Prologue
William Dunford snorted with disgust as he watched his
friends gaze longingly into each other's eyes. Lady
Arabella Blydon, one of his best friends these past two
years, had just gotten herself married to Lord John
Blackwood, and now they were looking at each other as if
they wanted to eat each other up. It was revoltingly cute.
Dunford tapped his foot and rolled his eyes, hoping that
they would be able to tear themselves apart. The three of
them, along with Dunford's best friend Alex, the Duke of
Ashbourne, and his wife Emma, who happened to be Belle's
cousin, were on their way to a ball. Their carriage had met
with a mishap, and they were presently waiting for a fresh
one to be brought around.
At the sound of wheels rolling along the cobbles, Dunford
turned. The new carriage pulled up to a halt in front of
them, but Belle and John didn't appear to notice. In fact,
they almost looked as if they were ready to throw
themselves into each other's arms and make love on the
spot. Dunford decided that he had had enough. "Yoo-hoo!" he
called out in a nauseatingly sweet voice. "Young lovers!"
John and Belle finally tore their eyes off one another and
turned, blinking, to Dunford, who was making his way toward
them.
"If the two of you can stop making verbal love to each
other, we can be on our way. In case you hadn't noticed,
the fresh carriage is here."
John took a deep and ragged breath before turning to
Dunford and saying, "Tact, I take it, was not emphasized in
your upbringing."
Dunford smiled merrily. "Not at all. Shall we be off?"
John turned to Belle and offered her his arm. "My dear?"
Belle accepted his gesture with a smile, but as they passed
Dunford, she turned and hissed, "I'm going to kill you for
this."
"I'm sure you'll try." The quintet was soon settled into
the new carriage. After a few moments, however, John and
Belle were gazing rapturously at each other again. John
laid his hand on hers and tapped his fingers against her
knuckles. Belle let out a little mewl of contentment.
"Oh, for God's sake!" Dunford exclaimed, turning to Alex
and Emma. "Will you look at them? Even the two of you
weren't this nauseating."
"Someday," Belle said in a low voice, her finger jabbing at
him, "you're going to meet the woman of your dreams, and
then I'm going to make your life miserable."
"Afraid not, my dear Arabella. The woman of my dreams is
such a paragon she couldn't possibly exist."
"Oh, please," Belle snorted. "I bet that within a year
you'll be tied up, leg-shacked, and loving it." She sat
back with a satisfied smile. Beside her John was shaking
with mirth.
Dunford leaned forward, resting his elbows on his
knees. "I'll take that bet. How much are you willing to
lose?"
"How much are you willing to lose?"
Emma turned to John. "You seem to have married a gambling
woman."
"Had I known, you can be sure I would have weighed my
actions more carefully."
Belle gave her new husband a playful jab in the ribs as she
leveled a quelling stare at Dunford and asked, "Well?"
"A thousand pounds."
"Done."
"Are you crazy?" John exclaimed.
"Am I to assume that only men can gamble?"
"Nobody makes such a fool's bet, Belle," John said. "You've
just made a wager with the man who controls the outcome.
You can only lose."
"Don't underestimate the power of love, my dear. Although
in Dunford's case, perhaps only lust will do."
"You wound me," Dunford replied, placing his hand
dramatically over his heart for emphasis. "Assuming I am
incapable of the higher emotions."
"Aren't you?"
Dunford's lips clamped together in a thin line. Was she
right? He really had no idea. Either way, in a year's time
he'd be a thousand pounds richer. Easy money.
Chapter One
A few months later, Dunford was sitting in his salon,
taking tea with Belle. She had just stopped by to chat; he
was glad for this unexpected visit since they didn't see
quite as much of each other now that she was married.
"Are you certain that John isn't going to come barging over
here with a gun and call me out?" Dunford teased.
"He's too busy for that sort of nonsense," she said with a
smile.
"Too busy to indulge his possessive nature? How odd."
Belle shrugged. "He trusts you, and more importantly, he
trusts me."
"A veritable paragon of virtue," Dunford said dryly,
telling himself that he was not in the least bit jealous of
his friend's marital bliss. "And how-"
A knock sounded on the door. They looked up to see
Whatmough, Dunford's unflappable butler, standing in the
doorway. "A solicitor has arrived, sir."
Dunford raised a brow. "A solicitor, you say. I cannot
fathom why."
"He is most insistent, sir."
"Show him in, then." Dunford turned to Belle and gave her a
what-do-you-suppose-this-could-be shrug.
She smiled mischievously. "Intriguing."
"I'll say."
Whatmough ushered the solicitor in. A graying man of medium
stature, he looked very excited to see Dunford. "Mr.
Dunford?"
Dunford nodded.
"I cannot tell you how glad I am to have finally located
you," the solicitor said enthusiastically. He looked at
Belle with a puzzled expression. "And is this Mrs. Dunford?
I was led to believe that you were not married, sir. Oh,
this is odd. Most odd."
"I'm not married. This is Lady Blackwood. A friend. And you
are?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. Most sorry." The solicitor took out a
handkerchief and patted his brow. "I am Mr. Percival
Leverett, of Cragmont, Hopkins, Topkins, and Leverett." He
leaned forward, adding extra emphasis when he said his
name. "I have very important news for you. Most important
indeed."
Dunford waved his arms expansively. "Let's hear it, then."
Leverett glanced over at Belle and then back at
Dunford. "Perhaps we should speak privately, sir? Since she
is not a relation."
"Of course." Dunford turned to Belle. "You don't mind, do
you?"
"Oh, not at all," she assured him, her smile saying that
she would have a thousand questions ready when they were
through. "I'll wait."
Dunford motioned toward a door leading to his study. "Right
through here, Mr. Leverett."
They left the room, and Belle was delighted to note that
they did not shut the door properly. She immediately stood
up and moved to the chair closest to the slightly open
door. She craned her neck, her ears pricking up
immediately.
A mumble of voices.
More mumble.
And then, from Dunford - "My cousin who?"
Mumble, mumble.
"From where?"
Mumble, mumble, something that sounded like Cornwall.
"How many times removed?"
No, that couldn't have been eight that she heard.
"And he left me what?"
Belle clapped her hands together. How delightful. Dunford
had just come into an unexpected inheritance. She rather
hoped it was something good. One of her friends had just
unwillingly inherited thirty-seven cats.
The rest of the conversation was impossible to decipher.
After a few minutes the two men emerged and shook each
other's hands. Leverett shoved a few papers into his case
and said, "I'll have the rest of the documents sent over as
soon as possible. We'll need your signature, of course."
"Of course."
Leverett nodded and exited the room.
"Well?" Belle demanded.
Dunford blinked a few times, as if he still couldn't quite
believe what he'd just heard. "I seem to have inherited a
barony."
"A barony! Goodness, I'm not going to have to call you Lord
Dunford now, am I?"
He rolled his eyes. "When was the last time I called you
Lady Blackwood?"
"Not ten minutes ago," she pointed out pertly. "When you
introduced me to Mr. Leverett."
"Touche, Belle." He sank down onto the sofa, not even
waiting for her to seat herself first. "I suppose you may
call me Lord Stannage."
