"God, I'm an ass," he whispered harshly, furious with himself for letting his desire take over his body.

She had betrayed him—betrayed him—and still he couldn't keep his hands off her.

"What did you just say?"

Dunford saw no reason to answer her. It wasn't really necessary to expound at length on how much he wanted her and, damn it, still loved her despite her lies. All he did was murmur, "Shut up, Hen," and lower her onto the sofa.

Henry stiffened. His tone had been soft, but his words had not. Still, this was probably the last time she would be able to hold him like this, the last time she could pretend he still loved her.

She felt herself sinking into the plush cushions, felt the heat of his body as it covered hers. His hands cupped her bottom, pulling her toward his obvious desire. His lips were on her earlobe, then her neck, then her collarbone. He was traveling lower, lower.

Henry couldn't quite make her arms encircle him, but neither did she possess the fortitude to pull herself away. Did he love her? His mouth loved her. It was loving her with startling intensity, circling around her taut nipple through the thin muslin of her gown.

She stared down, her mind strangely detached from her burning body. His kisses had left an indecent stain on her bodice. Not that he would care. He was doing this to punish her. He would—

"No!" she cried out, pushing at him so violently that he fell to the floor in surprise.

He was silent as he slowly rose to his feet. When he finally leveled his gaze at her face, Henry knew panic like none she had ever imagined. His eyes were slits.

"Suddenly worried about our virtue, are we?" he asked rudely. "It's a bit late for that, don't you think?"

Henry hastily scrambled into an upright position, refusing to reply.

"Rather an about-face for the girl who told me she didn't care two figs for her reputation."

"That was before," she said in a low voice.

"Before what, Hen? Before you came to London? Before you learned what women are supposed to want from marriage?"

"I—I don't know what you're talking about." She awkwardly rose to her feet.

Dunford let out a short bark of angry laughter. God, she wasn't even a good liar. She stumbled over her words, her eyes refused to meet his, and her cheeks were flushed pink.

Of course that might only be passion. He could still make her feel passion. It might be the only thing he could make her feel, but he knew he could raise her body to fever pitch. He could make her need him, bind her to him with lips, hands, the heat of his skin.

His body grew aroused as his thoughts grew more erotic. He could see her as she had been at Westonbirt, her soft skin glowing in the candlelight. She had moaned with desire, arched her body toward his. She had cried out in rapture. He had given her that.

Dunford took a step forward. "You want me, Henry."

She stood utterly still, unable to deny it.

"You want me now."

Somehow she managed to shake her head. He could tell it took all her fortitude to do it.

"Yes," he said silkily. "You do."

"No, Dunford. I don't. I don—"

But her words were cut off by the pressure of his lips on hers. They were cruel, demanding. Henry felt as if she were suffocating, smothered by the weight of both his anger and her own insensible desire for him.

She couldn't let him do this. She couldn't let him use his fury to make her want him. With a wrench of her head she tore her lips from his.

"That's all right," he murmured, cupping her breast with his hand. "Your lying mouth is not the part of you that most interests me."

"Stop!" She pushed against his chest, but his arms were closed around her like a vise. "You can't do this!"

One corner of his mouth tilted up in a mockery of a smile. "Can't I?"

"You are not my husband," she said, her voice shaking with fury as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "You have no rights over my person*."

He let her go and leaned back against the doorjamb, his posture deceptively lazy. "Are you telling me you wish to call off the wedding?"

"Wh-why would you think I want to do that?" she asked, knowing he thought she wanted to marry him for Stannage Park.

"I can't fathom even a single reason," he said in a very hard voice. "In fact, I seem to have everything you require in a husband."

"We're feeling a bit superior today, aren't we?" she retorted.

He moved like lightning, pinning her against the wall, his hands planted firmly on either side of her shoulders. "We," he said with unconcealed sarcasm, "are feeling just a bit confused. We are wondering why our fiancée is acting so oddly. We are wondering if perhaps there is something she wants to say."

Henry felt all the breath leave her body. Wasn't this what she wanted? Why did she feel so utterly wretched?

"Henry?"

She stared at his face, remembering all of his kindnesses toward her. He had bought her a dress when no one else had thought to. He had badgered her into coming to London and then made sure she had a lovely time once she arrived. And he had smiled the entire time.

It was difficult to reconcile this image with the cruel, mocking man standing before her. But still, she couldn't bring herself to humiliate him publicly. "I won't call off the wedding, my lord."

He tilted his head. "I can only surmise from your inflection that you wish me to do so."

She said nothing.

"Surely you realize that, as a gentleman of honor, I cannot do so."

Her lips parted slightly. It was several seconds before she was able to say, "What do you mean?"