Henry felt a wrenching wave of guilt. How could she doubt Dunford like this? She would be furious with him if he displayed a similar lack of trust in her. She knew she shouldn't doubt him. She didn't want to doubt him, but she couldn't very well go up to Dunford and question him about the matter. Then he would know she had doubted him. She didn't know if he would react with fury or cold disappointment, but she didn't think she could bear either one.

She was running in circles. She couldn't confront him because he would be angry that she thought there might be even a kernel of truth in Lady Wolcott's words. And if she didn't do anything, she'd spend the rest of her life with this cloud of doubt over her head. She didn't really think he kept a mistress, and to accuse him would be provoking in the extreme. But if she didn't confront him, she would never know for certain.

Henry squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she would start to cry. Tears would exhaust her, and then maybe she'd be able to sleep.

"What do you mean she's ill?" Dunford took a menacing step toward Belle.

"Just that, Dunford. She wasn't feeling well, so I took her home and put her to bed. It's been a most tiring fortnight for her, in case you hadn't noticed. Half of London decided they simply had to make her acquaintance in the last two weeks. And then you practically abandoned her to the wolves the moment we got here."

Dunford winced at the note of reproach in Belle's voice. "I am trying to keep gossip to a minimum. If I pay too much public attention to her, the tongues will begin to wag anew."

"Will you cease about the gossip!" Belle snapped. "I know you say you're doing it all for Henry, but she doesn't care a fig about it. All she cares about is you, and you disappeared this evening."

His eyes burned, and he started to walk past her. "I am going to see her."

"Oh, no you don't," Belle said, catching him by the sleeve. "The poor girl is exhausted; let her sleep. And when I said to stop worrying about the gossip, I did not rnean to imply that it was acceptable to storm into her room—in my mother's house, no less—in the middle of the night."

Dunford stilled, but he clenched his jaw against the strength of his self-loathing and impotence. He'd never felt this way; it was as if something were eating him from the inside out. Just knowing that Henry was ill, and if not alone at least not with him, made him shiver with cold and hot and fear and God knew what else. "Is she going to be all right?" he finally got out, his tone carefully even.

"She's going to be just fine," Belle said softly, laying a hand on his arm. "She just needs a bit of sleep. I will make certain to ask my mother to look in on her later this evening."

He nodded curtly. "Do that. I'll be by to see her tomorrow."

"I'm sure she'll appreciate that. I'll stop by as well." She started to walk away, but he called out her name. Turning back around, she said, "Yes?"

"I just want to thank you, Belle." He paused, a muscle working in his throat. "For befriending her. You have no idea how badly she needed a friend. It has meant a great deal to her. And to me."

"Oh, Dunford. You don't have to thank me. She makes it so very easy to be her friend."

Dunford sighed as he left the ball. The party had been tolerable only because he had known that he would soon claim his fiancée in a waltz. Now that she was gone, there was nothing left to look forward to. It was amazing to think how bleak life looked without her.

What was he thinking? With a shake of his head, he banished the thought from his mind. There was no reason even to contemplate life without Henry. He loved her, and she loved him. What more could he need?