"Lord Stannage," she murmured. "How perfectly
distinguished. William Dunford, Lord Stannage." She smiled
devilishly. "It is William, isn't it?"
Dunford snorted. He was so rarely called by his first name
that they had a long-running joke that she couldn't
remember it. "I asked my mother," he finally replied. "She
said she thinks it's William."
"Who died?" Belle asked baldly.
"Ever brimming with tact and refinement, my dear Arabella."
"Well, you obviously cannot be grieving overmuch over the
loss of your, er, distant relative, since you didn't even
know of his existence until now."
"A cousin. An eighth cousin, to be exact."
"And they couldn't find anyone more closely related?" she
asked disbelievingly. "Not that I begrudge you your good
fortune, of course, but it is quite a stretch."
"We seem to be a family of fillies."
"Nicely put," she muttered sarcastically.
"Metaphors aside," he said, ignoring her jibe, "I am now in
possession of a title and a small estate in Cornwall."
So she had heard correctly. "Have you ever been to
Cornwall?"
"Never. Have you?"
She shook her head. "I hear it's quite dramatic. Cliffs and
crashing waves and all that. Very uncivilized."
"How uncivilized could it be, Belle? This is England, after
all."
She shrugged. "Are you going to go down for a visit?"
"I suppose I must." He tapped his finger against his
thigh. "Uncivilized, you say? I'll probably adore it."
"I hope he hates it here," Henrietta Barrett said, taking a
vicious bite of her apple. "I hope he really hates it."
"Now, now, Henry," Mrs. Simpson, the housekeeper of
Stannage Park, said with a cluck. "That isn't very
charitable of you."
"I'm not feeling terribly charitable at the moment. I've
put a lot of work into Stannage Park." Henry's eyes glowed
wistfully. She had lived here in Cornwall since the age of
eight, when her parents had been killed in a carriage
accident in their home town of Manchester, leaving her
orphaned and penniless. Viola, the late baron's late wife,
had been her grandmother's cousin and graciously agreed to
take her in. Henry had immediately fallen in love with
Stannage Park, from the pale stone of the building to the
shimmering windows to every last tenant who lived on the
property. The servants had even found her polishing the
silver one day. "I want everything to sparkle," she had
said. "It has to be perfect, for this is truly a perfect
place."
And so Cornwall had become her home, more so than
Manchester had ever been. Viola had doted on her, and
Carlyle, her husband, became a sort of distant father
figure. He didn't spend a lot of time with her, but he
always had a friendly pat on the head ready when she passed
him in the hall. When she was fourteen, however, Viola
died, and Carlyle was desolate. He retreated into himself,
letting the details of running the estate flounder.
Henry had immediately stepped in. She loved Stannage Park
as much as anybody and had firm ideas as to how it should
be run. For the last six years she had been not only the
lady of the manor but the lord as well, universally
accepted as the person in charge. And she liked her life
just fine.
But Carlyle had died, and the estate and title had passed
on to some distant cousin in London who was probably a fop
and a dandy. He'd never been to Cornwall before, she'd
heard, conveniently forgetting that she'd never been here
either, before she'd arrived twelve years ago.
"What was his name again?" Mrs. Simpson asked, her capable
hands kneading dough for bread. "Dunford. Something-or-
other Dunford," Henry said in a disgusted voice. "They
didn't see fit to inform me of his first name. Although I
suppose it doesn't matter now that he is Lord Stannage.
He'll probably insist that we use the title. Newcomers to
the aristocracy usually do."
"You talk as if you're a member of it yourself, Henry.
Don't be turning your nose up at the gentleman."
Henry sighed and took another bite of her apple. "He'll
probably call me Henrietta."
"As well he should. You're getting too old for Henry now."
"You call me Henry."
"I'm too old to change. But you're not. And it's high time
you lost your hoydenish ways and found yourself a husband."
"And do what? Move off to England? I don't want to leave
Cornwall."
Mrs. Simpson smiled and forebore to point out that Cornwall
was indeed a part of England. Henry was so devoted to the
region that she could not think of it as belonging to any
greater whole. "There are gentlemen here in Cornwall, you
know," she pointed out. "Quite a few in the nearby
villages. You could marry one of them."
Henry scoffed. "There is no one here worth his salt and you
know it, Simpy. Besides, no one would have me. I haven't a
shilling now that Stannage Park has gone off to this
stranger, and they all think I'm a freak."
"Of course they don't!" Mrs. Simpson replied
quickly. "Everyone looks up to you."
"I know that," Henry replied, rolling her silver-gray
eyes. "They look up to me as if I were a man, and for that
I'm grateful. But men don't want to marry other men, you
know."
"Perhaps if you'd wear a dress..."
Henry looked down at her well-worn breeches. "I do wear a
dress. When appropriate."
"I can't imagine when that is," Mrs. Simpson
snorted. "Since I've never seen you in one. Not even at
church."
"How fortunate for me that the vicar is a most open-minded
gentleman."
Simpy leveled a shrewd gaze at the younger woman. "How
fortunate for you that the vicar is overfond of the French
brandy you send over once a month.
" Henry pretended not to hear. "I wore a dress to Carlyle's
funeral, if you recall. And to the county ball last year.
And whenever we receive guests. I have at least five in my
closet, thank you very much. Oh, and I also wear them to
town."
"You do not."
"Well, perhaps not to our little village, but I do whenever
I go to any other town. But anyone would agree that they
are most impractical when I'm out and about overseeing the
estate." Not to mention, Henry thought wryly, that they all
looked dreadful on her.
"Well, you'd better get one on when Mr. Dunford arrives."
"I'm not completely daft, Simpy." Henry chucked the apple
across the kitchen into a bucket of scraps. It fell
squarely in, and she let out a whoop of pride. "Haven't
missed that bucket in months."
Mrs. Simpson shook her head. "If only someone would teach
you how to be a girl."
"Viola tried," Henry replied cheekily. "And she might have
succeeded if she'd lived longer. But the truth is, I like
myself just fine." Most of the time, at least, she thought.
Every now and then she'd see a fine lady in a gorgeous gown
that fit her to perfection. Such women didn't have feet,
Henry decided. They had rollers - virtually gliding along.
And wherever they went, a dozen besotted men followed.
Henry would wistfully stare at this entourage, imagining
them mooning after her. Then she laughed. That particular
dream wasn't likely to come true, and besides, she liked
her life just fine, didn't she?
"Henry?" Mrs. Simpson said, leaning forward. "Henry, I was
talking to you."
"Hmmm?" Henry blinked herself out of her reverie. "Oh, I'm
sorry, I was just thinking about what to do about the
cows," she lied. "I'm not sure we've got enough room for
all of them."
"You should be thinking about what to do when Mr. Dunford
arrives. He did send word that it would be this afternoon,
didn't he?"
"Yes, blast him."
"Henry!" Mrs. Simpson said reprovingly.
Henry shook her head and sighed. "If ever there was a time
for cursing, it's now, Simpy. What if he wants to take an
interest in Stannage Park? Or worse - what if he wants to
take charge?"
"If he does, it will be his right. He does own it, you
know."
