Dunford snorted. "I find the image of you swooning a difficult picture to accept." He drummed his fingers on the table, tapped his foot, whistled a jaunty tune, slapped his hand against his thigh, drummed his fingers on the table again...

"Oh, stop!" Henry threw her napkin at him. "Sometimes you are nothing but a big baby." She stood up. "Give me a moment to put on a jacket. It's a bit chilly out."

He stood. "Ah, what bliss it is to have you at my beck and call."

The look she gave him was mutinous, to say the least.

"Do smile, Henry. I cannot bear it when you're grumpy." He cocked his head and tried to look boyishly contrite. "Say you'll forgive me. Please. Please. Pleeeeease."

"For goodness sake, stop!" she laughed. "You must know I was never angry."

"I know." He grabbed her hand and started pulling her toward the door. "But you're so much fun to provoke. Come along now, we have a great deal of territory to cover today."

"Why does it suddenly sound as if I've joined the army?"

Dunford made a little hop as he avoided stepping on Rufus. "I was a soldier once."

"Were you?" She looked up in surprise.

"Mmm-hmm. On the peninsula."

"Was it dreadful?"

"Very." He opened the door, and they walked out into the crisp sunshine. "Don't believe the stories you hear about the glory of war. Most of it is appalling."

She shuddered. "I would think so."

"It's far, far nicer to be here in Cornwall, as you say at the end of the world, in the company of quite the most charming young woman I've ever had the pleasure to meet."

Henry flushed and turned away, unable to hide her embarrassment. He couldn't possibly mean it. Oh, she didn't think he was lying—he wasn't the sort to do that. He was merely saying in his own way that they were friends, that she was the first female with whom he'd become quite so chummy. Then again, she'd heard him mention two married ladies with whom he was friends, so that couldn't be it.

Still, he couldn't possibly be forming a tendre for her. As she'd said before, she wasn't the sort of woman men wanted, at least not when they had all of London from which to choose. With a sigh, she pushed the thought from her mind and resolved simply to enjoy the day.

"I always assumed a Cornish estate would have cliffs and crashing waves and all that," Dunford said.

"Most of them do. We happen to be squarely in the middle of the county, however." Henry kicked a pebble in her path, aiming it straight, then kicked it again when she caught up with it. "You don't need to go very far to get to the ocean, though."

"I would imagine not. We should take a jaunt there soon."

Henry was so excited by the prospect that she started to blush. To hide her reaction, she fixed her gaze downward and concentrated on kicking her pebble.

They walked amiably to the estate's eastern border. "We have a fence up on this side," Henry explained as they neared the stone wall. "It's not ours, actually, but Squire Stinson's. He got it into his head that we were encroaching upon his land a few years back and put up this wall to keep us out."

"And were you?"

"Encroaching upon his land? Of course not. It's far inferior to Stannage Park. The wall does have one excellent use, however."

"Keeping the odious Squire Stinson away?"

She cocked her head. "That's a boon, certainly, but I was thinking of this." She scrambled to the top of the wall. "It's great fun to walk upon."

"I can see that." He vaulted up behind her, and they walked single file to the north. "How far does the wall stretch?"

"Oh, not far. About a mile or so. Where Squire Stinson's property ends."

To his surprise, Dunford found himself looking at her end—her rear end, to be precise. To his even greater surprise, he found he was enjoying the view immensely. Her breeches were baggy, but each time she took a step, they tightened around her, outlining her shapely form.

He shook his head in dismay. What on earth was wrong with him? Henry wasn't the sort for a dalliance, and the last thing he wanted to do was muck up their fledgling friendship with romance.

"Is something wrong?" Henry called out. "You're awfully silent."

"Just enjoying the view." He bit his lip.

"It is lovely, isn't it? I could gaze at it all day."

"As could I." If he hadn't been balanced atop a stone wall, he would have kicked himself.

They skipped along the wall for nearly ten minutes until Henry suddenly stopped and whirled around. "This is my favorite part."

"What is?"

"This tree." She motioned to an immense tree which grew from their side of the property but whose limbs ventured over the wall. "Stand back," she said, her voice hushed. She took a step toward the tree, stopped, and turned around. "Farther."

Dunford was curious but took a step back.

She approached the tree cautiously, reaching her arm slowly out, as if afraid the tree might bite her.

"Henry," Dunford called out. "What are you—"

She yanked her hand back. "Hush!" Once again her face was set in deep concentration, and she stretched out her arm toward the knothole.

Suddenly Dunford was aware of a low buzzing sound, almost like—

Bees.

In utter horror, Dunford watched as she inserted her hand into the swarming hive. A pulse beat furiously in his temple; his heart pounded in his ears. The damned chit was going to get herself stung a thousand times, and there was nothing he could do about it because an attempt to stop her would only infuriate the insects.