And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (16 page)

“Yes, I suppose we did,” he conceded, but that didn’t stop him from leaning in, his hips nearly against hers, the wall of his chest but a sliver away from her breasts.

Daphne tried to breathe, but he was ever so close, ever around her. She couldn’t breathe without drawing him in, couldn’t move without touching him.

Didn’t dare look up at him, for then it would be too much like those reckless, dangerous moments in the folly.

Too close to deny that she desired his kiss. With all her heart.

Whatever was wrong with her? It was Dishforth who should ignite such a fire inside her, not Lord Henry. Never Lord Henry.

Oh, Mr. Dishforth, where are you?

“My lord,” she managed, daring to look up at him, “I hardly think this . . . this . . . is keeping our distance.”

He grinned. “Miss Dale, you have two choices: go and seek your perfect gentleman”—he nodded toward the crowded room—“or better yet, let’s see if he shares your opinion of me and will rescue you from my nefarious attentions.”

And with that, Lord Henry dipped his head down as if he was about to steal a kiss.

Right there. In front of everyone.

His breath teased over her ear, sending a clarion cry through her. He was going to ruin her.

Let him.

Daphne panicked. At least that is what she vowed later to Lady Essex and Harriet and Tabitha.

She put her hands on his chest, an attempt to push the loathsome beast away, but the moment her fingers splayed across his jacket, she found herself entwined by the same magic that had wound around them at the folly.

Indeed, it was a dangerous kind of folly that Daphne and Lord Henry soon found themselves in.

Especially when Lady Zillah Seldon chose that moment to wake up a bit and take stock of what was happening around her.

Chapter 8

No. I most certainly do not.

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner

The next morning

“W
hat aspect of the very simple vow that we agreed upon—to keep our distance—eludes you, Lord Henry?”

Henry came to a blinding halt in the middle of the breakfast room, his thoughts too focused on the business at hand, that of uncovering the identity of Miss Spooner, to notice that the room was not empty.

And the complaints weren’t over yet. “Good heavens, I even got up an extra hour early to escape you, and still you cannot leave me be? This is unconscionable.”

He cringed.
Miss Dale.
His gaze swept the grand table, and at the very end he found the sole occupant.

Which also meant they were alone. Once again.

Splendid.

That always went so well for them, he mused as he gauged their surroundings.

Well, not completely alone, for Tabitha’s huge beast of a dog lay at her feet. Mr. Muggins gazed up at him with a crooked smile that suggested the big terrier wasn’t the least shocked at Henry’s arrival. Contrary to Miss Dale’s horrified greeting, the dog got up and ambled over, nudging Henry’s hand with his wiry head and then looked up at him with those great big brown, adoring eyes.

Of course, the dog was also looking over at the platter of sausages on the sideboard, as if to suggest that Henry might also make a good footman and fetch him a couple. Just between friends and all.

Some chaperone. Once fed, the dog would surely look the other way at any goings-on.

Of which there weren’t going to be any. None whatsoever. Last night had been disaster enough.

“What are you doing down here so early?” Miss Dale continued, shooting a wry glance at Mr. Muggins, one that suggested she found the dog’s attentions downright traitorous.

“I had thought to avoid you,” he said, setting his papers and writing box down at his chair near the head of the table. At least the chit had chosen a spot well away from his.

“Harrumph!” Miss Dale sputtered, her teacup rattling in the saucer as she set it down.

Ignoring her glower, he went to fetch a plate from the sideboard. Mr. Muggins followed, tail wagging happily.

“You don’t intend to stay?” she protested as much as she questioned.

“You could leave,” he pointed out as he slowly filled his plate, stopping before the platter of sausages. “So we might avoid another near catastrophe.”

“That was hardly my fault,” she pointed out. “And speaking of last night—”

Oh, must they? His ears were still ringing from the peal Hen had rung over him. The one she’d begun the very moment she’d been able to decipher what Zillah’s shrieking had been about.

Fortunately for him, his great-aunt’s ranting had managed to pull every pair of eyes in Zillah’s direction and give him enough time to set Miss Dale well out of reach. By the time anyone had been able to make out what had the lady in such a lather—
he’s going to kiss her
—all the evidence had been quite to the contrary.

Henry had been standing at one end of the pianoforte, feigning interest in the music sheets, and Miss Dale had stood at the other, studying the painting of the sixth Duchess of Preston.

“Kiss who?” he’d said, laughing. “No one but you, Zillah.” Then he’d bussed the old girl on the cheek and winked at the crowd as if to say,
Poor dear, half out of her wits
.

