Still, he couldn't resist teasing her about it, and with an astonishingly straight face he said, "Bee in your bonnet?"
Henry turned on him with a murderous glare. "It's a dreadful contraption," she said vehemently, yanking the offending piece off of her head. "Serves no purpose whatsoever that I can deduce."
"I believe it is meant to keep the sun off your face."
She shot him a look that said quite clearly, "Tell me something I don't already know."
Dunford had no idea how he managed not to laugh. "You may come to like them eventually," he said mildly. "Most ladies don't seem to like the sun on their faces."
"I'm not most ladies," she retorted. "And I've done very well without a bonnet for years, thank you."
"And you have freckles."
"I do not!"
"You do. Right here." He touched her nose and then moved to a spot along her cheekbone. "And here."
"You must be mistaken."
"Ah, Hen, I cannot tell you how much it pleases me to find that you have a bit of feminine vanity within you after all. Of course you never did cut your hair, so that must count for something."
"I am not vain," she protested.
"No, you're not," he said solemnly. "It's one of the loveliest things about you."
Was it any wonder, Henry thought with a sigh, that she was becoming so infatuated with him?
"Still," he continued, "it's rather gratifying to see you have a few of the failings the rest of us humans share, if only in short measure."
"Men," Henry declared firmly, "are every bit as vain as women. I'm sure of it."
"You are most probably right," he said agreeably. "Now, do you want to give me that bonnet? I'll put it over here where it won't be crumpled."
She handed him the headpiece. He turned it over in his hand before setting it down. "Deuced flimsy little thing."
"It was obviously invented by men," Henry announced, "for the sole purpose of making women more dependent upon them. It completely blocks my peripheral vision. How is a lady meant to get anything done if she cannot see anything that isn't directly in front of her?"
Dunford only laughed and shook his head. They sat in companionable silence for about ten minutes, until he sighed and said, "It's good to be on our way. I was afraid I was going to have to do physical battle with you over Rufus."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"I was half expecting you to insist we bring him along."
"Don't be silly," she scoffed.
He smiled at her briskly sensible attitude. "That rabbit would probably chew up my entire house."
"I couldn't care less if he chewed up the Prince Regent's unmentionables. I didn't bring Rufus because I thought it would be dangerous for him. Some bacon-brained French chef would probably have him in the stew pot within days."
Dunford rocked with silent laughter. "Henry," he said, wiping his eyes, "please don't lose your distinctive brand of humor when you get to London. Although," he added, "you might find it prudent to refrain from speculating about Prinny's intimate apparel."
Henry couldn't help but smile in return. It was just like him to make certain she had a good time, the wretched man. She was trying to go along with his plans with some modicum of dignity, but that didn't mean she had to enjoy herself. He was making it quite difficult for her to succeed in her attempts to picture herself as a beleaguered martyr.
And, indeed, he made it quite difficult all day long, keeping up an endless stream of friendly chatter. He pointed out sights along the way, and Henry listened and watched avidly. She hadn't been out of the southwest of England in years, not since she'd been orphaned and moved to Stannage Park, actually. Viola had taken her on a short holiday in Devon once, but beyond that Henry hadn't set foot out of Cornwall.
They stopped briefly for lunch, but that was their only break, for Dunford explained he wanted to make good time. They could get more than halfway to London that day if they didn't dally. The hurried pace took its toll, however, and by the time they pulled into a roadside inn for the night, Henry was extremely weary. Dunford's carriage was exceptionally well sprung, but nothing could disguise some of the deeper ruts in the road. She was jolted out of her tired state, however, by her companion's surprising announcement.
"I'm going to tell the innkeeper you are my sister."
"Why?"
"It seems prudent. It really isn't quite proper for us to be traveling in this fashion without a chaperone, even if you are my ward. I'd rather not raise any ill-bred speculation about you."
Henry nodded, conceding his point. She had no wish for some drunken lout to paw at her simply because he thought her a loose woman.
"We can get away with it, I think," Dunford mused, "as we've both got brown hair."
"Along with half the population of Britain," she said pertly.
"Hush up, minx." He resisted the urge to tousle her hair. "It'll be dark. No one will notice. And put your bonnet back on."
"But then no one will see my hair," she teased. "All that work will be for nothing."
He smiled boyishly. "All that work, eh? You must be dreadfully tired, expending all that energy to grow your hair brown."
She batted the offending bonnet at him.
Dunford alighted, whistling to himself as he did so. So far the journey had been a complete success. Henry had, if not forgotten, at least suppressed her pique at being bullied into coming to London. Furthermore, she mercifully had not mentioned the kiss they had shared in the abandoned cottage. In fact, all signs pointed to the conclusion that she had completely forgotten about it.