"I know, I know. More's the pity."
Mrs. Simpson shaped the dough into a loaf and then set it
aside to rise. Wiping off her hands, she said, "Maybe he'll
sell it. If he sold it to a local you wouldn't have
anything to worry about. Everyone knows there's nobody
better to manage Stannage Park than you."
Henry hopped down from her perch on the counter, planted
her hands on her hips, and began to pace across the
kitchen. "He can't sell. It's entailed. If it weren't, I
daresay Carlyle would have left it to me."
"Oh. Well, then you're just going to have to do your best
to get along with Mr. Dunford, then."
"That's Lord Stannage now," Henry groaned. "Lord Stannage -
owner of my home and decider of my future."
"Just what does that mean?"
"It means that he's my guardian."
"What?" Mrs. Simpson dropped her rolling pin.
"I'm his ward."
"But... but that's impossible. You don't even know the
man."
Henry shrugged. "It's the way of the world, Simpy. Women
haven't brains, you know. We need guardians to guide us."
"I can't believe you didn't tell me."
"I don't tell you everything, you know."
"Just about," Mrs. Simpson snorted.
Henry smiled sheepishly. It was true that she and the
housekeeper were much closer than one would expect. She
absently twirled her fingers around a lock of her long
brown hair, one of her few concessions to vanity. It would
have been more sensible to cut it short, but it was thick
and soft, and Henry just couldn't bear to part with it.
Besides, it was her habit to wind it around her fingers
while she was thinking hard about a problem, as she was
doing now.
"Wait a minute!" she exclaimed.
"What?"
"He can't sell the place, but that doesn't mean he has to
live here."
Mrs. Simpson narrowed her eyes. "I'm not certain I
understand your meaning, Henry."
"We just have to make sure that he absolutely, positively
doesn't want to live here. Chances are it won't be
difficult. He's probably one of those soft London sorts.
But it certainly couldn't hurt to make him slightly, er,
uncomfortable."
"What on earth are you thinking of, Henrietta Barrett?
Putting rocks in the poor man's mattress?"
"Nothing so crude, I assure you," Henry scoffed. "We shall
show him every kindness. We shall be politeness
personified. But we shall endeavor to point out that he is
not suited for country life. He could learn to love the
role of absentee landlord. Especially if I send him
quarterly profits."
"I thought you poured the profits back into the estate."
"I do. But I'll just have to split them in half. I'll send
half to the new Lord Stannage and reinvest half here. I
won't like doing it, but it will be better than having him
in residence."
Mrs. Simpson shook her head. "Just what exactly are you
planning to do to him?"
Henry twirled her finger in her hair. "I'm not certain.
I'll have to give it some thought."
Mrs. Simpson looked over at a clock. "You'd better think
fast, because he'll be here within the hour."
Henry walked over to the door. "I'd better wash."
"If you don't want to meet him smelling like the great
outdoors," Mrs. Simpson retorted. "And not the part with
flowers and honey, if you know what I mean."
Henry shot her a cheeky grin. "Will you have someone fill a
bath for me?" At the housekeeper's nod, she dashed up the
back stairs. Mrs. Simpson was right. She smelled rather
unsavory. But then, what could one expect after a morning
overseeing the construction of a new pigpen? It had been
messy work, but Henry had been glad to do it. Or rather,
she admitted to herself, to supervise it. Getting knee deep
in muck was not exactly her thing.
She stopped suddenly on the stairs, her eyes lighting up.
It was not her thing, but it was just the thing for the new
Lord Stannage. She could even bring herself to get more
actively involved in the project if it meant convincing
this Dunford fellow that this was what country lords did
all the time.
Feeling much enthused, she bounded up the rest of the
stairs to her bedroom. It would be several minutes before
the tub was filled, so she picked up her hairbrush and
walked over to the window to look out. Her hair had been
pulled back like a pony's tail, but the wind had whipped it
into snarls. She untied the ribbon; it would be easier to
wash detangled.
As she pulled the brush through her hair, she stared out
over the green fields surrounding the house. The sun was
just beginning to set, tinting the sky like a peach. Henry
sighed with love. Nothing had the power to move her like
these lands.
Then, as if timed just to spoil her perfect moment,
something glinted on the horizon. Oh, God, it wasn't-- It
was glass. Glass from a carriage window. Damn and blast -
he was early. "Stupid wretch," she muttered. "Deuced
inconsiderate of him." She glanced back over her shoulder.
Her bath wasn't ready.
Pressing closer to the window, she peered down at the
carriage that was now rolling down the drive. It was quite
elegant. Mr. Dunford must have been a man of some means
even before inheriting Stannage Park. Either that or he had
wealthy friends willing to loan him a conveyance. Henry
stared at the scene quite unabashedly, brushing her hair
all the while.
Two footmen dashed out to unload the trunks. She smiled
proudly. She had this house running like clockwork. Then
the carriage door opened. Without realizing it, she moved
even closer to the glass of her window. A booted foot
emerged. A rather nice, manly boot, Henry observed, and she
knew her boots. Then it became apparent that the boot was
attached to a leg that was every bit as manly as its
footwear. "Oh, dear," she muttered. He wasn't going to be a
weakling. Then the owner of the leg hopped out, and she saw
him in his entirety.
She dropped her hairbrush.
"Oh, my God," she breathed. He was beautiful. No, not
beautiful, she corrected, for that would imply some sort of
effeminate quality, and this man certainly had none of
that. He was tall, with a firmly muscled body and broad
shoulders. His hair was thick and brown, slightly longer
than was fashionable. And his face... Henry may have been
looking down at him from fourteen feet up, but even she
could see that his face was everything a face ought to be.
His cheekbones were high, his nose straight and strong, and
his mouth finely molded with a slight wry quality to it.
She couldn't see what color his eyes were, but she had a
sinking feeling that they would be filled with shrewd
intelligence. And he was much, much younger than she'd
expected. She'd been hoping for someone in his fifties.
This man couldn't be a day over thirty.
Henry groaned. This was going to be much harder than she'd
anticipated. She was going to have to be very crafty indeed
to fool this one. With a sigh, she reached down for her
hairbrush and walked back to her bath.
As Dunford was quietly inspecting the front of his new
home, a movement in an upstairs window caught his eye. The
sun was glinting off the glass, but it appeared to be a
girl with long, brown hair. Before he could get a better
look, however, she'd turned and disappeared into the room.
That was odd. No servant would be standing idle by a window
at this time of day, especially with her hair unbound. He
wondered briefly who she was, then let the thought drift
from his mind. He'd have time enough to find out about her.
Right now he had more important things to attend to.
The entire staff of Stannage Park had assembled in front of
the house for his inspection. There were about two dozen
altogether - a small number by ton standards, but then
again Stannage Park was a fairly modest home for a peer of
the realm. The butler, a thin man named Yates, was taking
great pains to make the process as formal as possible.
Dunford tried to humor him by adopting a slightly austere
manner; it seemed to be what the servants expected of the
new lord of the manor. It was hard to suppress a smile,
however, as maid after maid bobbed a curtsy in his honor.