However, his ruse hadn’t fooled Hen. Or Preston. And as such there had been another family dustup in the back salon, where he had spent a good hour explaining that Great-Aunt Zillah had had it all wrong: he hadn’t been kissing Miss Dale. He’d finally gained a reprieve when he’d reminded Hen and Preston of the previous Christmas when Zillah had ordered ’round Bow Street because she’d thought there were Dales hiding in the basement.

Sadly, that was not the end of it, for Hen had spent the next hour giving him a thorough wigging on which ladies were proper prospects for the second son of a duke and which ladies weren’t. It didn’t take a member of the Royal Society to know on which side of that argument Hen placed Miss Dale.

Besides, he hadn’t actually kissed Miss Dale. Just meant to call her bluff.

Nor did it appear that Miss Dale had fared much better as a result of Zillah’s tirade.

“—I had to endure another lengthy lecture from Lady Essex—”

She had him there. Lady Essex could probably put even Hen to shame when it came to delivering a blistering scold. Henry was ready even to offer some condolences when she went on and said, “—despite my reassurances to her that your overly licentious nature casts no spell on me—”

Now, just a bloody moment. His licentious nature?

Henry stormed down to the end of the table. “My nature?”

“Yes, yours,” she said. “You are determined to mire me in ruin, and I won’t have it. I have my future to think of. I understand that you can’t help yourself—”

“I am not the one with the made-up suitor,” he shot back.

“Made up?” she said, her hands balling into fists. “I’ll have you know that my dear—”

But to his chagrin, she stopped herself before the name slipped out.

Henry arched a brow and gave her the most quelling Seldon stare he could manage. The one his father often used to silence the entire House of Lords.

Not that it daunted Miss Dale. Not in the least.

“My situation is none of your business,” she finished.

He smiled, because this time she hadn’t said “affair.”

“Who is he?” Henry asked. “This suitor of yours?”

Her lips pressed together, her brow crinkled.

“Then I return to my original theory that he is a figment of your imagination. For whyever would any man let you wander about if you are his true love?”

“Because he is secure in my affections and I in his,” she said.

Now it was Henry’s turn to scoff, for in business he knew that when an opponent boasted or protested overly much, it was because they hadn’t a firm conviction beneath them.

Miss Dale got to her feet. “Of course you wouldn’t understand. As a Seldon, how could you? You have no sense of what true love means.”

“Oh, not that rot again,” he complained.

“Oh, yes, that again,” she shot back. “How am I to think otherwise when you persist in trying to ruin me at every turn?”

“Ruin you?” Henry laughed. “Oh, if that isn’t a lark!”

“A lark? That’s what you call it?” Miss Dale stood her ground. “You use every opportunity you can gain to take advantage of me.”

Henry had had enough. He stalked over until they were nose to nose. “Then why do you linger, Miss Dale? Why do you stay?”

“Linger?” she sputtered back.

“Yes, you. Always lingering about as if you want me to kiss you. Again.”

She took a step back. “Oh, I never! Want to kiss you? I’d rather take my chances with Mr. Muggins.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.

Mr. Muggins, who still manned his spot at the sideboard, looked from Henry to Miss Dale and then back at Henry again, and gave his head a tousled shake, then another pointed glance at the sideboard.
Enough talk of kissing. Sausages, anyone?

Henry gave up on both of them and went back down to the end of the table, where he’d left his writing box. “Lingering!” he muttered in accusation.

“Hardly lingering, I have correspondence to attend to,” she said, sitting back down and folding the letter she’d been writing, her jaw set with obstinate determination.

Stubborn chit. Standing her ground despite everything that had happened between them.

Could happen between them. Could ruin them both.

Oh, Zillah might rail on and on about the Dales and their failings, but Henry couldn’t fault them for their bottom. Daphne Dale’s audacity in the face of ruin was nothing less than impressive.

Like how she’d faced down her cousin. Or last night, when she’d been about to dump him on his backside. (He was now more than convinced she had been the one who’d tripped him at the ball.) Audacious, dangerous minx! Those traits alone should have warned him off. But no, he rather admired her mettle, nor did it stop him from prodding her a bit to test it.

“Writing your parents to inform them where you are?” he asked, the epitome of polite and measured concern.

“Harrumph
.”

Apparently not. Yet Daphne Dale never liked to leave a question unanswered.

“If you must know—” she began.

“Truly, I hardly care,” he shot back.

“Then whyever did you ask?”

Henry paused. He supposed he had asked. “Merely being polite.”

