And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (20 page)

Daphne’s mouth fell open. That was what he was concerned about? That Lord Fieldgate might take offense and demand satisfaction?

Not a word about her honor? But rather that Fieldgate was capable of laying him low?

Shuttering her lips, she grit her teeth. Fieldgate, she would like to tell Lord Henry, wasn’t the only deuced good shot under this roof.

Lord Henry sighed again and, seemingly with all his problems solved, started down the hall, this time without her hand on his sleeve.

Daphne found herself hurrying to catch up.

“
Hmm
,” he was musing, glancing over at her as she stormed back up to his side, most likely warned by the determined click of her boots. “If it isn’t Fieldgate, then who? Kipps?” He studied her for a moment, then shook his head. “No, never. He’s too impractical for you.”

Harrumph!
“Must you continue this?”

“Decidedly,” he told her, as if he was surprised she would even protest. “This is my nephew’s house. Wouldn’t do to have some untoward scandal happening under his roof—”

She cocked a brow at him. Untoward scandal? As if a Seldon wasn’t quite capable of providing enough
on dits
to keep even the most jaded gossips busy for a month.

They were nearly to the ballroom, where a flurry of activity could be heard.

“Hen loves a good masquerade party,” he said, surveying the chaos before them. “Just like our mother did.”

“Lady Salsbury,” she said, before she realized it.

“Yes, she was Lady Salsbury before she married my father.” He grinned at her. “An aficionado of
Debrett’s
?”

Daphne flinched. For she had spent a good hour this morning—after her side trip to the music room—searching the pages in the dated volume she’d found on the shelf for any reference to the name Dishforth. That had been Tabitha’s idea.

But much to her chagrin, Daphne’s time had been spent reading the entire section devoted to the Seldon family.

Including Lady Salsbury.

“I believe Tabitha mentioned your mother,” Daphne said instead. “Your sister has given her some of your mother’s jewels—the ones she wore as the duchess.”

Lord Henry nodded. “Of course. Hen is thoughtful that way.”

“Yes, it was thoughtful of her to have all these costumes sent down from London.”

“Perhaps. Mercenary, more like it. She’s also had the ones here brought down and aired. She’s in quite a state to ensure the entire party is well garbed, since invitations have gone out to all the local gentry and there is an entire throng coming down from London.” He paused for a moment. “She wants the reports and gossip to speak only of a glowing success.”

“I doubt she will fail,” Daphne said diplomatically.

Lord Henry let out an impatient snort. “Will be a terrible crush is what it will be. Stand warned, you won’t know who you are dancing with, a local knave or a knight with no title.”

Ahead of them, there was a clamor of excited voices.

“Ah, the costumes,” he said, sounding less than enthused. “You are destined for a shepherdess or worse, I fear.”

“Not in the least,” Daphne told him. “Tabitha and Harriet promised to save me from such a fate.”

“Good news that. For you do recall that Miss Nashe beat you there, and we both know how ruthless she can be.”

Once again, Daphne had the sense of him riding to her rescue, like a Lancelot to slay the evil queen—a costume Miss Nashe ought to consider.

Lord Henry leaned over. “I deplore masquerade balls.”

“So do I,” she agreed without thinking. And there it was, another moment when she discovered something else in common with Lord Henry.

It gave her shivers, as if to tell her to pay attention to this man. But that was madness. For certainly her reasons—disliking old, mangy costumes and overdone Aphrodites—could hardly be the same reasons as his. And just to test her theory, she asked as casually as she might, “What are your reasons?”

“Graying matrons done up as Aphrodite and some old costume my sister thinks will be ‘divine’ on me but instead smells like a horse blanket.”

Daphne cringed. Oh, good heavens. Truly, how many times did she have to tell herself that she and Lord Henry held nothing in common, only to have that dratted man prove her wrong?

Or right.

She wasn’t too sure which it was.

Before he could say more, Lady Juniper came bustling out. “There you are, Henry. Good heavens, you’ll end up being the Nave of Hearts if you don’t go in there and claim a costume.” Suddenly she spied Daphne at his side and her brows rose slightly. It was clear on her face that while she might be the widow of Lord Juniper, she was a Seldon at heart.

Her? What the devil are you doing with a Dale?

But if anything, Lady Juniper held good manners in high regard, and she whisked the shock off her face to say in a polite, albeit a bit strained, fashion, “Yes, well, there you are, Miss Dale. The ladies are choosing their costumes across the hall in the morning room. The light is better in there.” She pointed the way, but her strained expression seemed more inclined to pointing toward the front door, which opened to the driveway, which joined the road back to London.