He had never expected a title, never expected lands of his
own or a household to go with it. His father had been a
younger son of a younger son; God only knew how many
Dunfords had had to die to put him in line for this
inheritance.
After the last maid had bobbed up and down, Dunford
returned his attention to the butler. "You run an excellent
house, Yates, if this introduction is any indication."
Yates, who had never acquired the stone-faced facade that
was a prerequisite among London butlers, flushed with
pleasure. "Thank you, my lord. We do try as hard as we can,
but it's Henry we'd have to thank."
Dunford raised a brow. "Henry?"
Yates gulped. He should have called her Miss Barrett.
That's what the new Lord Stannage would expect, him being
from London and all that. And he was Henry's new guardian,
wasn't he? Mrs. Simpson had pulled him aside and whispered
that particular tidbit in his ear not ten minutes
ago. "Umm, Henry is..." His voice trailed off. It was so
hard to think of her as anything but Henry. "That is to
say..."
But Dunford's attention had already been captured by Mrs.
Simpson, who was assuring him that she had been at Stannage
Park for over twenty years and knew everything about the
estate, well, at least about the house, and if he needed
anything...
Dunford blinked as he tried to focus on the housekeeper's
words. Dimly he sensed that she was nervous. That was
probably why she was rattling on like a... like a
something. What exactly he didn't know, and what was she
saying? A flash of movement in the stables caught his eye
and he allowed his gaze to wander in that direction. He
waited a moment. Oh, well, he must have imagined it. He
turned back to the housekeeper. She was saying something
about Henry. Who was Henry? The question formed on his
tongue and would have rolled off his lips if a giant pig
hadn't suddenly exploded out through the partially open
door of the stables.
"Holy, bloody..." Dunford breathed, unable to complete his
curse. He was mesmerized by the sheer ludicrousness of the
situation. The creature was hurtling across the lawn moving
faster than any pig had a right to. It was an enormous
porcine beast - surely that was all one could call it -
this was no ordinary swine. Dunford had no doubt it would
feed half the ton if taken to a proper butcher.
The pig reached the assembly of servants, and the maids
shrieked, running in every possible direction. The pig,
stunned by the sudden movement, stopped, raised its snout,
and let out a hellish squeal. And then another, and
another, and...
"Will you shut up!" Dunford commanded.
The pig, sensing authority, didn't just shut up - it
actually laid down.
Henry did a double-take, impressed in spite of herself. She
had dashed downstairs the minute she saw the pig emerge
from the stables and had arrived in the front drive just as
the new Lord Stannage was trying out his new lordly
imperiousness on barnyard animals.
She ran forward, forgetting that she hadn't managed to take
that bath she knew she needed, forgetting that she was
still garbed in boys' clothes. Dirty boys' clothes.
"So sorry, my lord," she muttered, offering him a tight
smile before leaning down and grabbing the pig's collar.
She probably shouldn't have interfered, should have let the
pig get bored of sitting on the ground, should have laughed
when it came forward and did unspeakable things to the new
Lord Stannage's boots. But she took far too much pride in
Stannage Park not to try to salvage the disaster in some
way. There was nothing in the world that meant as much to
her as this smoothly running estate, and she couldn't bear
that someone might think that free-roaming pigs were a
common occurrence, even if that someone was a London lord
of whom she heartily wanted to be rid.
A farmhand ran up, took the pig from her, and led it back
to the stables. Henry straightened, suddenly aware of the
way every last servant was gaping at her, and wiped her
hands on her breeches. She glanced over at the
darklyhandsome man standing across from her. "How do you
do, Lord Stannage?" she said, curving her lips into a
welcoming smile. After all, there was no need for him to
realize that she was trying to scare him away.
"How do you do, Miss, er..."
Henry's eyes narrowed. He didn't realize who she was? No
doubt he'd been expecting his ward to be a trifle younger,
a pampered and spoiled young miss who never ventured out of
doors, much less ran an entire estate. "Miss Henrietta
Barrett," she said in a tone that said that she expected
him to recognize the name. "But you can just call me Henry.
Everybody does."
Prologue
William Dunford snorted with disgust as he watched his
friends gaze longingly into each other's eyes. Lady
Arabella Blydon, one of his best friends these past two
years, had just gotten herself married to Lord John
Blackwood, and now they were looking at each other as if
they wanted to eat each other up. It was revoltingly cute.
Dunford tapped his foot and rolled his eyes, hoping that
they would be able to tear themselves apart. The three of
them, along with Dunford's best friend Alex, the Duke of
Ashbourne, and his wife Emma, who happened to be Belle's
cousin, were on their way to a ball. Their carriage had met
with a mishap, and they were presently waiting for a fresh
one to be brought around.
At the sound of wheels rolling along the cobbles, Dunford
turned. The new carriage pulled up to a halt in front of
them, but Belle and John didn't appear to notice. In fact,
they almost looked as if they were ready to throw
themselves into each other's arms and make love on the
spot. Dunford decided that he had had enough. "Yoo-hoo!" he
called out in a nauseatingly sweet voice. "Young lovers!"
John and Belle finally tore their eyes off one another and
turned, blinking, to Dunford, who was making his way toward
them.
"If the two of you can stop making verbal love to each
other, we can be on our way. In case you hadn't noticed,
the fresh carriage is here."
John took a deep and ragged breath before turning to
Dunford and saying, "Tact, I take it, was not emphasized in
your upbringing."
Dunford smiled merrily. "Not at all. Shall we be off?"
John turned to Belle and offered her his arm. "My dear?"
Belle accepted his gesture with a smile, but as they passed
Dunford, she turned and hissed, "I'm going to kill you for
this."
"I'm sure you'll try." The quintet was soon settled into
the new carriage. After a few moments, however, John and
Belle were gazing rapturously at each other again. John
laid his hand on hers and tapped his fingers against her
knuckles. Belle let out a little mewl of contentment.
"Oh, for God's sake!" Dunford exclaimed, turning to Alex
and Emma. "Will you look at them? Even the two of you
weren't this nauseating."
"Someday," Belle said in a low voice, her finger jabbing at
him, "you're going to meet the woman of your dreams, and
then I'm going to make your life miserable."
"Afraid not, my dear Arabella. The woman of my dreams is
such a paragon she couldn't possibly exist."
"Oh, please," Belle snorted. "I bet that within a year
you'll be tied up, leg-shacked, and loving it." She sat
back with a satisfied smile. Beside her John was shaking
with mirth.
Dunford leaned forward, resting his elbows on his
knees. "I'll take that bet. How much are you willing to
lose?"
"How much are you willing to lose?"
Emma turned to John. "You seem to have married a gambling
woman."
"Had I known, you can be sure I would have weighed my
actions more carefully."
Belle gave her new husband a playful jab in the ribs as she
leveled a quelling stare at Dunford and asked, "Well?"
"A thousand pounds."
"Done."
"Are you crazy?" John exclaimed.
"Am I to assume that only men can gamble?"
"Nobody makes such a fool's bet, Belle," John said. "You've
just made a wager with the man who controls the outcome.
You can only lose."
"Don't underestimate the power of love, my dear. Although
in Dunford's case, perhaps only lust will do."
