"Fine" was something she couldn't tolerate, and even as his mouth captured one of her nipples in a hot kiss, she twisted herself out of his grasp and scrambled out of bed, frantically clutching her open nightgown against her body.

Dunford's breath came in short pants. He was painfully hard, and he was clearly losing patience with his new wife. "Henry," he ordered. "Get back into bed now."

She shook her head, hating herself for cowering in the corner, but doing it all the same.

He jumped out of bed, unconcerned with the way his erection jutted out from his naked body. Henry stared at him with both fright and wonder—fright because he was advancing toward her like a menacing god, and wonder because it was plainly clear there was something about her he liked. The man definitely wanted her.

Dunford grabbed her by the shoulders and shook. When that failed to shake words from her mouth, he shook again. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I don't know," she cried out, surprised by the volume of her reply. "I don't know, and it's killing me."

Whatever thread had been keeping Dunford's fury in check snapped. How dare she try to make herself out to be the victim in this sordid union? "I'll tell you what the hell is wrong with you," he said in a low, menacing voice. "I'll tell you exactly what is wrong. You—"

He stumbled over his words, unprepared for the look of total desolation that washed over her face. No. No. He would not let himself feel sorry for her. Forcing himself to ignore the stark pain in her eyes, he continued, "You know that your little game is up, don't you? You heard back from Rosalind, and now you know I'm on to you."

Henry stared at him, barely able to breathe.

"I know all about you," he said with a ragged laugh. "I know you think I'm a nice enough fellow. I know you married me for Stannage Park. Well, you did it. You got your precious Stannage Park. But I got you."

"Why did you marry me?" she whispered.

He snorted. "A gentleman doesn't jilt a lady. Remember? Lesson number 363 in how to comport oneself in—"

"No!" she burst out. "That wouldn't have stopped you. Why did you marry me?"

Her eyes seemed to be begging him for an answer, but he didn't know what she wanted to hear. Hell, he didn't even know if he wanted to tell her anything. Let her squirm for a little while. Let her suffer as he had suffered. "Do you know something, Henry?" he said in an awful voice. "I haven't the slightest idea."

He watched as the fire flickered out of her eyes, disgusted with himself for so enjoying her distress but too furious and, yes, aroused to do anything other than yank her into his arms and crush her mouth with his. He tore at her gown until she was as bare as he, her skin hot and flushed against his own.

"But you're mine now," he whispered hotly, his words caressing her neck. "Mine forever."

He kissed her with a fervor born of fury and desperation, and he felt the instant when desire overtook her. Her lips began to move against his temple, her hands roved the corded muscles of his back, and her hips pressed urgently against his.

It was utter torture, and he couldn't get enough.

He wanted to surround himself with her, bury himself within her and never leave. Mindless in his desire, he wasn't certain how he maneuvered them back to bed, but he must have done so, for he soon found himself over her, pressing his body primitively into hers.

"You're mine, Henry," he whispered. "Mine."

She moaned incoherently in reply.

He rolled over onto his side, pulling her with him. His hand tugged at her ankle, draping her leg over his hip.

"Oh, Dunford," she sighed.

"Oh, Dunford, what?" he murmured, nipping her earlobe softly with his teeth.

"I—" She gasped as he squeezed her buttocks.

"Do you need me, Henry?"

"I don—" She couldn't finish the sentence. Her breaths were coming on top of each other now, and she could barely speak.

He smoothed his hand further down her backside until it curved under her and touched her intimately. "Do you need me?"

"Yes! Yes!" Then she opened her eyes and stared into his. "Please."

Thoughts of anger and revenge slipped from his mind as he stared into the clear, gray depths of her eyes. He could feel only love, remember only the laughter and intimacy they had shared. He kissed her lips and remembered the first time he had seen her smile—that saucy, cheeky grin. He ran his hands along her supple arms and remembered how she had stubbornly hefted rocks onto the pigpen's stone wall as he sat and watched.

She was Henry, and he loved her. He couldn't help himself.

"Tell me what you want, Henry," he whispered.

She stared at him blindly, unable to form words.

"Do you want this?" He rolled her nipple between his thumb and middle finger, watching it harden and peak.

With a strangled gasp, she nodded.

"Do you want this?" He leaned down and treated her other breast to the pleasure of his tongue.

"Oh, my God," she moaned. "Oh, Lord."

"What about this?" He gently laid her on her back and placed one hand on each of her thighs. He slowly pushed them apart, meeting no resistance. With an arrogant smile, he leaned forward and kissed her softly on the mouth as his fingers tickled the hot folds of her womanhood.

Her leaping pulse was answer enough.

He smiled devilishly. "Tell me, minx do you want this?" He kissed a fiery trail down through the valley between her breasts, along the flat planes of her midriff, until his mouth met his fingers.