But before the lady could do more, there was a clamor inside the morning room, and she had to rush off to solve yet another emergency.

Daphne went to follow, but Lord Henry caught her by the arm.

“You have no intention of telling me who you were waiting for, do you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Then so be it,” he said. But instead of letting her go, he pulled her closer. “But know that I think whoever he is, he’s a demmed lucky fellow if he’s won your heart.” He bowed over her hand and placed a lingering kiss on her fingertips. Then having released his grasp and flashed a smoldering glance, not unlike the one from last night—the one that had left her trembling—he disappeared into the ballroom.

And left her alone. To find her Dishforth.

Then suddenly he was back at her side. “You had best leave Mr. Muggins out here in the hall,” he told her.

“Why?” Daphne felt as she always did when he arrived at her side . . . a little taken aback. Just as she had the first moment she’d laid eyes on him.

“As I recall, my mother had a particular costume she loved—a water sprite, I think it was, but the hemline is done in blue feathers.” Then he leaned over and whispered, “If you find it, offer it to Miss Nashe.”

And then her Lancelot was gone. Yet again.

Offer it to Miss Nashe.

Daphne pressed her lips together as she walked into the morning room. Why that wretched, awful man! How devilish of him to put such a notion in her head.

But demmed if she didn’t take a quick, furtive glance around the room for just that gown. The one with the feathered hem.

Better that than consider what else Lord Henry had just said.

But know that I think whoever he is, he’s a demmed lucky fellow if he’s won your heart.

She couldn’t help herself; she looked over her shoulder.
Whatever did he mean by that?

Had he been teasing her, like he had when he’d suggested she offer the feathered costume to Miss Nashe?

Or had he meant every word?

But before she could consider anything else, Harriet and Tabitha came bounding forward and towed her across the room, the entire space awash in gowns and props and splashes of color. The other ladies were holding up velvet gowns made for a princess, fairy gowns of changeable silk that shimmered in the light, and gaudy ensembles that spoke of the gilded times from the previous century.

“We saved the best costume for you,” Harriet told her, guiding her past the others, including Miss Nashe and her mother, who appeared affronted by the meager choices left them.

“I must confess, we came down early and hid it before Miss Nashe arrived,” Tabitha said, her eyes dancing with mirth. “This costume is perfect, and I wasn’t about to let her wear it.”

Daphne made a note to mention to her old friend that just because she was marrying a Seldon, she needn’t take on their mischievous ways. But it wasn’t until they got to the far corner and Harriet dug the dress out from beneath a pile of silks and brocades that Daphne became convinced that Tabitha had utterly forgotten her vicarage roots.

She and Harriet thought this the perfect gown?

From all around the room, there was a chorus of gasps and then a round of “ah’s.” For indeed the costume was stunning.

And utterly scandalous.

“Cleopatra?” Daphne managed, eyeing the diaphanous silk and shaking her head at the deep V that made up the front of the gown. “You want me to dress as the Queen of the Nile?”

“Why not?” Tabitha asked, looking over at the costume as if the gown had come from Mrs. Welling’s stodgy shop in Kempton.

“Because that gown is . . . I would look . . . I cannot,” she said, shaking her head. She looked over at Harriet. “You should wear it. Your coloring makes you a better Cleopatra than I.”

“Me?” Harriet blushed and shook her head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. No, I cannot. Besides, you have more nerve. And Tabitha and I are in agreement that once Dishforth sees you in this gown, he will no longer remain in the shadows. He’ll have no choice but to come forth and claim you.”

Claim her? If he didn’t take one look and judge her to be a reckless jade, that is. That gown would give poor, sensible Dishforth apoplexy.

Though whatever would it do to Lord Henry
? a wicked little voice whispered.

Tabitha joined in. “Would you prefer that we offer the gown to Miss Nashe?”

The three of them turned in unison and looked over at the girl, who stood with her mother frowning at the last remaining costume, a shepherdess gown with far too many flounces. Poor Miss Nashe looked as if she would like to stick the crook she was holding into someone, if only to gain a better costume.

Namely Daphne.

Harriet leaned in and whispered. “Do you want her to arrive at the ball and be the Queen of not only the Nile but of the night as well?”

If only her friends didn’t know her so well. Daphne took another glance at the gown and knew the woman who wore it would never be forgotten.

And even though she had no doubts she’d be in Mr. Dishforth’s arms tonight, there was a small part of her that worried that the ardent plea she’d penned this morning and had left in the salver would not bring him out of hiding.

However, such a gown . . .

Taking it from Harriet, she walked over to the large mirror that had been brought down from one of the bedchambers and held it up to herself to gauge how it would fit.

