And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (27 page)

“I found them quite stirring.”

“Really? I found them overly familiar. Indeed, I asked Harriet’s brother, and he laughed—told me every boy at Eton learns those lines. A schoolboy’s sentiments.” She shrugged.

“A schoolboy’s—” he began.

She leaned forward and cut him off. “I don’t like to admit this, but I fear you are right and Mr. Dishforth will turn out to be an overly simple man. Otherwise why else would he be so easily duped, as you said before.”

“Overly simple?”

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “Ever so much so.”

This time, when Lord Henry straightened, he let his apple fall to one side. “And you like that?”

“Of course. A simple man will not overrun me or attempt to deceive me. I think he sounds the perfect husband.”

“Doesn’t sound so to me. Not if he’s the sort to pass off schoolboy lines.”

“Not everyone can have your dash and polish, Lord Henry.” She smiled at him, met his gaze and waited.

There was a moment when neither of them spoke. “I have dash and polish?” he managed.

“Yes.” Again waiting for some sort of inspired declaration from the man.

Instead, he leaned back against the tree, his hands behind his handsome head.

Daphne wasn’t in the mood to let him preen for long. “Oh, you needn’t be so proud of the fact. That is also one of your faults. Seldon pride.”

“I’ve always thought the Dales possessed the lion’s share of that trait, leaving hardly any for the rest of us.”

“I’ll admit we are a prideful lot,” Daphne told him, “but then again, we have much to preen over.”

“Bah
! Dales!” he mocked.

“Harrumph
! Seldons!” Daphne met his gaze with an arrogant one of her own, and before she knew it, they were both laughing uproariously at the ridiculousness of it all.

“How long have our families been at each other?”

She shrugged. “Forever.”

“Over a litter of mongrel pups.”

Daphne looked aside and blushed, for she wasn’t supposed to know that, but of course she did.

“Foolish, isn’t it?” He looked at her, his glorious eyes filled with something that was far from mockery, far from the usual Seldon disdain, and Daphne’s heart skipped and tumbled as it always did when he looked at her that way.

“Very much so.”

He thrust out his hand. “Then a truce is in order!”

“A what?” she managed, looking down at his hand and willing herself to take hold of it. For as much as she bemoaned his unwillingness to declare himself, now she was just as hesitant to take what he was offering.

“A truce, minx. Yes, a Seldon-Dale truce. I declare all hostilities between our families hereby null and void.” He pressed his hand closer, and Daphne took it.

What else could she do?

And as his large palm wound around her smaller one, she felt as she always did around him—engulfed.

She looked down at their intertwined hands. “I don’t think I shall be counted as a Dale after this.”

He laughed and let go of her, leaning back again in that lord-of-the-manor way of his. “I suspect the seventh duke will haunt me to the end of my days, but it is a fate I am willing to risk.”

He was? Willing to risk the censure of his family for her? Was that what he was saying?

“Why?” she asked.

“Because, Miss Dale, you and I are alike.”

At this she laughed.

“We are,” he insisted. “Whether you approve or not.”

Daphne stilled, for she was quite convinced he was about to haul her into his arms and kiss her. He was, she just knew it.

And then he blinked, as if remembering something, and turned around as quickly as the moment had begun. “Yes, well, if we are so alike, I suppose you are as famished as I am.”

And so they returned to their meal in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

H
enry ran through a thousand different ways he might nudge Miss Dale into admitting that Mr. Dishforth was not the man for her.

It wasn’t until he spied a fine house rising in the distance that he thought he might have the perfect entree. This was not some tumbledown relic but a gentleman’s house—a respectable home. The sort a lady like Miss Dale would admire.

“Such an excellent house. I wonder who lives there?” he asked with a nonchalant wave of his apple in that direction.

She glanced at it and shrugged.

“Does Mr. Dishforth have such a residence?” he asked, all the while examining the apple in his hand.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“What do you know about this rogue?” he pressed, glancing in the basket again as if the answer really wasn’t
that
important to him.

“Oh, plenty,” she replied from the other side of the blanket, where she sat picking at the grass blades.

“Such as . . . ?”

