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But he would have enjoyed himself even if Stannage Park hadn't been his. Henry was delightful company. She possessed a freshness and an honesty he hadn't seen in years. Dunford had been blessed with wonderful friends, but after so long in London, he had begun to think that no one's soul was free of at least a little cynicism. Henry, on the other hand, was marvelously open and direct. Not once had he seen the familiar mask of world-weary boredom cloud her features. Henry seemed to care too much about everything and everyone to allow herself to be bored.
This was not to say she was a wide-eyed innocent willing to believe the best of everyone. She had a wicked wit and was not above employing it from time to time when pointing out a villager she found exceedingly foolish. Dunford was inclined to forgive her this weakness; he usually agreed with her assessment of foolish people.
And if every now and then he found himself looking at her oddly, wondering how her brown hair turned gold in the sun or why she always smelled vaguely of lemons...Well, that was only to be expected. It had been a long time since he'd been with a woman. His mistress had been in Birmingham for a fortnight, visiting her mother, when he left. And Henry could be rather fetching in her own unconventional way.
Not that what he felt for her was anything remotely resembling desire. But she was a woman, and he was a man, and so naturally he'd be aware of her. And of course he had kissed her once, even if that had been an accident. It was to be expected that he'd remember that kiss every now and then when she was near.
Such thoughts, however, were far from his mind as he poured himself a drink in the drawing room one evening a week after his arrival. It was nearly time for them to partake of the evening meal, and Henry would arrive any minute now.
He winced. It would be a ghastly sight. As unconventional as Henry was, she still dressed for dinner, and that meant putting on one of those hideous garments—he shuddered to call them gowns. To give her credit, she seemed to be aware they were awful. To give her even greater credit, however, she managed to act as if it didn't matter. If he hadn't grown to know her so well during the past few days, he never would have dreamed she didn't think her clothing was, if not the height of fashion, at least passably attractive.
But he had noticed how carefully she avoided looking in the mirrors that adorned the walls of the drawing room where they met before dinner. And when she found herself trapped by her reflection, she couldn't hide the pained grimace that flickered across her features.
He wanted to help her, he realized. He wanted to buy her gowns and teach her to dance and—It was stunning, this. How much he wanted to help her.
"Stealing the liquor again?" Her teasing voice brought him out of his reverie.
"It's my liquor if you recall, minx." He turned his head to look at her. She was wearing that abominable lavender creation again. He couldn't decide if it was the worst or best of the lot.
"So it is." She shrugged. "Might I have a little then?"
Wordlessly, he poured her a glass of sherry.
Henry sipped at it thoughtfully. It had become her habit to have a glass of wine with him before dinner, but no more than that. She had discovered what a lightweight she was the night he arrived. She had a sinking suspicion she would end up making calf eyes at him all through dinner if she allowed herself more than this one small sherry.
"Was your afternoon pleasant?" Dunford asked suddenly. He had spent the previous few hours by himself, poring over estate documents. Henry had gladly left him alone with the musty papers; she'd already examined them, and he certainly didn't need her to help him read.
"Yes, it was quite. I checked in on some of the tenants. Mrs. Dalrymple asked me to thank you for the food."
"I'm glad she enjoyed it."
"Oh, yes. I cannot think why we have not thought to do it before. Of course, we always send a congratulatory gift, but food for a week is much better, I think."
They sounded like an old married couple, Dunford thought with surprise. How odd.
Henry sat down on an elegant but faded sofa, tugging awkwardly at her dress as she did so. "Did you finish with those papers?"
"Almost," he said distractedly. "You know, Henry, I've been thinking."
"Have you?" She smiled impishly. "How very taxing."
"Minx. Be quiet and listen to what I have to say."
She tilted her head in a movement that seemed to say, "Well?"
"Why don't the two of us make a sojourn into town?"
She answered him with a puzzled expression. "We went to the village two days ago. Don't you recall? You wanted to meet the local merchants."
"Of course I recall. My mind is not given to forgetfulness, Henry. I'm not that old."
"Oh, I don't know," she said, her face a perfect deadpan. "You must be at least thirty."
"Nine-and-twenty," he bit out before he realized she was teasing.
She smiled. "Sometimes you're such an easy mark."
"My gullibility aside, Henry, I'd like to take a trip into town. And I don't mean the village. I think we should take ourselves to Truro."
"Truro?" It was one of Cornwall's larger towns, and Henry avoided it like the plague.
"You sound less than enthusiastic."
"I, um, I just...Well, to be frank, I just went." That wasn't entirely a lie. She'd gone two months ago, but it felt like yesterday. She always felt so awkward among strangers. At least the local people had gotten used to her eccentricities and accepted them. Most even held her in some measure of respect. But strangers were another thing altogether. And Truro was the worst. Although it was not as popular as it had been during the previous century, members of the ton still vacationed there. She could just hear them whispering unkind things about her. Fashionable ladies would laugh at her dress. Men would snicker at her lack of ladylike manners. And then, inevitably, a local would discreetly inform them that she was Miss Henrietta Barrett, but she went by the boy's name Henry, and don't you know but she parades around in breeches all the time.