For now this would be enough. Just to watch her as she slept.

Henry blinked herself awake the next morning. She'd slept uncommonly well, a surprise considering the stress of the evening before.

She yawned, stretched, and sat up.

And then she saw him.

He'd fallen asleep in the chair across the room. He was still fully clothed and looked frightfully uncomfortable. Why had he done that? Had he thought she would not want to receive him in the bed? Or was he so repulsed by her that he couldn't bear the thought himself?

With a silent sigh, she slipped out of bed and made her way to the dressing room. She pulled on her breeches and shirt and crept back into the bedroom.

Dunford hadn't moved. His dark hair was still in his eyes, his lips looked just as kissable, and his large frame was still lodged most awkwardly in the small chair.

Henry couldn't bear it. She didn't care that he'd left her the day after they'd returned to Cornwall. She didn't care that he'd been unbelievably rude to her the night before. She didn't even care that he didn't desire her enough to give up his mistress.

The only thought in her heart was that she still loved him despite all that, and she couldn't bear to see him so uncomfortable. She padded over to where he sat, put her hands under his arms, and tugged. "Up with you, Dunford," she murmured, trying to heave him onto his feet.

His eyes gave a few sleepy blinks. "Hen?"

"Time for bed, Dunford."

He grinned sloppily. "You coming?"

Her heart lurched. "I... Ah... No, Dunford, I'm all dressed. I... Ah...have chores to do. Yes, chores." Keep talking, Hen, lest you get tempted to jump in right after him.

He looked utterly crestfallen, and leaned forward drunkenly. "Can I kiss you?"

Henry swallowed, not at all certain he was awake. He'd kissed her once before in his sleep; what harm could there be in doing it one more time? And she wanted it so badly...wanted him so badly.

She leaned up and brushed her lips against his. She heard him groan, then felt his arms come around her, his hands searching the planes of her back.

"Oh, minx," he moaned. If he was still asleep, she thought, at least he had the right person this time. At least he wanted her. Right now, at least, he wanted her. Only her.

They tumbled onto the bed, arms and legs tangling on the way down, fairly tearing each other's clothes off as they went. He kissed her desperately, tasting her skin like a starving man. She was just as frantic, wrapping her legs around him, trying to pull him closer and closer to her—right to the point where they could be one person.

Before she knew it, he was inside her, and it felt as if heaven itself had descended into their bedroom and wrapped them in its perfect embrace.

"Oh, Dunford, I love you I love you I love you." The words flew straight from her heart to her mouth, her pride be damned. She no longer cared that she wasn't enough of a woman for him. She loved him, and he loved her in his own way, and she'd say anything, do whatever it took to keep him by her side. She'd swallow her pride, she'd humble herself— anything to avoid the aching loneliness of the previous month.

He didn't seem to have heard her, so violent were his physical needs. He plunged into her, groans being ripped from his mouth with each thrust. Henry couldn't tell from his face whether he was in agony or ecstasy—perhaps it was a bit of both. Finally, just as her muscles began to quiver around him, he surged forward with stunning power, shouting her name as he poured his very life into her.

Henry's breath stopped as she was overcome by the power of her own release. She welcomed Dunford's weight as he collapsed upon her, savoring the jerky movements that accompanied his ragged breathing. They lay that way for several minutes, silent and content, until Dunford groaned and rolled off of her.

They were side by side now, facing each other, and Henry couldn't take her eyes off him as he leaned forward and kissed her.

"Did you say you loved me?" he whispered.

Henry said nothing, feeling utterly trapped.

His hand clutched her hip. "Did you?"

She tried to say yes, she tried to say no, but neither came out. Choking on her words, she wrenched herself out of his grasp and scrambled off the bed.

"Henry." His voice was low and demanded an answer.

"I can't love you!" she cried out, thrusting her arms into the shirt she recently had torn off her body.

Dunford stared at her in shock for several seconds before finally saying, "What do you mean?"

By now she was tucking the shirt into her breeches. "You need more than I can give you," she said, gasping back her sobs. "And because of that, you can never be what I need."

Dunford's bruised heart skimmed over her first sentence and focused only on the second. His expression turned to granite, and he stalked out of bed to retrieve his own clothing. "Very well then," he said in the clipped tones of one who is trying very hard not to show emotion. "I will leave for London posthaste. This afternoon, if I can manage it."

Henry swallowed convulsively.

"Is that soon enough for you?"

"You—you're going?" she asked, her voice very small.

"Isn't that what you want?" he bit out, looming over her like a dangerous—and naked—god. "Isn't it?"

She shook her head. It was a tiny movement, but he caught it. "Then what the hell do you want?" he snapped. "Do you even know?"

She stared at him mutely.

Dunford swore viciously. "I have had enough of your little games, Henry. When you decide just what it is you want out of marriage, pen me a note. I'll be in London, where my acquaintances don't try to rip my soul to shreds."