He shrugged with supreme nonchalance. "Whoever it is who shreds reputations. Surely I'm allowed a little license. We're going to be married in a fortnight."

We are? her mind screamed. He was supposed to hate her. What had happened? Surely he had received her letter. He was acting so oddly. He wouldn't be looking at her with that hard expression in his eyes if he hadn't come here to break off the engagement.

"Dunford?" It seemed the only word she could make herself say. She knew she wasn't acting as she ought; she should be cheeky and flippant and everything he expected from her. But he was behaving so strangely, she didn't know what to do. She'd expected him to lose his temper, to come storming in and break off the engagement. Instead, he was quietly stalking her.

And she felt very much like a cornered fox.

"Perhaps I just want to kiss you," he said, absently brushing the cuff of his jacket.

Henry swallowed nervously and then blinked before saying, "I don't think so. If you wanted to kiss me, you wouldn't be picking lint from your jacket."

His hand stilled, hovering over the sleeve. "Perhaps you're right," he murmured.

"I—I am?" Good Lord, this wasn't going at all how it was supposed to.

"Mmmm. If I really wanted to kiss you—really, mind you—I would probably reach out, grab your hand, and pull you into my arms. That would probably be an appropriate show of affection, don't you think?"

"Appropriate," she replied, hoping her voice sounded natural, "if you really wanted to marry me." She'd given him the perfect opening. If he was going to jilt her, he'd do it now.

But he didn't. Instead, he arched a mocking brow and began to move toward her. "If I want to marry you," he murmured. "An interesting question."

Henry took a step back. She didn't mean to, but she couldn't help herself.

"Surely you're not afraid of me, Hen?" He stepped forward.

Frantically, she shook her head. This was wrong, terribly wrong. Dear Lord, she prayed, make him love me or make him hate me, but not this. Oh, not this...

"Is something wrong, minx?" He didn't sound as if he particularly cared.

"D-don't toy with me, my lord."

His eyes narrowed. "Don't toy with you? What an odd choice of words." He took another step toward her, trying to read the expression in her eyes. He didn't understand her this afternoon. He had expected her to come bounding into the room, all smiles and laughter as she usually was when he came to visit. Instead she was nervous and withdrawn, almost as if she were expecting bad news.

Which was preposterous. She couldn't have realized she'd accidentally sent him the letter meant for her dear friend Rosalind. Whoever this Rosalind person was, she didn't live in London or Dunford would have heard about her. And there was no way she could have received Henry's missive and replied in the space of one day.

"Toy with you?" he repeated. "Why do you think I would want to toy with you, Henry?"

"I—I don't know," she stammered.

She was lying. He could see it in her eyes. But for the life of him, he couldn't imagine why she would lie. What did she have to lie about? He closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath. Perhaps he was misreading her. He was so furious and still so much in love he didn't know what to think.

He opened his eyes. She was looking away, her gaze focused on a painting across the room. He could see the elegant, sensuous line of her throat...and the way one silken curl rested on the bodice of her gown. "I think I do want to kiss you, Henry," he murmured.

Her eyes flew back to his face. "I don't think you do," she said quickly.

"I think you're wrong."

"No. If you wanted to kiss me, you wouldn't be looking at me like that." She backed up a step and then scooted around a chair, trying to put some furniture between them.

"Oh? And how would I be looking at you?"

"Like... like..."

"Like what, Henry?" He rested his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned forward, his face dangerously close to hers.

"Like you want me," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Ah, but Henry, I do want you."

"No. You don't." She wanted to flee, wanted to hide, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from his. "You want to hurt me."

His hand closed around her upper arm, holding her in place as he circumnavigated the chair. "Maybe there's a little of that, too," he said with chilling softness.

His lips captured hers. It was a hard, cruel kiss, unlike any other he'd given her, and she clearly was not enjoying it. "Why so resistant, Hen? Don't you want to marry me?"

She twisted her head away from him.

"Don't you want to marry me?" he repeated, his voice a cold singsong. "Don't you want all I have to offer you? Don't you want security, a comfortable life, and a home? Ah, yes, a home. Don't you want that?"

He felt her struggle in his arms, then go still, and he knew he should release her. He should let her go, turn around, and walk out of the room and out of her life. But he wanted her so much...

Lord, he wanted her, and that lust overtook him, turning his fury into desire. His lips grew softer, demanding only pleasure. He trailed kisses along her jawline to her ear, down her neck to the tender skin ringed by her pale yellow bodice. "Tell me you can't feel this," he whispered, his words a dare. "Tell me."

Henry only shook her head, not sure whether she was signaling him to stop or admitting the sense of need he whipped up in her.

Dunford heard her whimper with desire, and for a split second he didn't know whether he'd lost or won. Then he realized it really didn't matter.