"You wound me," Dunford replied, placing his hand
dramatically over his heart for emphasis. "Assuming I am
incapable of the higher emotions."
"Aren't you?"
Dunford's lips clamped together in a thin line. Was she
right? He really had no idea. Either way, in a year's time
he'd be a thousand pounds richer. Easy money.
Chapter One
A few months later, Dunford was sitting in his salon,
taking tea with Belle. She had just stopped by to chat; he
was glad for this unexpected visit since they didn't see
quite as much of each other now that she was married.
"Are you certain that John isn't going to come barging over
here with a gun and call me out?" Dunford teased.
"He's too busy for that sort of nonsense," she said with a
smile.
"Too busy to indulge his possessive nature? How odd."
Belle shrugged. "He trusts you, and more importantly, he
trusts me."
"A veritable paragon of virtue," Dunford said dryly,
telling himself that he was not in the least bit jealous of
his friend's marital bliss. "And how-"
A knock sounded on the door. They looked up to see
Whatmough, Dunford's unflappable butler, standing in the
doorway. "A solicitor has arrived, sir."
Dunford raised a brow. "A solicitor, you say. I cannot
fathom why."
"He is most insistent, sir."
"Show him in, then." Dunford turned to Belle and gave her a
what-do-you-suppose-this-could-be shrug.
She smiled mischievously. "Intriguing."
"I'll say."
Whatmough ushered the solicitor in. A graying man of medium
stature, he looked very excited to see Dunford. "Mr.
Dunford?"
Dunford nodded.
"I cannot tell you how glad I am to have finally located
you," the solicitor said enthusiastically. He looked at
Belle with a puzzled expression. "And is this Mrs. Dunford?
I was led to believe that you were not married, sir. Oh,
this is odd. Most odd."
"I'm not married. This is Lady Blackwood. A friend. And you
are?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. Most sorry." The solicitor took out a
handkerchief and patted his brow. "I am Mr. Percival
Leverett, of Cragmont, Hopkins, Topkins, and Leverett." He
leaned forward, adding extra emphasis when he said his
name. "I have very important news for you. Most important
indeed."
Dunford waved his arms expansively. "Let's hear it, then."
Leverett glanced over at Belle and then back at
Dunford. "Perhaps we should speak privately, sir? Since she
is not a relation."
"Of course." Dunford turned to Belle. "You don't mind, do
you?"
"Oh, not at all," she assured him, her smile saying that
she would have a thousand questions ready when they were
through. "I'll wait."
Dunford motioned toward a door leading to his study. "Right
through here, Mr. Leverett."
They left the room, and Belle was delighted to note that
they did not shut the door properly. She immediately stood
up and moved to the chair closest to the slightly open
door. She craned her neck, her ears pricking up
immediately.
A mumble of voices.
More mumble.
And then, from Dunford - "My cousin who?"
Mumble, mumble.
"From where?"
Mumble, mumble, something that sounded like Cornwall.
"How many times removed?"
No, that couldn't have been eight that she heard.
"And he left me what?"
Belle clapped her hands together. How delightful. Dunford
had just come into an unexpected inheritance. She rather
hoped it was something good. One of her friends had just
unwillingly inherited thirty-seven cats.
The rest of the conversation was impossible to decipher.
After a few minutes the two men emerged and shook each
other's hands. Leverett shoved a few papers into his case
and said, "I'll have the rest of the documents sent over as
soon as possible. We'll need your signature, of course."
"Of course."
Leverett nodded and exited the room.
"Well?" Belle demanded.
Dunford blinked a few times, as if he still couldn't quite
believe what he'd just heard. "I seem to have inherited a
barony."
"A barony! Goodness, I'm not going to have to call you Lord
Dunford now, am I?"
He rolled his eyes. "When was the last time I called you
Lady Blackwood?"
"Not ten minutes ago," she pointed out pertly. "When you
introduced me to Mr. Leverett."
"Touche, Belle." He sank down onto the sofa, not even
waiting for her to seat herself first. "I suppose you may
call me Lord Stannage."
"Lord Stannage," she murmured. "How perfectly
distinguished. William Dunford, Lord Stannage." She smiled
devilishly. "It is William, isn't it?"
Dunford snorted. He was so rarely called by his first name
that they had a long-running joke that she couldn't
remember it. "I asked my mother," he finally replied. "She
said she thinks it's William."
"Who died?" Belle asked baldly.
"Ever brimming with tact and refinement, my dear Arabella."
"Well, you obviously cannot be grieving overmuch over the
loss of your, er, distant relative, since you didn't even
know of his existence until now."
"A cousin. An eighth cousin, to be exact."
"And they couldn't find anyone more closely related?" she
asked disbelievingly. "Not that I begrudge you your good
fortune, of course, but it is quite a stretch."
"We seem to be a family of fillies."
"Nicely put," she muttered sarcastically.
"Metaphors aside," he said, ignoring her jibe, "I am now in
possession of a title and a small estate in Cornwall."
So she had heard correctly. "Have you ever been to
Cornwall?"
"Never. Have you?"
She shook her head. "I hear it's quite dramatic. Cliffs and
crashing waves and all that. Very uncivilized."
"How uncivilized could it be, Belle? This is England, after
all."
She shrugged. "Are you going to go down for a visit?"
"I suppose I must." He tapped his finger against his
thigh. "Uncivilized, you say? I'll probably adore it."
"I hope he hates it here," Henrietta Barrett said, taking a
vicious bite of her apple. "I hope he really hates it."
"Now, now, Henry," Mrs. Simpson, the housekeeper of
Stannage Park, said with a cluck. "That isn't very
charitable of you."
"I'm not feeling terribly charitable at the moment. I've
put a lot of work into Stannage Park." Henry's eyes glowed
wistfully. She had lived here in Cornwall since the age of
eight, when her parents had been killed in a carriage
accident in their home town of Manchester, leaving her
orphaned and penniless. Viola, the late baron's late wife,
had been her grandmother's cousin and graciously agreed to
take her in. Henry had immediately fallen in love with
Stannage Park, from the pale stone of the building to the
shimmering windows to every last tenant who lived on the
property. The servants had even found her polishing the
silver one day. "I want everything to sparkle," she had
said. "It has to be perfect, for this is truly a perfect
place."
And so Cornwall had become her home, more so than
Manchester had ever been. Viola had doted on her, and
Carlyle, her husband, became a sort of distant father
figure. He didn't spend a lot of time with her, but he
always had a friendly pat on the head ready when she passed
him in the hall. When she was fourteen, however, Viola
died, and Carlyle was desolate. He retreated into himself,
letting the details of running the estate flounder.
Henry had immediately stepped in. She loved Stannage Park
as much as anybody and had firm ideas as to how it should
be run. For the last six years she had been not only the
lady of the manor but the lord as well, universally
accepted as the person in charge. And she liked her life
just fine.
But Carlyle had died, and the estate and title had passed
on to some distant cousin in London who was probably a fop
and a dandy. He'd never been to Cornwall before, she'd
heard, conveniently forgetting that she'd never been here
either, before she'd arrived twelve years ago.
