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"Oh."
He closed his eyes in agony. He wanted nothing other than to stay motionless under the covers all day. Well, that wasn't entirely true. What he really wanted to do involved the young woman sitting next to him, but that wasn't going to happen, so he was opting for staying hidden. Unfortunately, part of his body really didn't want to stay hidden, and he had no idea how he was meant to get up first without scaring ten years off of her life.
Henry sat stock still until she couldn't stand it any longer. "Dunford?"
"Yes?" It was amazing how a single word could convey such feeling. And not good feelings, either.
"What are we going to do?"
He took a deep breath—possibly his twentieth of the morning. "You are going to bury yourself under the covers as you did last night, and I am going to get dressed."
She obeyed his order with alacrity.
He rose with an unabashed groan and crossed the room to where he'd left his clothing. "My valet will have a fit," he muttered. "What?" she yelled from beneath the covers.
"I said," he said more loudly, "that my valet will have a fit."
"Oh, no," she moaned, sounding considerably distressed.
He sighed. "What is it now, Hen?"
"You really should have your valet," came the muffled reply. "I feel dreadful."
"Don't," he ordered sharply.
"Don't what?"
"Don't feel dreadful," he practically snapped.
"But I can't help it. We're going to be arriving in London today, and you'll want to look nice for your friends and...and for whomever else you want to look nice and..."
How was it, he wondered, that she managed to sound as if she would be irrevocably hurt if he did not avail himself of his valet?
"It's not as if I have a maid, so I'm sure to look rumpled anyway, but there is no need for you to do so."
He sighed.
"Therefore you must get back into bed."
That, he thought, was a very bad idea.
"Hurry up now," she said briskly.
He voiced his feelings. "This is a very bad idea, Hen."
"Trust me."
He couldn't help the short bark of ragged laughter that flew from his mouth.
"Just get back into bed and hide under the covers," she explained patiently. "I'll get up and get dressed. Then I'll go downstairs and summon your valet. You'll look beautiful."
Dunford turned to face the large, extremely vocal lump in the bed. "Beautiful?" he echoed.
"Beautiful, handsome, whatever it is you want to be called."
He had been called handsome many times, by many different women, but never had he felt as pleased as he did that very moment. "Oh, all right," he sighed. "If you insist." A few seconds later he was back in the bed, and she was scurrying out and across the room.
"Don't peek," she called out as she pulled her dress over her head. It was the same one she'd worn the previous day, but she had laid it carefully on a chair the night before, and she supposed it was less wrinkled than those in her valise.
"I wouldn't dream of it," he lied blandly.
A few moments later she said, "I'll summon your valet." Then he heard the click of the door.
After sending Hastings up to his employer, she wandered into the dining room, hopeful that she could order some breakfast. She had a feeling she wasn't supposed to be there unescorted, but she didn't know what else to do. The innkeeper spied her and hurried to her side. She had just finished ordering when she saw a little old lady with blue hair out of the corner of her eye. She looked unbelievably regal and haughty. The Dowager Duchess of Beresford. It had to be. Dunford had warned her not to let the lady see her at all costs.
"In our room," Henry blurted out in a strangled voice. "We'd like breakfast in our room." Then she took off like a shot, praying the duchess hadn't seen her.
Henry ran up the stairs and burst into the room, not giving a thought to its inhabitants. With slowly dawning horror, she realized Dunford was only half dressed. "Oh, my," she breathed, staring at his naked chest, "I'm so sorry."
"Henry, what happened?" he asked urgently, oblivious to the shaving lather on his face.
"Oh, dear. I'm sorry. I-I'll just stand in the corner with my back turned."
"Henry, for God's sake, what is wrong?"
She stared at him with wide silver eyes. He was going to come to her, she thought. He was going to touch her, and he wasn't wearing a shirt. Then she belatedly noticed the presence of the valet. "I must have entered the wrong room," she hastily fabricated. "Mine is right next door. It was just... I saw the duchess...and..."
"Henry," Dunford said in an unbelievably patient voice. "Why don't you wait in the hall? We're almost done here."
She nodded jerkily and nearly flew back into the hall. A few minutes later the door opened to reveal Dunford, looking marvelously debonair. Her stomach did a somersault. "I ordered breakfast," she blurted out. "It should be here any minute now."
"Thank you." Noting her discomfort, he added, "I apologize if our rather unconventional stay here has disturbed you in any way."
"Oh, no," she said quickly, "it hasn't disturbed me. It's just... I just...Well, you've got me thinking about reputations and such."
"As well you should. London, I'm afraid, will not afford you the same measure of freedom you enjoyed in Cornwall."
"I know that. It's just..." She paused thankfully as she watched Hastings slip out of the room. Dunford shut the door a discreet halfway. When she continued, it was in a loud whisper. "It's just that I know I shouldn't be seeing you without your shirt on, no matter how nice you may look, because it makes me feel quite odd, and I shouldn't encourage you after—"