"That much was never in doubt. But all the same—"

"No, no," she said with an expansive wave of her hand. "There is nothing else to be done. I cannot take water from the animals. I take my position here at Stannage Park very seriously, and I could not be so remiss in my duties. I shall see to it that you are able to bathe twice a week, and I—"

Dunford heard himself groan.

"—I will bathe every other week. 'Twill be no great hardship."

"For you, perhaps," he muttered.

"It's a good thing I bathed yesterday."

"Henry," he began, wondering how to approach this issue without being unforgivably rude. "I really don't want to deprive you of bathwater."

"Oh, but this is your home. If you want to bathe twice a week—"

"I want to bathe every day," he ground out, "but I will content myself with twice a week, provided you do the same." He gave up all hope of approaching the discussion politely. This was quite the most bizarre conversation he'd ever had with a female—not that Henry seemed to qualify as a female in any sense of the word with which he'd been previously acquainted. There was that beautiful hair of hers, of course, and one could not easily dismiss her silvery-gray eyes...

But females simply did not engage in lengthy discussions about bathing. Especially in a gentleman's bedroom. Especially, especially when the gentleman in question was wearing nothing but a robe. Dunford liked to think of himself as rather open-minded, but really, this was too much.

She exhaled. "I shall consider it. If it would please you, I could check on the water stores. If it is in ample supply, I might be able to accommodate you."

"I would appreciate that. Very much."

"Right." She put her hand on the doorknob. "Now that we have that settled, I'll let you return to your morning ablutions."

"Or lack thereof," he said, unable to summon enough enthusiasm even to twist his mouth into a wry smile.

"It is not as bad as that. We certainly have enough water to provide you with a small basinful every morning. You'd be surprised how far that will go."

"I probably would not be at all surprised."

"Oh, but one really can achieve a measure of cleanliness with just a bit of water. I'd be happy to give you detailed instructions."

Dunford felt the first stirrings of humor. He leaned forward, a rakish gleam in his eye. "That could prove most interesting."

Henry immediately blushed. "Detailed written instructions, that is. I—I—"

"That won't be necessary," Dunford said, taking pity on her. Maybe she was more of a female than he thought.

"Good," she said gratefully. "I appreciate that. I don't know why I brought it up. I—I'll just go down to breakfast. You should come soon. It is our most filling meal, and you'll need your strength—"

"Yes, I know. You explained it in great detail last night. I had better eat well in the morning, because it's porridge at noon."

"Yes. I think we have a bit of leftover pheasant, so it won't be as austere as usual, but—"

He held up his hand, not wanting to hear anything more about the slow starvation she had planned for him. "Say no more, Henry. Why don't you go down to breakfast? I shall join you shortly. My ablutions, as you so gently called them, shan't take very long this morning."

"Yes, of course." She hurried out of the room.

Henry managed to make it halfway down the hall before she had to stop and lean against the wall. Her entire body was shaking with mirth, and she could barely stand. The expression on his face when she told him he could bathe only once a week—priceless! Topped only by his expression when she told him she would bathe only every two weeks.

Ridding herself of Dunford, Henry reflected, was not going to take as long as she had originally anticipated.

Going without a bath was not going to be fun, Henry had always been quite fastidious. But it was not too great a sacrifice for Stannage Park, and besides, she had a feeling that her lack of cleanliness was going to be harder on Dunford than on her.

She made her way down to the small dining room. Breakfast had not yet been laid on the table, so she headed into the kitchen. Mrs. Simpson was standing in front of the stove, sliding sausages around on a skillet so as not to burn them.

"Hello, Simpy."

The housekeeper turned around. "Henry! What are you doing here? I would have thought you'd be busy with our new guest."

Henry rolled her eyes. "He isn't our guest, Simpy. We're his guests. Or at least I am. You have an official position."

"I know this has been difficult for you."

Henry just smiled, judging it imprudent to let Mrs. Simpson know she had actually been enjoying herself this morning. After a long pause she said, "Breakfast smells lovely, Simpy."

The housekeeper shot her an odd look. "Same food as every day."

"Perhaps I am hungrier than usual. And I shall have to eat my fill, because the new Lord Stannage is somewhat—shall we say—austere."

Mrs. Simpson slowly turned around. "Henry, what on earth are you trying to tell me?"

Henry shrugged helplessly. "He wants porridge for lunch."

"Porridge! Henry, if this is one of your crazy schemes—"

"Really, Simpy, do you think I'd go that far? You know how much I detest porridge."

"I suppose we could have porridge. I shall have to make something special for dinner, though."

"Mutton."

"Mutton?" Mrs. Simpson's eyes widened in disbelief.