Perfectly, if Harriet and Tabitha’s grins were any indication.

And Daphne knew with all her heart that if this gown didn’t bring Dishforth out of hiding, he’d end his days wondering why he hadn’t summoned the nerve to claim her.

Then again, as she eyed the scandalous, seductive silk one more time, she had to wonder if it was Dishforth or Lord Henry she was trying to tempt.

“Oh, maman! Here is the perfect gown!” Miss Nashe cried out in triumph, holding aloft a gorgeous green silk—a nymph’s costume—hemmed in feathers.

Tabitha sucked in a deep breath. “No. Miss Nashe, you mustn’t—”

Daphne whirled around and clapped her hand over Tabitha’s mouth.

Harriet, seeing Daphne’s intent, stepped in front of her friends and then chimed in. Loudly. “You had best take that away, Miss Nashe, before Lady Clare arrives.”

The implication being that Lady Clare, who outranked all of the other unmarried ladies, could claim it as her own.

Something not even Miss Nashe and her bountiful dowry could protest. Not unless she wanted to appear the grasping mushroom.

Meanwhile, Tabitha was trying to wiggle free of Daphne’s grasp, her eyes wide and furious. “Oh-mmm—waaa—”

Miss Nashe, gown in hand, hurried from the morning room, her mother in her wake.

That was when the barking commenced.

Chapter 10

Do you ever make mischief? I know we agreed to live a sober, sensible life, but sometimes one must laugh.

Found in a letter from Miss Spooner to Mr. Dishforth

“W
ell, I think I have apologized for everything, save the entire Irish race,” Tabitha declared as she came into their room to change before supper. She shot Harriet and Daphne pointed glances. “It should be the two of you down there groveling.”

Harriet glanced up from where she was ensconced on the settee reading the latest
Miss Darby
novel. “Apologize for what?”

Daphne bit her lips together, but it was no use; she couldn’t hold back the laughter.

Which turned out to be doubly contagious.

Tabitha quickly shut the door and, leaning against it, began laughing until tears were running down her cheeks.

“Did you see her face?”

“That first bark! He did warn her.”

“Who would have thought her so fleet?”

“Or so vulgar?”

They all laughed again, this time falling onto the settee around Harriet and laughing until they could barely breathe.

Mr. Muggins sat at their feet, looking askance at each of them.

He saw nothing humorous in any of it. There had been feathers afoot, and as far as the Irish terrier was concerned, he’d saved them all from a fate most dire.

For the moment Miss Nashe had paraded out of the morning room with her prized costume, she’d been met by Mr. Muggins.

Now some might have seen that confection of green silk, French lace and dyed feathers as the most beautiful costume ever.

They, however, were not an Irish terrier with attitude.

It had taken Mr. Muggins about two seconds to decide that particular gown was a menace to Society.

Miss Nashe, who wasn’t about to relinquish her prize, found herself very quickly backed up against the opposite wall with the gown clutched to her bosom. Not even when faced with a half-mad dog would she release her hold on her prize.

Instead, her screams—sharp, shrieking tones that Lady Essex would later say were inherited from the gel’s fishwife forebears—had brought the entire house running.

Not that Mr. Muggins was going to let anyone near. Not when there were feathers afoot.

“That was a standoff for the history books,” Harriet declared.

Tabitha shook her head. “I still don’t see how she was able to make it nearly to the stairs before Mr. Muggins caught her.”

Mr. Muggins wasn’t the only one in the girls’ room looking askance over the entire scene. Daphne’s maid, Pansy, stood by the clothespress, her mouth set in disapproval over their unladylike display. She sniffed and went back to sorting out Daphne’s gowns.

Thus chastened, the trio of friends did their best to look remorseful, for certainly they would have to make it through dinner and the rest of the evening without falling into another case of the whoops.

“Oh, my goodness,” Tabitha exclaimed, bounding to her feet, “is that the time?”

Pansy glanced over at the mantel clock. “Yes, miss.” She then shot a pointed stare at her mistress, for the maid knew all too well how long it took Daphne to get dressed.

“No, it cannot be!” Daphne declared. “I’ve hardly had time to choose a gown!”

And she had every reason to find the perfect dress. For after the dust had settled on what Lady Essex had declared “the feather incident,” Daphne had discovered a single note in the salver.

Tonight. Yes, my dear Miss Spooner. Tonight.

Dishforth had replied to her. Promised to meet her.

Daphne’s hand went to her belly to soothe her restless nerves before she once again surveyed her choice of gowns. The blue one she was wearing would not do, she could see that now.

