He was obviously warming to the exercise because he looked rather jovial as he pointed his finger and said, "That one."
Henry was just about to say, "Wrong," when she realized that she had no idea if he was wrong or not. Which one had she called Thomasina? She'd thought it was the one by the tree, but they were all moving about, and—
"Was I correct?"
"Excuse me?"
"Is that sheep or is that sheep not Thomasina?"
"No, it isn't," Henry said decisively. If she couldn't recall which one was Thomasina, she doubted very much that he could.
"I really think that's Thomasina." He leaned back against the gate, looking very confident and very male.
"That one is Thomasina," she snapped, pointing at random.
He broke out into a very wide grin. "No, that one is Isosceles. I'm sure of it."
Henry swallowed convulsively. "No, no. It's Thomasina. I'm certain of it," she said. "But don't worry, I'm sure you'll learn all of the names soon. You need only put your mind to it. Now, why don't we continue our tour?"
Dunford pushed off against the gate. "I cannot wait."
He was whistling to himself as he followed her out of the field. This was going to be a most interesting morning.
Interesting, he later reflected, was perhaps not the correct word.
By the time he and Henry arrived back at the house for their midday meal—a scrumptious bowl of hot, sticky porridge—he had mucked out the stable stalls, milked a cow, been pecked by three separate hens, weeded a vegetable garden, and fallen into a trough.
And if the trough accident just happened to be the result of Henry's tripping over a tree root and bumping into him—well, there was no way to prove it, was there? Considering that the dunking was the closest thing he was going to get to a bath anytime soon, he decided not to get angry about it just yet.
Henry was up to something, and it was damned intriguing watching her, even if he didn't yet know what she was trying to achieve.
As they sat down to eat, Mrs. Simpson brought in two steaming bowls of porridge. She set the larger one down in front of Dunford, saying, "I filled it right to the top, this being your favorite and all."
Dunford tilted his head slowly and looked at Henry, one eyebrow raised in a most questioning manner.
Henry looked pointedly at Mrs. Simpson, waited for the housekeeper to leave, and then whispered, "She felt dreadful that we have to serve you porridge. I'm afraid I fibbed just a bit and told her you adore it. It made her feel so much better. Surely a little white lie is justified if it is for the greater good of mankind."
He dipped his spoon into the unappetizing cereal. "Somehow, Henry, I have a feeling you've taken that sentiment to heart."
The day, Henry reflected as she brushed out her hair later that evening before going to bed, had been an unqualified success. Almost.
She didn't think he realized she had tripped over that tree root and pushed him into the trough on purpose, and the entire porridge episode had been, in her opinion, nothing short of brilliant.
But Dunford was shrewd. One couldn't spend an entire day with the man without realizing that fact. And as if that weren't enough, he'd been acting so bloody nice to her. At their evening meal he'd been a lovely companion, asking so attentively about her childhood and laughing at her anecdotes of growing up on a farm.
If he didn't have so many redeeming qualities, it would be ever so much easier to scheme to get rid of him.
But, Henry reminded herself sternly, the fact that he seemed to be a nice person in no way detracted from the even more pressing fact that he had the power to remove her from Stannage Park. She shuddered. What would she do away from her beloved home? She knew nothing else, had no idea how to go about in the world at large.
No, she had to find a way to make him leave Cornwall. She had to.
Her resolve once again firm, she set down the hairbrush and stood up. She started to make her way over to the bed but was stopped mid-stride by the pathetic grumblings of her stomach.
Lord, she was hungry.
It had seemed an inspired plan that morning to starve him out of residence, but she'd neglected the quite pertinent fact that she'd be starving herself as well.
Ignore it, Henry, she told herself.
Her stomach roared.
She glanced at the clock. Midnight. The house would be quiet. She could creep down to the kitchen, grab some food, and consume it back here in her room. She could be in and out within minutes.
Not bothering to don a wrapper, she tiptoed out of her room and down the stairs.
Damn, he was hungry! Dunford lay in bed, unable to sleep. His stomach was making the most hideous noises. Henry had dragged him all over the countryside that day in a route tailor-made to exhaust him, and then she'd had the gall to smile as she fed him porridge and cold mutton.
Cold mutton? Blech! And if it didn't taste bad enough, there hadn't been enough of it.
Surely there had to be something in the house he could eat that wouldn't jeopardize her precious animals. A biscuit. A radish. Even a spoonful of sugar.
He hopped out of bed, pulled on a robe to cover his naked form, and slipped out of the room. He tiptoed as he passed Henry's room—it wouldn't do to wake the little tyrant. A rather nice and endearing tyrant she was, but nonetheless, he rather thought it behooved him not to alert her to his little sojourn to the kitchens.
He made his way down the stairs, slipped around the corner, and crept through the small dining room to the—wait! Was that a light in the kitchen?
Henry.
The blasted girl was eating.
She was wearing a long, white, cotton nightgown which floated angelically around her.