She huffed a sigh, then looked over at him. “He lives in London. With his sister. She must be a most gracious and delightful creature, for he is ever so fond of her.”

Henry had made the mistake of taking a bite of apple at that point, and he nearly choked.

Miss Dale was not done. Why, it was as if the lady had compiled an entire dossier on the man. “He also cares for a nephew, who is a dreadful trial—”

Henry couldn’t argue with that.

“So Dishforth must be a great blessing to his family.”

Henry tried to appear thoughtful. “Can he keep you?”

“Keep me?”

“Yes, afford a wife?”

She sniffed at this. “What a vulgar thing to ask.”

“Yes, well, silks don’t come cheap.” Well he knew. He’d seen enough of Hen’s bills.

Her chin chucked up. “I hardly think new gowns will be on my mind when I am Mrs. Abernathy Dishforth.”

“Abernathy?” This time he’d had the presence of mind not to take another bite from his apple.

She glanced up at him, a quizzical look on her face. “Yes. Didn’t I mention his name before?”

“I suppose I forgot,” he mused, trying to remember if he’d ever used a first name—which he was quite positive he hadn’t.

What the devil? Was she just making this up as she went along?

“Abernathy,” she sighed. “Such a romantic name. Though Harriet is of the opinion he must have a wen.”

This brought Henry right up. “A wen?!” Not that again.

“Yes, right in the middle of his forehead,” she said, pointing to her own. “Further, it is Harriet’s opinion that such a name, Abernathy Dishforth, is the sort one gives a child who will grow up prone to eating paste and tattling. But I doubt that he could be that dreadful.”

Henry ground his teeth together. First his letters were classified as simple, and now this? A wen-sporting looby with a penchant for eating paste?

“It might not be his true name,” he pointed out.

“It doesn’t matter to me what his name is,” she replied, once again absently picking at the grass blades.

“It might well,” he muttered.

“What was that, Lord Henry?”

Here it was, the opportunity to confess everything, and yet his pride wasn’t about to reveal that he was her paste-eating simpleton of a lover.

“Nothing,” he ground out.

Miss Dale shrugged. “I suspect given Abernathy’s sensible opinions, he must be a gentleman reduced to trade.”

There was no way he’d heard her correctly. “Reduced to wha-a-at?”

“Trade.”

He couldn’t help himself; he shuddered. “And this isn’t a problem for you?”

She smiled. “Trade isn’t as ignoble as it used to be. Perhaps with the help of my Dale relations, he might be elevated. Knighted, perhaps.”

Henry closed his eyes. He still was unconvinced he’d heard her correctly, but he had no desire to explore her theories as to why she thought Dishforth was in trade.

His pride couldn’t take it.

So he tried another tack. “Have you considered what you’ll do if you and Mr. Dishforth don’t suit?”

“We already do,” she said with such supreme confidence that Henry wondered how he could ever change her mind.

But it was Miss Dale who took pity on him and changed the subject, albeit unwittingly.

“Is your house like that one?” she asked, nodding toward the residence he’d pointed out before.

He looked at it again. “Yes, the one in Sussex is most similar, but the one in Kent is a rambling pile. If you like Owle Park, you would love Stowting Mote. It’s an amazingly old keep, with a hodgepodge of Tudor additions tacked on. It needs a thorough cleaning and some renovations.” He glanced at her.

“Two houses, Lord Henry?”

Lord Henry grinned at her surprise. “Three, actually.”

“Three? Oh, yes, I quite forgot. You had mentioned that the other day, hadn’t you? I don’t know why I didn’t remember.” She paused. “Rather unusual, isn’t it? A second son with three houses?”

“It isn’t as if I won them at cards or dice, or came by them in some illicit manner.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, no. After all, I am naught but a spare. And a suspected Seldon wastrel at that.”

“I thought we’d declared a truce on that notion.”

“Yes, indeed. My apologies.”

“None needed,” she told him. “I would think having three houses would make you quite a catch.”

“That is why I don’t nose it about Town.” He picked up the loaf of bread and tore it in two, handing her one half. “Besides, there is more to a man than his property and income.”

“There is?” she teased, nibbling at her half of the loaf.

“You are a dreadful minx.”