Oh, to finally meet Mr. Dishforth. This was exactly why she’d come to Owle Park, and now it was to happen.

It had to happen. Why, she’d spent the rest of the afternoon composing list after list of the perfect things to say when she met him.

My dear Mr. Dishforth . . .

At last we meet . . .

I am speechless . . .

No, no, that would never do. If she was truly speechless, she wouldn’t be able to manage that much.

Oh, dear, whatever was she going to say?

When we meet, mere words will never be enough, my dear Miss Spooner.

Ah, yes, leave it to Mr. Dishforth to have the perfect answer for such an awkward situation.

She turned from the pile of gowns on the bed and hugged herself. Everything would be perfect from here on out.

Whirling around, she faced her maid. “Where is my green gown?”

“Another one, miss?” Pansy asked. “You look pretty as a picture in that one.”

“No, this shade of blue won’t do.”

“Do what?” Harriet asked. Suffering no case of nerves, Harriet had dressed with her usual casual efficiency in a modest gown and had had Pansy pin her dark hair up in a simple crown of ringlets.

“Nothing,” Daphne told her. “I have the right to change my mind.”

“No one is arguing that,” Tabitha said. “But look at the time.”

“Oh, bother!” Daphne said. None of her gowns seemed to be right. Not for tonight. She paused, taking another look at the apple green muslin she’d had made in London just a few weeks earlier and that Pansy had fetched from the clothespress. But it was too much like the gown Miss Nashe had worn yesterday. As a day dress. “No. This just won’t do.”

Tabitha and Harriet exchanged a glance, and then Tabitha shooed Pansy out the door.

They all loved Pansy dearly, but the girl was a bit of a gossip.

Once the door was closed and they were all alone, Tabitha turned to Daphne, hands fisted to her hips. “What is so special about tonight.”

Harriet sat up. “Is it Lord Henry?”

“Lord Henry?” Daphne sputtered. “Whyever would you say such a thing?”

Harriet looked to Tabitha for help. When none was forthcoming, she waded in. “It is just after last night—”

“Oh, not that again,” Daphne complained.

“Daphne!” Tabitha chided. “We saw you. The two of you. If you think no one noticed, you are very wrong.”

“There was nothing to see,” Daphne told them with every bit of resolve she possessed. As if that was the end of the matter.

Harriet snorted. “If nothing means Lord Henry was about to kiss you, then yes, I suppose we saw nothing.”

“He was not . . . I would never—” Daphne stammered.

Oh, whyever did it have to be Harriet and Tabitha accusing her? They knew all her secrets and her failings.

Primarily that she was a terrible liar.

So she went back to her choice of gowns, for she was at her wit’s end as to which one to wear for her assignation with Mr. Dishforth. She picked up one, then another, discarded them both and picked up a third. Well, the green muslin would just have to do. She was about to shrug out of the blue silk she was wearing when she found that her friends were not finished with her.

“Daphne, whatever is the matter with you?” Harriet said, rising to her feet and taking the green muslin out of her grasp. “That is the sixth gown you’ve tried on tonight.”

“I always change my mind,” Daphne protested, trying to retrieve the dress, but Harriet held it out of reach and then passed it along to Tabitha, who put it behind her back.

“You change your gown three times before dinner,” Harriet pointed out. “Never six.”

“I just want to look perfect tonight,” Daphne told them.

“What is so important about tonight?” Tabitha repeated, holding the muslin just out of reach, a tempting prize being offered for an honest answer.

Which Daphne was not about to concede. “Nothing. It is just that . . .” She stammered for a moment, then found her lie. “Miss Nashe was going on and on about her gown for this evening, and I would so like to outshine her—”

She had told them what the heiress had said over breakfast, so perhaps . . .

“This has nothing to do with Miss Nashe,” Tabitha said, seeing right through the ruse. “Besides, I think the score between you and Miss Nashe is quite even now.”

“Oh, goodness,” Harriet exclaimed. “It’s Mr. Dishforth, isn’t it?” Then her friend’s eyes widened. “You’ve discovered who he is, haven’t you?”

While she had hoped to keep her meeting a secret—after the disaster that was the engagement ball—she realized she very much needed their help this one last time.

“Nearly,” Daphne confessed.

H
enry, who was never late for anything in his life, was late yet again.

Hen was going to have his hide on a platter for such a lapse—or call for a surgeon from London to have him gone over.

At least he had a partial excuse for his tardiness, he mused as he stood at the crossways of two long halls.

Demmed if he could find his way through the ambling maze of passages and wings that made up Owle Park. Unfortunately, this had been Preston’s childhood home, not his.

