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Now she knew he wasn't talking about her.
"Dunford, it's time to wake up."
"Be quiet, sweetie, and get back into bed."
Sweetie? Who was sweetie?
"Dunford..."
Before she realized what was happening, his hand landed heavily on the back of her neck and she tumbled into the bed. "Dunford!"
"Shhh, sweetie, kiss me."
Kiss him? Henry thought frantically. Was he crazy? Or was she crazy because for a split second she was tempted to oblige him?
"Mmm, so sweet." He nuzzled her neck, his lips trailing upward to the underside of her chin.
"Dunford," she said shakily, "I think you're still asleep."
"Mmm-hmm, whatever you say, sweetie." His hand stole around to her backside, pulling her more tightly against him.
Henry gasped. They were separated by her clothing and the blankets, but she could still feel his hardness burning against her. She had grown up on a farm; she knew what it meant. "Dunford, I think you've made a mistake..."
He seemed not to hear. His lips had moved to her earlobe, and he was nibbling sweetly, so sweetly that Henry could feel herself melting. Dear God, she was melting right here in the arms of a man who had obviously mistaken her for someone else. Not to mention the small fact that he was sort of her enemy.
But the tingles traveling up and down her spine proved far stronger than common sense. What would it feel like to be kissed? To be kissed, truly and deeply, right on the mouth? No man had ever so much as given her a peck before, and it didn't seem likely that one would anytime soon. And if she had to take advantage of Dunford's sleepy state...well, so be it. Arching her neck ever so slightly, she turned her face to his, offering him her lips.
He took them greedily, his lips and tongue moving expertly against her mouth. Henry felt the breath leave her body, felt herself straining for something more. Hesitantly, she touched her hand to his shoulder. His muscle leaped at the contact, and he groaned and pulled her closer.
So this was passion. Surely this wasn't so sinful. Surely she could allow herself to enjoy this, at least until he woke up.
Until he woke up? Henry froze. How on earth would she be able to explain this to him? Frantically, she began to struggle in his arms. "Dunford! Dunford, stop!" Summoning all her strength, she shoved against him so hard she landed on the floor with a loud thump.
"What on earth?"
Henry swallowed nervously. He sounded awake.
His face appeared over the side of the bed. "Curse it, woman! What the devil are you doing here?"
"Waking you up?" Her words came out more like a question than she would have liked.
"What the—" He uttered a word Henry had never heard, then exploded with, "For Chrissakes, it's still dark out!"
"That's when we get up around here," she said loftily, lying through her teeth.
"Well, good for you. Now get out!"
"I thought you wanted me to show you the estate."
"In the morning," he ground out.
"It is morning."
"It is still night, you miserable little hellion." He clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to get up, stride across the room, and pull open the curtains to prove to her that the sun had not yet come up. In all truth the only thing stopping him was his nakedness. His nakedness and his...arousal.
What the hell?
He looked back over at her. She was still sitting on the floor, her eyes wide with an expression that hovered somewhere between nervousness and desire.
Desire?
He looked at her a little more closely. Wisps of hair floated around her face; he couldn't imagine that someone as efficient as Henry would have arranged them that way on purpose if she were planning to spend the day outside. Her lips looked unbearably pink and slightly swollen, as if she'd just been kissed.
"What are you doing on the floor?" he asked in a very low voice.
"Well, as I said, I came in to wake you up—"
"Save it, Henry. What are you doing on the floor?"
She had the grace at least to blush. "Oh. That's a long story, actually."
"Obviously," he drawled out, "I have all day."
"Hmmm, yes, so you do." Her mind spun frantically until she realized there was nothing she could say that would be remotely plausible, even the truth. He certainly wouldn't believe he had initiated a kiss with her.
"Henry..." There was no mistaking the threat in his voice.
"Well," she stalled, deciding with a sense of dread she'd have to tell him the truth and face his horrified reaction. "I, um, I came in to wake you up, and you, um, you seem to be a rather sound sleeper." She looked up hopefully at him, praying that he might possibly decide that that was explanation enough.
He crossed his arms, obviously waiting for more.
"You... I think you mistook me for someone else," she continued, painfully aware of the blush creeping across her face.
"And who, pray tell, was that?"
"Someone you call sweetie, I'm afraid."
Sweetie? That was what he called Christine, his mistress, who was tucked away in London. An uncomfortable feeling began to form in the pit of his stomach. "And then what happened?"
"Well, you grabbed my neck, and I fell on the bed."
"And?"
"And that's all," Henry said quickly, suddenly realizing she could avoid telling the entire truth. "I shoved against you and woke you up, and in the process I fell on the floor."
His eyes narrowed. Was she leaving something out? He had always been very active in his sleep. He couldn't count the number of times he had woken up in the middle of making love to Christine. He didn't even want to think about what he might have initiated with Henry. "I see," he said in clipped tones. "I apologize for any untoward behavior committed against your person while I was asleep."