“You needn’t be,” she told him. “I have much to attend to this morning.”

And indeed, she had what looked like a long list before her and a stack of letters. It all appeared as organized and orderly as the stacks Henry preferred for his business matters.

And a twinge of curiosity prodded at him.

Whatever was she about?

Not that he was going to pry. Not into Miss Dale’s business.

“Yes, well, so do I,” he said, hoping that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

“Whatever do you have to write about?” she asked. “Other than your usual daily apologies to the ladies you’ve wronged.”

Henry pressed his teeth together and ignored her jab; instead, he decided to retort with something more shocking—the truth.

“I will have you know, in addition to helping Preston manage the ducal estates, I have my own houses and properties, which require close attention.” Henry couldn’t help himself; he puffed up a bit, for her face was a mix of skepticism and shock.

“You do?”

He nodded. Most people—apparently Miss Dale as well—just assumed that because he was a second son, he was barely worth noting, save as a conduit to the duke . . . that is, when Preston’s favor was being curried.

“Properties? As in a house and lands?” she asked.

This question from any other miss might have implied that she was measuring him for a trip to the parson’s mousetrap, but from Miss Dale it was completely and utterly a test to see, he suspected, if he knew one from the other.

“Three houses,” he told her. “One is quite productive—good wool, and a coal vein has just been discovered on the other.”

She sat back and looked at him as if he’d fallen from the sky and just landed in front of the buffet. He could almost see the calculations going on behind her furrowed brow.

Three houses? However could that be?

“And you don’t have a steward or an agent who handles these matters?” she asked.

Not an unusual question, for most men handed over the care and maintenance of their estates to others—as Preston would have if Henry hadn’t been there.

“No,” he told her as Mr. Muggins jostled his elbow. Henry looked down at the hound, who gazed up at him with the most adoring gaze, as if Henry was the only one on earth who could save the poor beast from starvation. And even though he knew better—for hadn’t Preston warned one and all not to feed Tabitha’s dog or there would be no end to the dog’s attentions— he stole a glance over at Miss Dale, who was even now looking over a letter she held. Before she looked up, Henry slid a sausage from his plate, and the quick-witted terrier snatched it out of the air.

The
snap
of the dog’s jaws brought the lady’s gaze up.

“Uh, well, I find,” Henry said, quickly filling the space with words to cover his momentary weakness, “that if you want a task done right—”

“You must do it yourself,” Miss Dale finished.

They looked at each other—a sense of mutual understanding coiling between them. Both of them shifted uneasily at the discovery for it should be evident that they held nothing in common.

Or so they wanted to believe.

Miss Dale brought her napkin up and patted her lips. “I often find the same is true with a gown. If you want it just so, you must do the work yourself.”

“Yes, quite,” he said, a bit of a shiver running down his spine. Not for the world would he have admitted he held the same conviction.

Not about gowns, per se, but a task none the less.

“Yes, well, don’t let me delay you,” she told him, taking a sip of her tea and going back to her correspondence.

And normally he would have done just that, gone on with his business matters and letters, but with Miss Dale at the other end of the table, he found his attentions wandering.

Like how was it that no matter the time of day, she always looked enticing? This morning it was a pale blue muslin concoction and her hair tied up simply with a matching ribbon.

One the same color as her eyes.

And why was it that he noticed those things? He couldn’t tell you the color of Miss Nashe’s eyes, or even the shade of Lady Clare’s tresses, but with Miss Dale . . .

Henry took a deep breath and told himself he’d never really paid much attention to such things before he’d begun corresponding with Miss Spooner.

Take Miss Dale. How was it that a lady could look so perfectly refreshed, so utterly composed at such an early hour? He ran his hand over his chin, which he’d shaved himself, his valet, Mingo, having gone off in a fine fettle over something to do with the laundress and cravats, so he knew he was hardly well turned out.

No wonder he’d thought she might be Miss Spooner when they’d met in London. Outwardly she was everything he’d imagined the lady to be—pretty, self-assured and determined.

Just not possessing some of Miss Dale’s other traits—stubborn beyond all reason, presumptuous, and all-too-desirable.

Very much desirable.

Henry wrenched his gaze away from the object of his study and began to put his papers in order. There was an inquiry for the properties he held in Brighton, questions from his solicitor about a shipping venture, and a few other questions about improvements he intended for Kingscote, the house and lands he’d recently purchased.

They all required a measure of discipline and concentration, but he found himself distracted to no end by the scratching quill at the far side of the table.

Good heavens, didn’t she possess a single pen that could write a line without making such an infernal noise?