"No." Dunford's hands descended upon her shoulders. "I sent word to have your belongings moved to the master suite."
She whirled around. "You had no right."
"I had every right," he bit out, half dragging her into his bedroom. "I still have every right." He paused, then continued in a softer tone, as if realizing he had overreacted. "At the time I thought you would be in favor of the idea."
"I could move back," she offered, somewhat hopefully. "If you don't want me here, I don't need to stay."
He let out a ragged laugh. "Oh, I want you, Henry. I have always wanted you. It kills me how much I want you."
Tears pooled in her eyes. "It shouldn't be this way, Dunford."
He stared at her for several moments, his eyes filled with rage and hurt and disbelief. Then he turned and stalked to the door. "Make yourself ready in twenty minutes," he said curtly. He didn't look back.
Chapter 23
Henry's fingers shook as she changed out of her traveling dress. Both Belle and Emma had contributed to her trousseau, and as a result she now had a valise full of ultrasheer nightgowns. They all seemed vaguely indecent to a young woman who had never worn anything other than thick, white cotton to bed before, but somehow feeling it was her duty to wear these now that she was married, she slipped one over her head.
She glanced down at her body, gasped, and jumped into bed. The pale pink silk did not even pretend to hide the contours of her body or the dark rosiness of her nipples. Henry quickly pulled the covers up to her chin.
When Dunford returned he was clad in only a dark green robe that fell to his knees. Henry swallowed and looked away.
"Why so nervous, Hen?" he asked flatly. "It isn't as if we haven't done this before."
"It was different then."
"Why?" Dunford looked at her intently, his thoughts racing in the most depressing of directions. Was it different because she no longer had to pretend she loved him? Stannage Park was safely hers now; she was probably trying to figure out how to scare him off the premises most quickly.
She was silent for a full minute before she finally said, "I don't know."
He regarded her, saw insincerity in her eyes, and felt anger rising within him. "Well, I don't care," he all but snarled. "I don't care if it's different." He tore off his robe and moved onto the bed with feral grace. He hovered above her on his hands and knees, watching as her eyes grew wide with apprehension.
"I can make you want me," he whispered. "I know I can do that." He slid down until he was lying on his side, still atop the covers beneath which she had burrowed. One of his hands snaked out behind her neck, pulling her toward him.
Henry felt his hot breath on her mouth a split second before his lips touched hers. As he coaxed her response, she wildly tried to make sense of his behavior. He certainly acted as if he wanted her.
And yet she knew he didn't, at least not enough for him to forsake all other women.
Something within her was lacking, but she didn't know what. Suddenly self-conscious, she pulled away, her fingers rising to cover her swollen lips.
He raised a sardonic brow.
"I'm not good at kissing," she blurted out.
That made him laugh. "I taught you, Hen. You're quite proficient." And then, as if to prove it, he kissed her anew, his mouth hot and demanding.
She was unable to stifle her response, and heat rose within her, licking her skin from the inside out. Her brain, however, remained curiously detached, and as she felt his tongue explore the contours of her face, she hastily inventoried her body, trying to figure out what it was about her that wasn't enough to keep his interest.
Dunford didn't seem to notice her lack of concentration, and his hands fanned the warmth of her body, burning through the thin silk of her gown. The fastenings slid open, baring her skin to the cool night air. He traveled upward, along the flat plane of her stomach, until he reached her—
Breast!
"Oh, God!" Henry blurted out. "Don't!"
Dunford lifted his head so he could see into her face. "What the hell is wrong now, Henry?"
"You can't. I can't."
"You can," he ground out.
"No, they're too—" She looked down, objectivity unexpectedly piercing her pain. Wait a second, they weren't too small. What the hell was wrong with him that he couldn't enjoy a perfectly good pair of breasts? She tilted her head, trying to analyze their shape.
Dunford blinked. The girl—his wife—was twisting her neck in what appeared to be an extremely uncomfortable manner and staring at her breasts as if she'd never seen anything like them in the world.
"What are you doing?" he asked, too baffled to maintain his anger.
"I don't know." She looked up at him, her eyes filled with an odd combination of hesitation and annoyance. "They're wrong somehow."
Exasperated, he bit out, " What is wrong?"
"My breasts."
If she had begun a lecture on the comparative differences between Judaism and Islam he would not have been more surprised. "Your breasts?" he echoed, his voice coming out a bit more sternly that he'd intended. "For Christ's sake, Henry, fhey're fine."
Fine? Fine? She didn't want them to be fine. She wanted them to be perfect, spectacular, utterly ravishing. She wanted him to want her so much that he'd think her the most beautiful woman in the world, even if she weighed fifteen stone and had a wart on her nose. She wanted him to want her so much that he lost all sense of himself.
Most of all she wanted him to want her so much that he would never need another woman.