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He must have proposed out of pity, that and his blasted sense of responsibility. Why else would he shackle himself to a tomboyish freak who hadn't even known the difference between a day dress and an evening gown?

He had said he loved her. She had believed him. What an utter fool she was. Unless...

Henry choked on a sob.

Maybe he did love her. Maybe she hadn't misread him. Maybe she simply wasn't womanly enough to satisfy him. Maybe he needed more than she could ever be.

Or maybe he had simply lied. She didn't know which she preferred to believe.

The astounding part was that she didn't hate him. He had done too much for her, showed her too much kindness for her ever to hate him. She didn't think he had slept with Christine out of any sense of malice toward her. And she didn't think he'd done it for some perverse thrill.

No, he'd probably slept with her just because he'd thought it his right. He was a man, and men did things like that.

It wouldn't have hurt so much if he hadn't told her he loved her. She even might have been able to go through with the marriage.

But how was she to break it off? All of London was abuzz about their engagement; to cry off now would be the height of embarrassment. She didn't particularly mind the thought of the gossip for herself. She'd head back to the country—although not to Stannage Park, she thought painfully. He probably wouldn't allow her to return. But she could go somewhere where the ton couldn't reach her.

He, however, couldn't. His life was here in London.

"Oh, God!" she burst out. "Why can't you just hurt him?"

She loved him still. Somewhere someone had to be laughing about this.

He was going to have to be the one to call off the engagement. That way he wouldn't suffer the embarrassment of being jilted. But how to make him do it? How?

She laid on her bed for over an hour, her eyes focusing on a tiny crack in the ceiling. What could she do to make him hate her so much he'd break off the engagement? None of her schemes seemed plausible, until...Yes, that was it. That was exactly it.

With a heavy heart she walked over to her desk and pulled open the drawer Caroline had thoughtfully stocked with writing paper, ink, and a quill. Out of nowhere she remembered the imaginary friend she'd had as a child. Rosalind. That name would do as well as any.

Blydon House London 2 May 1817

My dear Rosalind,

I am sorry that I have not written in such a long time. My only excuse is that my life has changed so dramatically in the last few months that I have barely had time to think. I am to be married! I can imagine you are surprised. Carlyle passed away not so very long ago, and a new Lord Stannage came to Stannage Park. He was a very distant cousin of Carlyle's. They didn't even know each other. I haven't the time to expound upon the details, but we have become engaged to be married. I am very excited, as I'm sure you cab imagine, as this means I may stay at Stannage Park for the rest of my life. You know how much I love it there.

His name is Dunford. That is his family name, but no one calls him by his given name. He is very nice and treats me kindly. He has told me he loves me. Naturally, I answered similarly. I thought it only polite. Of course I am marrying him for my dear, dear Stannage Park, but I do like him well enough and didn't want to hurt his feelings. I think we shall deal well together.

I haven't time to write more. I am staying in London with some of Dunford's friends and shall be here for another two weeks. After that you may send correspondence to Stannage Park; I am certain lean convince him to retire there immediately following the marriage. We shall honeymoon for a bit, I suppose, and then he will probably want to return to London. I don't particularly mind if he stays; he is, as I mentioned, a nice enough fellow. But I imagine he'll soon grow bored of country life. That will suit me well. I will be able to go back to my old life without fear of ending up someone's governess or companion. I remain

Your dear friend, Henrietta Barrett

With quivering hard Henry folded the letter and slid it into an envelope addressed "Lord Stannage." Before she had a chance to rethink her actions, she dashed down the stairs and placed it the hands of a footman with instructions to see it delivered immediately.

Then she turned around and made her way back up the stairs, each step requiring a staggering amount of energy to ascend. She made her way to her room, shut and locked her door, and laid upon her bed.

She curled up into a tight ball and stayed that way for hours.

Dunford smiled when his butler handed him the white envelope. As he picked it up off the silver tray, he recognized Henry's handwriting. It was rather like her, he thought, neat and direct with no flowery decoration.

He slit the envelope open and unfolded the note.

My dear Rosalind . . .

The silly girl had gone and mixed up her letters and envelopes. Dunford hoped he was the reason for her uncharacteristic absentmindedness. He started to refold the letter, but then he caught sight of his name. Curiosity won out over scruples, and he smoothed out the sheet of paper.

A few moments later it slipped from his numb fingers and drifted to the ground.

Of course I am marrying him for Stannage Park...

Of course I am marrying him for Stannage Park...

Of course I am marrying him for Stannage Park.. .

Dear God, what had he done? She didn't love him. She had never loved him. She probably never would.

How she must have laughed. He sank back into a chair. No, she wouldn't have laughed. Despite her calculating behavior, she wasn't cruel. She simply loved Stannage Park more than she could ever love anything—or anyone—else.

His was a love that could never be returned.

God, it was ironic. He still loved her. Even after this, he still loved her. He was so furious with her he damn near hated her, but still he loved her. What the hell was he going to do?