"You're home," she said dumbly.

He shrugged.

"I... I need a bath."

A glimmer of a smile touched his face. "So you do." He walked over to the bellpull.

"I already ordered one drawn. The maids should be here any minute to fill it."

Dunford lowered his hand and turned around. "I suppose you're wondering why I'm back."

"I... well, yes. I don't suppose it had anything to do with me."

He winced. "Emma had a baby boy. I thought you'd like to know." He watched her expression change from forlorn distrust to complete joy.

"Oh, but that's wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Have they named him?"

"William," he said sheepishly. "After me."

"You must be so very proud."

"I am quite. I'm to be godfather. It's quite an honor."

"Oh, yes. You must be delighted. They must be delighted."

"They are quite."

It was at that point that they ran out of things to say. Henry stared at Dunford's feet, he stared at her forehead. Finally she blurted out, "I really need to bathe."

A knock sounded on the door, and two maids entered with steaming buckets of water. They pulled the bath out of its storage space in the dressing room and began to fill it.

Henry stared at the bath.

Dunford stared at Henry, imagining her in the bath. Finally he swore and left the room.

When Henry next encountered her husband, she was smelling a bit more like flowers and less like a pigpen. She even donned one of her gowns, lest he think she was wearing her mannish clothing just to annoy him. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was so frequently in her thoughts.

He was waiting for her in the sitting room before dinner, a glass of whiskey next to him on an end table. He rose when she entered, his eyes resting on her face with an expression that could only be called tortured.

"You look lovely, Hen." He sounded as if he wished she didn't.

"Thank you. You look nice, too. You always look nice."

"Would you like a drink?"

"I... yes. No. No. I mean yes. Yes, I would."

He turned his back to her as he fussed with the decanter so she wouldn't see him smile. "What would you like?"

"Anything," she said weakly, sitting down. "Anything would be fine."

Dunford poured her a glass of sherry. "Here you are."

She took the glass from his outstretched hand, making sure her hand never touched his. She took a sip, let the wine fortify her, and asked, "How long do you plan to stay?"

His lips twisted. "That anxious to be rid of me, eh, Hen?"

"No," she said quickly. "Although I rather thought you wouldn't want to remain overlong with me. I'm perfectly happy to have you stay." And then she added, just for pride, "You won't interrupt my routine."

"Ah, yes, of course not. I'm a nice enough fellow. I'd almost forgotten."

Henry cringed at the bitterness laced in his words. "I wouldn't want to go to London and interrupt your routine," she shot back. "Heaven forbid I pull you away from your social life."

He stared at her blankly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

“That’s because you're too polite to discuss it," she muttered, almost wishing he would discuss his mistress. "Or maybe you think I'm too polite."

He stood. "I've traveled all day, and I'm far too weary to waste my energy trying to solve your little riddles. If you'll excuse me, I'm going in to supper. Join me if you like." He walked off.

Henry now knew enough about society to know he'd just been unforgivably rude to her. And she knew enough about him to know he'd done it on purpose. She stamped out of the room after him, turned toward his retreating form, and yelled, "I'm not hungry!"

Then she ran up the stairs to her room, ignoring the rumblings of her stomach.

Supper tasted like sawdust. Dunford stared straight ahead as he ate, ignoring the servants as they motioned to the empty place setting across from him, obviously wondering if they should clear it away.

He finished his meal in ten minutes, eating the first course and ignoring the rest. It was a damning feeling, sitting there across from where Henry should have been, under the hostile regard of the servants, all of whom loved her to distraction.

With a shove of his chair, he rose and retired to his study, where he poured himself a glass of whiskey. And another. And another. Not enough to get stinking drunk, just enough to make him overly contemplative. And enough to pass the time until he could be sure Henry had fallen asleep.

He made his way up to his bedroom, weaving ever so slightly as he walked. What was he going to do with his wife? God, what a mess. He loved her but he didn't want to love her. He wanted to hate her but he couldn't—despite her lack of love for him, she was still as nice a woman as they came, and no one could find fault with her love and devotion for the land. He wanted her and he despised himself for the weakness. And who the hell knew what she thought?

Besides the fact that she didn't love him. That much was clear.

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

Well, you couldn't fault the girl for lack of trying.

He turned the doorknob and stumbled into the room. His eyes fell on the bed. Henry!

He caught his breath. Had she waited for him? Did this mean she wanted him?

No, he thought perversely, it just meant there wasn't a bed in the other bedroom.

She was lying there, asleep, her chest gently moving with the rhythm of her breaths. The moon was nearly full, and its light shone through the open windows. She looked perfect—everything he had ever wanted. He sank down into a cushioned chair, his eyes never leaving her sleeping form.