Getting lost, his sister would expect, but she’d have been shocked to discover the real reason behind his belated arrival: Henry had had Loftus replace not only his cravat—twice—but his boots and his coat as well. The poor valet had finally given up on his usually affable employer, throwing his hands in the air and muttering something about the country air having gone to his lordship’s head.

So he was a bit distracted. Why wouldn’t he be, when tonight his entire life would change?

We must meet. Tonight. In the library. After dinner. ~S

Yet he’d been taken aback as he’d read the sparse lines, sensing an urgency behind them.

On one hand was Miss Spooner, a lady, not just a week ago, he had welcomed meeting.

That is, until he’d crossed paths with Miss Daphne Dale.

Now? Well, he didn’t know what to think. Did he want to be Miss Spooner’s sensible gentleman, a role he’d always found agreeable, or did he want to be the rake he saw reflected in Miss Dale’s engaging glances?

Miss Dale, indeed! What an impossible notion.

No, no, he needed to discover who Miss Spooner might be and move cautiously forward from there. For he had told Zillah the truth: he would not marry just to be married. Not for money, or business, or status.

He’d follow his heart. A rather insensible notion for a man who prided himself on being practical. And he had the very impractical Miss Dale to thank for this change of heart.

That didn’t mean he knew what to do next. He’d spent a good part of the afternoon pacing circles around the fish pond wondering what the devil he was going to say to the chit.

Especially when every time he imagined entering the library and it was none other than Miss Dale who turned around to greet him.

Demmit, whatever would he do then? For he was already half in love with her.

Oh, why try to fool himself. There were no halves about it.

He was in love with Miss Dale.

And he could even pin it down to the exact moment when she’d succeeded in stealing his heart.

When he’d been watching the spectacle this afternoon. Oh, he hadn’t been eyeing Miss Nashe’s epic dash through Owle Park with Mr. Muggins on her heels. No, his gaze had been fixed on Miss Dale.

Miss Dale, with her lips pressed together so it appeared she was as beset and concerned as everyone else. He hadn’t been fooled. She’d had her mouth clenched shut to keep from laughing.

Much as he had.

And when she’d spied him watching her, she’d mouthed two words:
Thank you.

In that instant, Lord Henry Seldon fell in love.

Head. Over. Heels.

With a Dale. He’d been so bowled over, so thunderstruck, that he’d barely been able to get out his answer.

You’re welcome.

Then she’d grinned at him and slipped back into the milling crowd, taking his heart with her.

As he’d stood there, utterly blindsided by this accident of fate, he realized he’d been in love with her for far longer. Probably since the first moment he’d clapped eyes on her at Preston’s engagement ball.

Love. What an ass he’d been all these years on the subject. Love, he now realized, was utter chaos. A maelstrom against the sagacious.

No wonder a bewitching minx such as Daphne Dale had inspired his once sensible heart to take flight.

In a panic, Henry had fled to the music room, hunted down a pen and paper and dashed off a response to Miss Spooner.

Tonight. Yes, my dear Miss Spooner. Tonight.

Henry had never fallen in love before, and panic had seemed the most sensible response.

Miss Spooner would restore his equilibrium, bring him back to his senses.

Yet now, as the time drew closer, he wasn’t sure what he would do. However would he know if he was making the right choice. If Miss Spooner was the right lady for him?

And his answer seemed to come as he rounded a corner and collided with another.

A lady, in fact.

“Oh, dear heavens!” she cried out as she slammed into him, his perfectly pressed jacket now creased beyond repair.

Henry caught hold of her, and the moment his arm wound around her waist, his fingers caught hold of her elbow and he steadied her, he knew.

Miss Dale.

He looked down at her, and for a tremulous second, they gazed into each other’s eyes.

One could have dismissed the night at the ball as mere chance. The afternoon in the folly as, well, folly. But Henry couldn’t deny that each time he looked into Miss Daphne Dale’s wide, innocent blue eyes, his heart stopped.

The entire world stilled, at least for him as he took in her silken wisps of blonde hair escaping from her nearly perfect coif, her pretty, full lips that were just made for kissing—no, make that devouring. It wasn’t panic that filled his veins this time but desire.

Hot, hard desire.

Henry wanted nothing more than to sweep her up in some medieval, high-handed manner and carry her off to the highest reaches of Owle Park.

There, he’d seduce her. Make love to her. Find solace for this restless, aching need racing through him that he knew, just damn well knew, she was the only woman capable of easing.

Of course, finding his way might be a bit of a bother . . . and might require he put her down to ask directions. But once they got there . . .