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"Oh, Dunford," Henry gasped. "Oh, my God."
He could have spent hours loving her in that way. She was sweet and mysterious and pure woman. But he could feel her inching toward completion, and he wanted to be joined with her when she climaxed. He needed to feel her body tighten around him.
He slid himself up along the length of her until they were face-to-face again. "Do you want me, Henry?" he whispered. "I won't do this unless you want me."
Henry looked up at him through passion-clouded eyes. "Dunford. Yes."
He nearly shuddered with relief, not knowing how he would have had the power to keep his word had she refused him. He was heavy and hard, and his body was crying for release. He pushed upward, entering her slightly. She was warm and wet, but her body was tight with inexperience, and he had to force himself to go slowly.
But Henry would have none of that. She was straining against him, arching her hips to receive his entire length. It was more than Dunford could take, and he thrust forward, sheathing himself completely within her.
It was like coming home, and he lifted himself up on his elbows so he could watch her. Suddenly he couldn't remember why he was so angry with her. He looked at her and all he could see was her face—laughing, grinning, her mouth quivering in sympathy for the baby who had died in the abandoned cottage.
"Henry," he groaned. He loved her. He pushed forward again, losing himself in a primitive rhythm. He loved her. He moved. He loved her. He kissed her brow in a desperate attempt to move ever closer to her soul.
He loved her.
He could feel her quickening beneath him. She began to twist, and odd little sounds were escaping her mouth. Then she cried out his name, every ounce of her energy in that single word.
The sensation of her clenching around him pushed him over the edge. "Oh, my God, Henry!" he shouted, unable to control his thoughts, his actions, or his words. "I love you!"
Henry went utterly still, a thousand thoughts racing through her mind in the space of a second.
He said he loved her.
She could see him at the dress shop, gently insisting she try on gowns for his nonexistent sister.
Could he mean it?
She remembered him in London, overcome with jealousy because she had taken a stroll with Ned Blydon, of all people.
Could he love her and still need other women?
She saw his face, filled with intense tenderness as he asked her if she wanted him. I won't do this unless you want me, he'd said.
Could those possibly be the words of a man who wasn't in love?
He loved her. She no longer doubted it. He loved her, but she still wasn't enough of a woman for him. Lord, it was almost more painful than thinking he didn't love her at all.
"Henry?" Dunford's voice was hoarse, still raw with spent passion.
She touched his cheek. "I believe you," she said softly.
He blinked. "What do you believe?"
"You." A tear welled up in her eye and slid down her temple to disappear in the pillows beneath her. "I believe you love me."
He stared at her, dumbfounded. She believed him? What the hell did that mean?
She had turned her head so she didn't have to look at his face. "I wish..." she began.
"What do you wish, Henry?" Dunford asked. His heart thudded in his chest, somehow recognizing that its very fate hung in the balance.
"I wish... I wish I could..." She choked on her words, wanting to say, "I wish I could be the woman you need," but unable to admit her shortcomings in so vulnerable a position.
It mattered not, anyway. Dunford never would have heard her completed sentence, for he was already on his feet and halfway out the door, not wanting to hear her pity as she said, "I wish I could love you, too."
Henry awoke the next morning with a fierce pounding in her temples. Her eyes ached, probably from a night of crying. She staggered over to the washstand and splashed some water on her face, but it did little to ease her pain.
Somehow she had managed to botch up her wedding night. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised. Some women were born knowing the womanly graces, and it was time she accepted that she wasn't one of them. It had been foolish of her even to try. She thought wistfully of Belle, who always seemed to know what to say and how to dress. But it went deeper than that. Belle had some inborn sense of femininity that, no matter how hard the lovely baroness tried, she couldn't teach to Henry. Oh, Belle had told Henry that she had made great strides, but Henry knew that Belle was simply too kind to say anything else.
Henry walked slowly to the dressing room that connected the two larger bedrooms of the master suite. Carlyle and Viola had not preferred separate bedrooms, so one of the rooms had been converted into a sitting room. Henry supposed that if she didn't want to spend every night with Dunford she would have to have another bed moved into the suite.
She sighed, knowing she did want to spend her nights with her husband and hating herself for it.
She stepped into the dressing room, noting that someone had already unpacked the dresses she'd brought back from London. She supposed she would have to hire a lady's maid now; many of the dresses were nearly impossible to don without assistance.
She pushed past the dresses to the small pile of men's clothing that had been neatly folded and left on a shelf. She picked up a pair of breeches. Too small for Dunford—they must be one of the pairs she had left behind.
Henry fingered the breeches, then looked up longingly at her new dresses. They were lovely—every shade of the rainbow and fashioned of the softest materials imaginable. Still, they had been made for the woman she had hoped to be, not the woman she was.