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"Because," he bit out, his temper badly strained, "you are now my responsibility."
"That is quite the most asinine reasoning I have ever encountered. In my opinion—"
"You have too many opinions," he snapped.
Henry's mouth fell open. "Well!" she declared.
Dunford began to pace the room. "Our situation cannot remain as such. You cannot continue to carry on like a complete hoyden. Someone is going to have to teach you some manners. We'll have to—"
"I cannot believe your hypocrisy!" she burst out. "It was all very well for me to be the village freak when I was just an acquaintance, but now that I'm your responsibility—"
Her words died a swift death, for Dunford had grabbed her by the shoulders and pinned her against the wall. "If you call yourself a freak one more time," he said in a dangerous tone, "for the love of God I will not be held responsible for my actions."
Even in the candlelight she could see the barely leashed fury in his eyes, and she gulped with a healthy dose of fear. Still, she had never been terribly prudent, and so she continued, albeit in a much lower voice. "It does not reflect well upon your character that you did not care about my reputation up to this point. Or does your concern extend only to your wards, not your friends?"
"Henry," he said, a muscle twitching in his neck, "I think the time has come for you to stop talking."
"Is that an order, oh, dear guardian?"
He took a very deep breath before replying. "There is a difference between guardian and friend, although I hope I may be both to you."
"I think I liked you better when you were just my friend," she muttered belligerently.
"I expect that will be so."
"I expect that will be so," she mimicked, not in the least trying to hide her ire.
Dunford's eyes began to search the room for a gag. His gaze fell upon her bed, and he blinked, suddenly realizing what an idiot he must have sounded, preaching on about propriety when he was standing here in her bedroom, of all places. He looked over at Henry and finally noticed she was wearing her dressing gown—her dressing gown! And it was frayed and torn in places and showed altogether too much leg.
Suppressing a groan, he moved his gaze to her face. Her mouth was clamped shut in a mutinous line, and he suddenly thought that he'd really like to kiss her again, harder and faster this time. His heart was pounding for her, and he realized for the first time what a thin line there was between fury and desire. He wanted to dominate her.
Thoroughly disgusted with himself, he turned on his heel, strode across the room, and gripped the doorknob. He was going to have to get out of this house fast. Yanking the door open, he turned to her and said, "We will discuss this further in the morning."
"I expect we shall."
Later Henry reflected that it was probably for the best that he'd left the room before hearing her retort. She didn't think he'd been desirous of a reply.
Chapter 9
The rest of Henry's new dresses arrived the next morning, but she donned her white shirt and breeches just to be contrary.
"Silly man," she muttered as she yanked on her clothing. Did he think he would be able to change her? To turn her into a delicate vision of femininity? Did he think she would simper and bat her eyelashes and spend her days painting watercolors?
"Ha!" she barked out. He wasn't going to have any easy time of it. She wouldn't be able to learn to do all those things even if she wanted to. With her unwilling, it was past impossible.
Her stomach growled impatiently, so Henry pulled on her boots and made her way down to the breakfast room. She was surprised to see that Dunford was already there; she had gotten up exceptionally early, and he was one of the only people she knew who was less of a morning person than she.
His eyes raked over her costume as she sat down, but she couldn't discern even a flicker of emotion in their chocolatey depths. "Toast?" he said blandly, holding out a platter.
She plucked a piece off the plate and set it down in front of her.
"Jam?" He held out a pot of something red. Raspberry, Henry thought absently, or maybe currant. She didn't really care which, just started spreading it on her toast.
"Eggs?"
Henry set down her knife and spooned some scrambled eggs onto her plate.
"Tea?"
"Will you stop!" she burst out.
"Just trying to be solicitous," he murmured, dabbing discreetly at the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
"I can feed myself, my lord," she bit out, reaching inelegantly across the table for a plate of bacon.
He smiled and took another bite of his food, aware of the fact that he was goading her and enjoying it immensely. She was miffed at him. She didn't like his proprietary attitude. Dunford rather doubted anyone had ever told her what to do in her entire life. From what he'd heard of Carlyle, the man had given her an indecent amount of freedom. And although he was certain she'd never admit it, Dunford had a feeling Henry was a little upset that he hadn't given a thought to her reputation until now.
On that score, Dunford reflected resignedly, he was guilty. He'd been having so much fun learning about his new estate that he hadn't given a thought to his companion's unmarried status. Henry comported herself so, well, oddly—there was really no other word for it—that it just hadn't occurred to him that she was (or should be) bound by the same rules and conventions as the other young ladies of his acquaintance.
As these thoughts passed through his mind, he began to tap his fork absently against the table. The monotonous sound went on until Henry looked up, her expression telling him she was absolutely convinced his sole purpose in life was to vex her.