"What was his name again?" Mrs. Simpson asked, her capable
hands kneading dough for bread. "Dunford. Something-or-
other Dunford," Henry said in a disgusted voice. "They
didn't see fit to inform me of his first name. Although I
suppose it doesn't matter now that he is Lord Stannage.
He'll probably insist that we use the title. Newcomers to
the aristocracy usually do."
"You talk as if you're a member of it yourself, Henry.
Don't be turning your nose up at the gentleman."
Henry sighed and took another bite of her apple. "He'll
probably call me Henrietta."
"As well he should. You're getting too old for Henry now."
"You call me Henry."
"I'm too old to change. But you're not. And it's high time
you lost your hoydenish ways and found yourself a husband."
"And do what? Move off to England? I don't want to leave
Cornwall."
Mrs. Simpson smiled and forebore to point out that Cornwall
was indeed a part of England. Henry was so devoted to the
region that she could not think of it as belonging to any
greater whole. "There are gentlemen here in Cornwall, you
know," she pointed out. "Quite a few in the nearby
villages. You could marry one of them."
Henry scoffed. "There is no one here worth his salt and you
know it, Simpy. Besides, no one would have me. I haven't a
shilling now that Stannage Park has gone off to this
stranger, and they all think I'm a freak."
"Of course they don't!" Mrs. Simpson replied
quickly. "Everyone looks up to you."
"I know that," Henry replied, rolling her silver-gray
eyes. "They look up to me as if I were a man, and for that
I'm grateful. But men don't want to marry other men, you
know."
"Perhaps if you'd wear a dress..."
Henry looked down at her well-worn breeches. "I do wear a
dress. When appropriate."
"I can't imagine when that is," Mrs. Simpson
snorted. "Since I've never seen you in one. Not even at
church."
"How fortunate for me that the vicar is a most open-minded
gentleman."
Simpy leveled a shrewd gaze at the younger woman. "How
fortunate for you that the vicar is overfond of the French
brandy you send over once a month.
" Henry pretended not to hear. "I wore a dress to Carlyle's
funeral, if you recall. And to the county ball last year.
And whenever we receive guests. I have at least five in my
closet, thank you very much. Oh, and I also wear them to
town."
"You do not."
"Well, perhaps not to our little village, but I do whenever
I go to any other town. But anyone would agree that they
are most impractical when I'm out and about overseeing the
estate." Not to mention, Henry thought wryly, that they all
looked dreadful on her.
"Well, you'd better get one on when Mr. Dunford arrives."
"I'm not completely daft, Simpy." Henry chucked the apple
across the kitchen into a bucket of scraps. It fell
squarely in, and she let out a whoop of pride. "Haven't
missed that bucket in months."
Mrs. Simpson shook her head. "If only someone would teach
you how to be a girl."
"Viola tried," Henry replied cheekily. "And she might have
succeeded if she'd lived longer. But the truth is, I like
myself just fine." Most of the time, at least, she thought.
Every now and then she'd see a fine lady in a gorgeous gown
that fit her to perfection. Such women didn't have feet,
Henry decided. They had rollers - virtually gliding along.
And wherever they went, a dozen besotted men followed.
Henry would wistfully stare at this entourage, imagining
them mooning after her. Then she laughed. That particular
dream wasn't likely to come true, and besides, she liked
her life just fine, didn't she?
"Henry?" Mrs. Simpson said, leaning forward. "Henry, I was
talking to you."
"Hmmm?" Henry blinked herself out of her reverie. "Oh, I'm
sorry, I was just thinking about what to do about the
cows," she lied. "I'm not sure we've got enough room for
all of them."
"You should be thinking about what to do when Mr. Dunford
arrives. He did send word that it would be this afternoon,
didn't he?"
"Yes, blast him."
"Henry!" Mrs. Simpson said reprovingly.
Henry shook her head and sighed. "If ever there was a time
for cursing, it's now, Simpy. What if he wants to take an
interest in Stannage Park? Or worse - what if he wants to
take charge?"
"If he does, it will be his right. He does own it, you
know."
"I know, I know. More's the pity."
Mrs. Simpson shaped the dough into a loaf and then set it
aside to rise. Wiping off her hands, she said, "Maybe he'll
sell it. If he sold it to a local you wouldn't have
anything to worry about. Everyone knows there's nobody
better to manage Stannage Park than you."
Henry hopped down from her perch on the counter, planted
her hands on her hips, and began to pace across the
kitchen. "He can't sell. It's entailed. If it weren't, I
daresay Carlyle would have left it to me."
"Oh. Well, then you're just going to have to do your best
to get along with Mr. Dunford, then."
"That's Lord Stannage now," Henry groaned. "Lord Stannage -
owner of my home and decider of my future."
"Just what does that mean?"
"It means that he's my guardian."
"What?" Mrs. Simpson dropped her rolling pin.
"I'm his ward."
"But... but that's impossible. You don't even know the
man."
Henry shrugged. "It's the way of the world, Simpy. Women
haven't brains, you know. We need guardians to guide us."
"I can't believe you didn't tell me."
"I don't tell you everything, you know."
"Just about," Mrs. Simpson snorted.
Henry smiled sheepishly. It was true that she and the
housekeeper were much closer than one would expect. She
absently twirled her fingers around a lock of her long
brown hair, one of her few concessions to vanity. It would
have been more sensible to cut it short, but it was thick
and soft, and Henry just couldn't bear to part with it.
Besides, it was her habit to wind it around her fingers
while she was thinking hard about a problem, as she was
doing now.
"Wait a minute!" she exclaimed.
"What?"
"He can't sell the place, but that doesn't mean he has to
live here."
Mrs. Simpson narrowed her eyes. "I'm not certain I
understand your meaning, Henry."
"We just have to make sure that he absolutely, positively
doesn't want to live here. Chances are it won't be
difficult. He's probably one of those soft London sorts.
But it certainly couldn't hurt to make him slightly, er,
uncomfortable."
"What on earth are you thinking of, Henrietta Barrett?
Putting rocks in the poor man's mattress?"
"Nothing so crude, I assure you," Henry scoffed. "We shall
show him every kindness. We shall be politeness
personified. But we shall endeavor to point out that he is
not suited for country life. He could learn to love the
role of absentee landlord. Especially if I send him
quarterly profits."
"I thought you poured the profits back into the estate."
"I do. But I'll just have to split them in half. I'll send
half to the new Lord Stannage and reinvest half here. I
won't like doing it, but it will be better than having him
in residence."
Mrs. Simpson shook her head. "Just what exactly are you
planning to do to him?"
Henry twirled her finger in her hair. "I'm not certain.
I'll have to give it some thought."
Mrs. Simpson looked over at a clock. "You'd better think
fast, because he'll be here within the hour."
Henry walked over to the door. "I'd better wash."
"If you don't want to meet him smelling like the great
outdoors," Mrs. Simpson retorted. "And not the part with
flowers and honey, if you know what I mean."
