With a painful swallow, Henry turned her back on the dresses and stepped into her breeches.

Dunford glanced impatiently at the clock as he ate his breakfast. Where the hell was Henry? He'd been down for nearly an hour.

He put another forkful of his now cold eggs into his mouth. They tasted dreadful, but he didn't notice. He kept hearing Henry's voice; it was so loud it seemed to obliterate his other senses.

I wish I could...I wish I could...I wish I could love you.

It wasn't difficult to complete her sentence for her.

He heard the sound of her footsteps on the stairs and stood before she even appeared in the doorway. When she did appear she looked tired, her face pinched and drawn. He looked her up and down insolently; she was wearing her old attire, her hair pulled back like a pony's tail.

"Couldn't wait to get back to work, eh, Henry?" he heard himself say.

She nodded jerkily.

"Just don't wear those things off the property. You are my wife now, and your behavior reflects upon me." Dunford heard the derision in his voice and hated himself for it. He had always loved Henry's independent spirit, had always admired that sense of practicality that led her to wear men's clothing while working on the farm. Now he was trying to hurt her, trying to make her feel the same pain she'd squeezed around his heart. He knew that, and it disgusted him.

"I will try to comport myself appropriately," she said in a cold voice. She looked down at the plate of food that had been set in front of her, sighed, and pushed it away.

Dunford raised a brow in question.

"I'm not hungry."

"Not hungry? Oh, come now, Henry, you eat like a horse."

She flinched. "How kind of you to point out one of my many feminine attributes."

"You're not exactly dressed for the part of lady of the manor."

"I happen to like these garments."

Dear God, was that a tear he saw forming in her eye? "For God's sake, Henry, I—" He raked his hand through his hair. What was happening to him? He was becoming a man he didn't much like. He had to get out of here.

Dunford stood. "I'm leaving for London," he said abruptly.

Henry's head whipped up. "What?"

"Today. This morning."

"This morning?" she whispered, so softly that there was no way he possibly could have heard her. "The day after our wedding night?"

He strode from the room, and that was that.

The next few weeks were lonelier than Henry ever could have imagined. Her life was much the same as it had been before Dunford had entered it—with one colossal exception. She had tasted love, held it fleetingly in her hands, and for one second had touched pure happiness.

Now all she had were her big, empty bed and the memory of the man who had spent one night there.

The servants treated her with exceptional kindness—so exceptional that Henry thought she might break under the weight of their solicitousness. She wished they would stop treading on eggshells and start treating her like the old Henry, the one who had romped about Stannage Park in breeches without a care, the one who hadn't known what she was missing by burying herself in Cornwall.

She heard what they said: "God rot his soul for leaving poor Henry alone" and "a body shouldn’t be that lonely." Only Mrs. Simpson was forthright enough actually to pat Henry on the arm and murmur, "Poor ducky."

A lump had formed in Henry's throat at Simpy's consoling words, and she ran off to hide her tears. And when she had no more tears she threw herself into her work at Stannage Park.

The estate, she said to herself with pride but not much contentment a month after Dunford left her, had never looked better.

"I'm giving this back."

Dunford looked from his glass of whiskey to Belle to the pile of money she had dumped in front of him and back to Belle. He raised an eyebrow.

"It's the thousand pounds I won from you," she explained, irritation with him written clearly on her face. "I believe the wager called for you to be 'tied up, leg-shackled, and loving it.'"

This time he raised both eyebrows.

"You are clearly not 'loving it,'" Belle all but snapped.

Dunford took another sip of his whiskey.

"Will you say something!"

He shrugged. "No. Clearly, I am not."

Belle planted her hands on her hips. "Have you anything to say? Anything that might explain your atrocious behavior?"

His expression turned to ice. "I fail to see how you might be in any position to demand explanations from me."

Belle stepped back, her hand covering her mouth. "What have you become?" she whispered.

"A better question," he bit off, "would be: 'What has she made me?'"

"Henry couldn't have done this. What could she possibly have done to have made you so cold? Henry is the sweetest, most—"

"—mercenary woman in my acquaintance."

Belle let out a sound that was half laugh, half exhalation, and pure disbelief. "Henry? Mercenary? Surely you're jesting."

Dunford sighed, aware that he'd been somewhat unfair to his wife. "Perhaps 'mercenary' is not quite the most appropriate word. My wife... She..." He held out his hands in a gesture of accepted defeat. "Henry will never be able to love anything or anyone as much as she loves Stannage Park. It doesn't make her a bad person, it just makes her... it makes her..."

"Dunford, what are you talking about?"

He shrugged. "Have you ever experienced unrequited love, Belle? Other than being on the receiving end of it, I mean."

"Henry loves you, Dunford. I know she does."