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Curse it, why couldn't she have stayed in just one place? Was there any reason why she should have lain on one side of the bed and then moved to the other to make room for him? Now all of the pillows smelled like her, like that vague lemony scent that always wafted around her face. And the blasted chit moved so much in her sleep that even staying on his back didn't protect him completely.
Don't breathe through your nose, he chanted internally. Don't breathe through your nose.
She rolled over, emitting a soft sigh.
Close your ears.
She made some funny little snapping sound with her lips, then rolled over again.
It's not her, a little piece of his mind screamed. This would happen with any woman.
Oh, give it up, the rest of his brain replied. You want Henry, and you want her bad.
Dunford gritted his teeth and prayed for sleep.
He prayed hard.
And he was not a religious man.
Henry felt warm. Warm and soft and...content. She was having the most beautiful dream. She wasn't entirely certain what was happening in the dream, but whatever it was, it was leaving her feeling utterly indulged and languid. She shifted in her sleep, sighing contentedly as the smell of warm wood and brandy drifted under her nose. It was a lovely smell. Rather like Dunford. He always smelled like warm wood and brandy, even when he hadn't had a drop of drink. Funny how he managed that. Funny how his smell was in her bed.
Henry's eyelids fluttered open.
Funny how he was in her bed.
She let out an involuntary gasp before she remembered she was at an inn on the way to London and had done what no gently bred lady would ever ever do. She had offered to share her bed with a gentleman.
Henry bit her lip and sat up. He had looked so uncomfortable. Surely it wasn't such a sin to spare him a night of tossing and turning followed by several days of an aching back. And it wasn't as if he'd touched her. Hell, she thought indelicately, he didn't need to. The man was a human furnace. She probably would have felt the warmth of his body clear across the room.
The sun was beginning to come up, and the entire room was bathed in a rosy glow. Henry looked down at the man lying next to her. She rather hoped this entire escapade did not ruin her reputation before she even managed to acquire one, but if it did, she thought wryly, it would be rather ironic, considering she'd done nothing of which to be ashamed—besides wanting him, of course.
She admitted that to herself now. These strange sensations he elicited in her—they were desire, plain and simple. Even if she knew she couldn't act on these feelings, there was no use lying to herself about them.
This honesty was becoming painful, however. She knew she couldn't have him. He didn't love her, and he wasn't going to. He was bringing her to London to marry her off. He'd said as much.
If only he weren't so darned nice.
If she could hate him, everything would be so much easier. She could be mean and vicious and convince him to release her from his life. If he were insulting to her, her desire for him would certainly wither and fade.
Henry was discovering that love and desire were, for her at least, irrevocably entwined. And part of the reason she was so crazy about him was that he was such a good person. If he were a lesser man, he wouldn't own up to his responsibility as her guardian, and he wouldn't insist on taking her to London and giving her a season.
And he certainly wouldn't be doing all this because he wanted her to be happy.
Clearly, he was not an easy man to hate.
Hesitantly, she reached out her hand and brushed a lock of dark brown hair away from his eyes. Dunford mumbled sleepily and then yawned. Henry jerked her arm back, fearful that she had woken him.
He yawned again, this time very loudly, and lazily opened his eyes.
"I'm sorry I woke you up," she said quickly.
"Was I sleeping?"
She nodded.
"So there really is a God," he muttered.
"Excuse me?"
"Just a little morning prayer of thanks," he said dryly.
"Oh." Henry blinked in surprise. "I had no idea you were so religious."
"I'm not. That is—" He paused and exhaled. "It's remarkable what can prompt a man to discover religion."
"I'm sure," she murmured, having not a clue what he was talking about.
Dunford turned his head on the pillow so that he was facing her. Henry looked damned good first thing in the morning. Wispy tendrils of hair had escaped from her braid and were curling gently around her face. The soft light of morning seemed to turn these errant strands to spun gold. He took a deep breath and shuddered, willing his body not to react.
It did not, of course, obey.
Henry, meanwhile, had suddenly realized her clothing was on a chair clear across the room. "I say," she said nervously, "this certainly is awkward."
"You have no idea."
"I... um...I'll be wanting to get my clothes, and I'll need to get up to get them."
"Yes?"
"Well, I don't think you ought to be seeing me in my nightgown, even if you did sleep with me last night. Oh, dear," she said in a choked voice, "that didn't come out quite the way I intended. What I meant to say was that we slept in the same bed, which I suppose is almost as bad."
Dunford reflected—rather painfully—that almost didn't really count.
"At any rate," she prattled on, awkwardness making her words run together, "I really can't get up to get my clothing, and my dressing gown appears to be just out of reach. I'm not exactly certain how this is so, but it is, so perhaps you ought to get up first, as I've already seen you—"
"Henry?"
"Yes?"
"Shut up"