Henry shot her a cheeky grin. "Will you have someone fill a
bath for me?" At the housekeeper's nod, she dashed up the
back stairs. Mrs. Simpson was right. She smelled rather
unsavory. But then, what could one expect after a morning
overseeing the construction of a new pigpen? It had been
messy work, but Henry had been glad to do it. Or rather,
she admitted to herself, to supervise it. Getting knee deep
in muck was not exactly her thing.
She stopped suddenly on the stairs, her eyes lighting up.
It was not her thing, but it was just the thing for the new
Lord Stannage. She could even bring herself to get more
actively involved in the project if it meant convincing
this Dunford fellow that this was what country lords did
all the time.
Feeling much enthused, she bounded up the rest of the
stairs to her bedroom. It would be several minutes before
the tub was filled, so she picked up her hairbrush and
walked over to the window to look out. Her hair had been
pulled back like a pony's tail, but the wind had whipped it
into snarls. She untied the ribbon; it would be easier to
wash detangled.
As she pulled the brush through her hair, she stared out
over the green fields surrounding the house. The sun was
just beginning to set, tinting the sky like a peach. Henry
sighed with love. Nothing had the power to move her like
these lands.
Then, as if timed just to spoil her perfect moment,
something glinted on the horizon. Oh, God, it wasn't-- It
was glass. Glass from a carriage window. Damn and blast -
he was early. "Stupid wretch," she muttered. "Deuced
inconsiderate of him." She glanced back over her shoulder.
Her bath wasn't ready.
Pressing closer to the window, she peered down at the
carriage that was now rolling down the drive. It was quite
elegant. Mr. Dunford must have been a man of some means
even before inheriting Stannage Park. Either that or he had
wealthy friends willing to loan him a conveyance. Henry
stared at the scene quite unabashedly, brushing her hair
all the while.
Two footmen dashed out to unload the trunks. She smiled
proudly. She had this house running like clockwork. Then
the carriage door opened. Without realizing it, she moved
even closer to the glass of her window. A booted foot
emerged. A rather nice, manly boot, Henry observed, and she
knew her boots. Then it became apparent that the boot was
attached to a leg that was every bit as manly as its
footwear. "Oh, dear," she muttered. He wasn't going to be a
weakling. Then the owner of the leg hopped out, and she saw
him in his entirety.
She dropped her hairbrush.
"Oh, my God," she breathed. He was beautiful. No, not
beautiful, she corrected, for that would imply some sort of
effeminate quality, and this man certainly had none of
that. He was tall, with a firmly muscled body and broad
shoulders. His hair was thick and brown, slightly longer
than was fashionable. And his face... Henry may have been
looking down at him from fourteen feet up, but even she
could see that his face was everything a face ought to be.
His cheekbones were high, his nose straight and strong, and
his mouth finely molded with a slight wry quality to it.
She couldn't see what color his eyes were, but she had a
sinking feeling that they would be filled with shrewd
intelligence. And he was much, much younger than she'd
expected. She'd been hoping for someone in his fifties.
This man couldn't be a day over thirty.
Henry groaned. This was going to be much harder than she'd
anticipated. She was going to have to be very crafty indeed
to fool this one. With a sigh, she reached down for her
hairbrush and walked back to her bath.
As Dunford was quietly inspecting the front of his new
home, a movement in an upstairs window caught his eye. The
sun was glinting off the glass, but it appeared to be a
girl with long, brown hair. Before he could get a better
look, however, she'd turned and disappeared into the room.
That was odd. No servant would be standing idle by a window
at this time of day, especially with her hair unbound. He
wondered briefly who she was, then let the thought drift
from his mind. He'd have time enough to find out about her.
Right now he had more important things to attend to.
The entire staff of Stannage Park had assembled in front of
the house for his inspection. There were about two dozen
altogether - a small number by ton standards, but then
again Stannage Park was a fairly modest home for a peer of
the realm. The butler, a thin man named Yates, was taking
great pains to make the process as formal as possible.
Dunford tried to humor him by adopting a slightly austere
manner; it seemed to be what the servants expected of the
new lord of the manor. It was hard to suppress a smile,
however, as maid after maid bobbed a curtsy in his honor.
He had never expected a title, never expected lands of his
own or a household to go with it. His father had been a
younger son of a younger son; God only knew how many
Dunfords had had to die to put him in line for this
inheritance.
After the last maid had bobbed up and down, Dunford
returned his attention to the butler. "You run an excellent
house, Yates, if this introduction is any indication."
Yates, who had never acquired the stone-faced facade that
was a prerequisite among London butlers, flushed with
pleasure. "Thank you, my lord. We do try as hard as we can,
but it's Henry we'd have to thank."
Dunford raised a brow. "Henry?"
Yates gulped. He should have called her Miss Barrett.
That's what the new Lord Stannage would expect, him being
from London and all that. And he was Henry's new guardian,
wasn't he? Mrs. Simpson had pulled him aside and whispered
that particular tidbit in his ear not ten minutes
ago. "Umm, Henry is..." His voice trailed off. It was so
hard to think of her as anything but Henry. "That is to
say..."
But Dunford's attention had already been captured by Mrs.
Simpson, who was assuring him that she had been at Stannage
Park for over twenty years and knew everything about the
estate, well, at least about the house, and if he needed
anything...
Dunford blinked as he tried to focus on the housekeeper's
words. Dimly he sensed that she was nervous. That was
probably why she was rattling on like a... like a
something. What exactly he didn't know, and what was she
saying? A flash of movement in the stables caught his eye
and he allowed his gaze to wander in that direction. He
waited a moment. Oh, well, he must have imagined it. He
turned back to the housekeeper. She was saying something
about Henry. Who was Henry? The question formed on his
tongue and would have rolled off his lips if a giant pig
hadn't suddenly exploded out through the partially open
door of the stables.
"Holy, bloody..." Dunford breathed, unable to complete his
curse. He was mesmerized by the sheer ludicrousness of the
situation. The creature was hurtling across the lawn moving
faster than any pig had a right to. It was an enormous
porcine beast - surely that was all one could call it -
this was no ordinary swine. Dunford had no doubt it would
feed half the ton if taken to a proper butcher.
The pig reached the assembly of servants, and the maids
shrieked, running in every possible direction. The pig,
stunned by the sudden movement, stopped, raised its snout,
and let out a hellish squeal. And then another, and
another, and...
"Will you shut up!" Dunford commanded.
The pig, sensing authority, didn't just shut up - it
actually laid down.
Henry did a double-take, impressed in spite of herself. She
had dashed downstairs the minute she saw the pig emerge
from the stables and had arrived in the front drive just as
the new Lord Stannage was trying out his new lordly
imperiousness on barnyard animals.
She ran forward, forgetting that she hadn't managed to take
that bath she knew she needed, forgetting that she was
still garbed in boys' clothes. Dirty boys' clothes.
"So sorry, my lord," she muttered, offering him a tight
smile before leaning down and grabbing the pig's collar.
She probably shouldn't have interfered, should have let the
pig get bored of sitting on the ground, should have laughed
when it came forward and did unspeakable things to the new
Lord Stannage's boots. But she took far too much pride in
Stannage Park not to try to salvage the disaster in some
way. There was nothing in the world that meant as much to
her as this smoothly running estate, and she couldn't bear
that someone might think that free-roaming pigs were a
common occurrence, even if that someone was a London lord
of whom she heartily wanted to be rid.
