"Tell me about yourself, Henry," Dunford said.

She blinked, as if suddenly waking up from a rather languorous dream. "Me? There isn't very much to tell, I'm afraid."

"I rather doubt that, Henry. You are rather an uncommon female."

"Uncommon? Me?" The last word came out as a squeak.

"Well, let's see. You obviously wear breeches more than you do dresses because I've never seen a woman look less comfortable in a gown than you do tonight..."

She knew it was the truth, but it was unbelievable how much it hurt to hear him say it.

"Of course, it could just be that the gown does not fit you properly, or that the material is itchy..."

She brightened a bit. The dress was four years old, and she had grown considerably during that period.

Dunford held out his right hand as if he were counting off her eccentricities. His middle finger stretched out to join his index finger as he said, "You run a small but, from the looks of it, profitable estate and apparently have done so for the past six years."

Henry gulped and silently ate her soup as another one of his fingers shot out.

"You weren't frightened or even the least bit put off by what I can only describe as the most immense animal of the porcine variety I have ever seen, a sight that would send most of the women of my acquaintance into vapors, and I can only deduce that you are on a first-name basis with said animal."

Henry frowned, not quite certain how to interpret that.

"You have an air of command one usually sees only in men, and yet you are feminine enough not to cut your hair, which, incidentally, is quite beautiful." Another finger.

Henry blushed at his compliment but not before she wondered if he were actually going to start in on his other hand.

"And finally..." He stretched out his thumb. "...you answer to the unlikely name of Henry."

She smiled weakly.

He looked down at his hand, now splayed out like a starfish. "If that doesn't qualify you as an uncommon female, I really don't know what would."

"Well," she began hesitantly, "perhaps I am a little odd."

"Oh, don't call yourself odd, Henry. Let others do that, if they insist. Call yourself original. It has a much nicer ring to it."

Original. Henry quite liked that. "His name is Porkus."

"Excuse me?"

"The pig. I am on a first-name basis with him." She smiled sheepishly. "His name is Porkus."

Dunford threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, Henry," he gasped. "You are a treasure."

"I will take that as a compliment, I think."

"Please do."

She took a sip of her wine, not realizing she had already drunk more than usual. The footman had been assiduously refilling her glass after nearly every sip. "I suppose I did have an unusual upbringing," she said recklessly. "That is probably why I am so different."

"Oh?"

"There weren't many children nearby, so I didn't get much of a chance to see what other little girls were like. Most of the time I played with the stablemaster's son."

"And is he still at Stannage Park?" Dunford wondered if perhaps she had a lover tucked away somewhere. It seemed likely enough. She was, as they had decided, an unusual young woman. She had flouted convention enough already; how much difference would a lover make?

"Oh, no. Billy married a girl from Devon and moved away. I say, you're not asking me all these questions just to be polite, are you?"

"Absolutely not." He grinned devilishly. "Of course I do hope I'm being polite nonetheless, but I really am quite interested in you." And he was. Dunford had always been interested in people, had always wondered what made the human race tick. At his home in London, he often stared out the window for hours, just watching the people go by. And at parties he was a brilliant conversationalist, not because he tried to be, but because he was usually genuinely interested in what people had to say. It was part of the reason why so many women had fallen for him.

It was, after all, somewhat uncommon for a man to actually listen to what a woman had to say.

And Henry certainly wasn't immune to his charms. It was true that men did listen to her every day, but they were people who worked for Stannage Park, in effect worked for her. No one besides Mrs. Simpson ever took the time to ask after her. Slightly flustered by Dunford's interest, she hid her unease by adopting her usual cheeky attitude. "And what about you, my lord? Did you have an unusual upbringing?"

"As normal as could be, I'm afraid. Although my mother and father were actually somewhat fond of each other, which is rather unusual among the ton, but other than that, I was a typical British child."

"Oh, I doubt that."

"Really?" He leaned forward. "And why is that, Miss Henrietta?"

She took another healthy sip of her wine. "Please do not call me Henrietta. I detest the name."

"But I'm afraid that every time I call you Henry, it brings to mind a rather unpleasant school chum at Eton."

She shot him a jaunty grin. "I'm afraid that you'll just have to adjust."

"You have been giving orders for too long."

"Perhaps, but you obviously have not been accepting them for long enough."

"Touché, Henry. And don't think I haven't noticed that you managed to sidestep explaining why you doubt I had a typical upbringing."

Henry pursed her lips and looked down at her wineglass which, paradoxically, was still quite full. She could have sworn she'd drunk at least two glasses. She took another sip. "Well, you're not exactly a typical man."