A farmhand ran up, took the pig from her, and led it back
to the stables. Henry straightened, suddenly aware of the
way every last servant was gaping at her, and wiped her
hands on her breeches. She glanced over at the
darklyhandsome man standing across from her. "How do you
do, Lord Stannage?" she said, curving her lips into a
welcoming smile. After all, there was no need for him to
realize that she was trying to scare him away.
"How do you do, Miss, er..."
Henry's eyes narrowed. He didn't realize who she was? No
doubt he'd been expecting his ward to be a trifle younger,
a pampered and spoiled young miss who never ventured out of
doors, much less ran an entire estate. "Miss Henrietta
Barrett," she said in a tone that said that she expected
him to recognize the name. "But you can just call me Henry.
Everybody does."
Prologue
William Dunford snorted with disgust as he watched his
friends gaze longingly into each other's eyes. Lady
Arabella Blydon, one of his best friends these past two
years, had just gotten herself married to Lord John
Blackwood, and now they were looking at each other as if
they wanted to eat each other up. It was revoltingly cute.
Dunford tapped his foot and rolled his eyes, hoping that
they would be able to tear themselves apart. The three of
them, along with Dunford's best friend Alex, the Duke of
Ashbourne, and his wife Emma, who happened to be Belle's
cousin, were on their way to a ball. Their carriage had met
with a mishap, and they were presently waiting for a fresh
one to be brought around.
At the sound of wheels rolling along the cobbles, Dunford
turned. The new carriage pulled up to a halt in front of
them, but Belle and John didn't appear to notice. In fact,
they almost looked as if they were ready to throw
themselves into each other's arms and make love on the
spot. Dunford decided that he had had enough. "Yoo-hoo!" he
called out in a nauseatingly sweet voice. "Young lovers!"
John and Belle finally tore their eyes off one another and
turned, blinking, to Dunford, who was making his way toward
them.
"If the two of you can stop making verbal love to each
other, we can be on our way. In case you hadn't noticed,
the fresh carriage is here."
John took a deep and ragged breath before turning to
Dunford and saying, "Tact, I take it, was not emphasized in
your upbringing."
Dunford smiled merrily. "Not at all. Shall we be off?"
John turned to Belle and offered her his arm. "My dear?"
Belle accepted his gesture with a smile, but as they passed
Dunford, she turned and hissed, "I'm going to kill you for
this."
"I'm sure you'll try." The quintet was soon settled into
the new carriage. After a few moments, however, John and
Belle were gazing rapturously at each other again. John
laid his hand on hers and tapped his fingers against her
knuckles. Belle let out a little mewl of contentment.
"Oh, for God's sake!" Dunford exclaimed, turning to Alex
and Emma. "Will you look at them? Even the two of you
weren't this nauseating."
"Someday," Belle said in a low voice, her finger jabbing at
him, "you're going to meet the woman of your dreams, and
then I'm going to make your life miserable."
"Afraid not, my dear Arabella. The woman of my dreams is
such a paragon she couldn't possibly exist."
"Oh, please," Belle snorted. "I bet that within a year
you'll be tied up, leg-shacked, and loving it." She sat
back with a satisfied smile. Beside her John was shaking
with mirth.
Dunford leaned forward, resting his elbows on his
knees. "I'll take that bet. How much are you willing to
lose?"
"How much are you willing to lose?"
Emma turned to John. "You seem to have married a gambling
woman."
"Had I known, you can be sure I would have weighed my
actions more carefully."
Belle gave her new husband a playful jab in the ribs as she
leveled a quelling stare at Dunford and asked, "Well?"
"A thousand pounds."
"Done."
"Are you crazy?" John exclaimed.
"Am I to assume that only men can gamble?"
"Nobody makes such a fool's bet, Belle," John said. "You've
just made a wager with the man who controls the outcome.
You can only lose."
"Don't underestimate the power of love, my dear. Although
in Dunford's case, perhaps only lust will do."
"You wound me," Dunford replied, placing his hand
dramatically over his heart for emphasis. "Assuming I am
incapable of the higher emotions."
"Aren't you?"
Dunford's lips clamped together in a thin line. Was she
right? He really had no idea. Either way, in a year's time
he'd be a thousand pounds richer. Easy money.
Chapter One
A few months later, Dunford was sitting in his salon,
taking tea with Belle. She had just stopped by to chat; he
was glad for this unexpected visit since they didn't see
quite as much of each other now that she was married.
"Are you certain that John isn't going to come barging over
here with a gun and call me out?" Dunford teased.
"He's too busy for that sort of nonsense," she said with a
smile.
"Too busy to indulge his possessive nature? How odd."
Belle shrugged. "He trusts you, and more importantly, he
trusts me."
"A veritable paragon of virtue," Dunford said dryly,
telling himself that he was not in the least bit jealous of
his friend's marital bliss. "And how-"
A knock sounded on the door. They looked up to see
Whatmough, Dunford's unflappable butler, standing in the
doorway. "A solicitor has arrived, sir."
Dunford raised a brow. "A solicitor, you say. I cannot
fathom why."
"He is most insistent, sir."
"Show him in, then." Dunford turned to Belle and gave her a
what-do-you-suppose-this-could-be shrug.
She smiled mischievously. "Intriguing."
"I'll say."
Whatmough ushered the solicitor in. A graying man of medium
stature, he looked very excited to see Dunford. "Mr.
Dunford?"
Dunford nodded.
"I cannot tell you how glad I am to have finally located
you," the solicitor said enthusiastically. He looked at
Belle with a puzzled expression. "And is this Mrs. Dunford?
I was led to believe that you were not married, sir. Oh,
this is odd. Most odd."
"I'm not married. This is Lady Blackwood. A friend. And you
are?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. Most sorry." The solicitor took out a
handkerchief and patted his brow. "I am Mr. Percival
Leverett, of Cragmont, Hopkins, Topkins, and Leverett." He
leaned forward, adding extra emphasis when he said his
name. "I have very important news for you. Most important
indeed."
Dunford waved his arms expansively. "Let's hear it, then."
Leverett glanced over at Belle and then back at
Dunford. "Perhaps we should speak privately, sir? Since she
is not a relation."
"Of course." Dunford turned to Belle. "You don't mind, do
you?"
"Oh, not at all," she assured him, her smile saying that
she would have a thousand questions ready when they were
through. "I'll wait."
Dunford motioned toward a door leading to his study. "Right
through here, Mr. Leverett."
They left the room, and Belle was delighted to note that
they did not shut the door properly. She immediately stood
up and moved to the chair closest to the slightly open
door. She craned her neck, her ears pricking up
immediately.
A mumble of voices.
More mumble.
And then, from Dunford - "My cousin who?"
Mumble, mumble.
"From where?"
Mumble, mumble, something that sounded like Cornwall.
"How many times removed?"
No, that couldn't have been eight that she heard.
"And he left me what?"
Belle clapped her hands together. How delightful. Dunford
had just come into an unexpected inheritance. She rather