“Well, property and income—you did say income, didn’t you?”

“Yes. An indecent one, if I do say so myself.”

“Now you are just showing your—”

“Pride?”

She nodded.

“I suppose I am.”

She looked again at the house in the distance. “I’ve always dreamt of being a mistress of such a house.”

“And why wouldn’t you?”

“I’m from Kempton, to begin with.”

“Yes, Preston mentioned some nonsense about the lot of you being cursed.”

“Well, there hasn’t been a happy marriage in quite some time.”

“I think Preston and Miss Timmons will change all that. Suppose it will cause a flurry of courtships in your village.”

She laughed. “I doubt it. Traditions are so very difficult to surmount. Sometimes it is a divide that cannot be crossed.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he admitted. He thought not of Kempton but of them. Seldon and Dale. “But you aren’t amongst such narrow-minded spinsters. Surely you came to London with the hopes of—”

He resisted teasing her.
Snaring a husband . . . Catching a fellow in the parson’s trap . . .

“I had rather hoped that Mr. Dishforth—”

“Ah, yes, we always end up back there,” he said, weary of the subject. “Still, you are a Dale—and one of the loveliest. I can’t imagine you’ll be a spinster for long.”

“Me?” She shook her head. “I am merely Daphne Dale, of the Kempton Dales. I am considered a rather poor relation and hardly one of the family’s beauties.”

He leaned back and studied her. “Then they are all blind.”

Chapter 15

In the light of day, will you come to regret this?

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner

L
ord Henry’s statement, nay, confession, took Daphne’s breath away.

Had he truly just said that? Did he mean it?

Apparently he did, for he pushed off the trunk of the oak, against which he’d been leaning, and crossed the seemingly impossible valley that had sprung up between them.

His hand reached out and cupped her chin, and he drew her closer until his lips captured hers.

Protest, remind him of Dishforth, make him tell the truth first
. . . .

Objections fluttered through her thoughts before they were caught on a wayward breeze and lofted far from reach.

His kiss, his touch left her without any reason. Just desire. Heart-pounding, inescapable desires.

He’d claimed her with his kiss before; now his hands, his body captured her. He edged up the blanket, covering her, one hand still cupping her chin, the other on her hip—pulling her ever closer—until she found herself on her back, his body covering hers.

All the while, he kissed her, deeply, insistently. The demanding sort of kisses that claimed not just the woman but her soul as well.

And Daphne inhaled, drew him in, her fingers clinging to his shoulders, her mouth open to him. Everything about him seemed to touch her—his tongue teasing over hers, his hands as they roamed over her, his hips pinning her to the blanket beneath them.

He’d gone from the tentative rogue in the folly, to the seducer in the library, to a man determined.

His touch wasn’t teasing and light, it was insistent, as if his desires had been bottled up and were now bursting forth like champagne.

That one kiss, that one moment where he’d made that fateful decision to cross the blanket, to breach the divide between them, now saw his every desire unleashed.

Having started with a kiss, his lips continued their assault over her neck, behind her ear, leaving Daphne breathless, her insides quaking.

She tried to gasp, to speak, but her mouth could only open, and what came out was a mew of pleasure. “
Ahhh
.”

He continued to tease her with his trail of kisses, his lips nibbling at her neck, and down along the edge of her bodice, as his fingers slipped beneath her gown and freed first one breast and then the other, leaving them bare to his touch.

Now it was his turn to moan as he sucked one of her nipples deep into his mouth, leaving it puckered tight and Daphne’s hips dancing upwards, strafing against the hard ridge beneath his breeches, as if seeking relief from the anxious, dangerous passions building inside her.

And then that wayward breeze ran over her legs—for she hadn’t even noticed that he’d brought her skirt up, and he had lost no time finding that nub between her legs, beginning to work his magic yet again.

Her legs opened to him, her body already wet and ready for him.

And then his kiss delved lower, his lips against her thighs, his breath hot against the curls at her apex, and when his fingers parted the way, his kiss at her very core, his tongue curling around her, washing over her, Daphne’s hips bucked, her heels digging into the earth beneath them, seeking something solid to hitch her to the earth, for she was truly rising again, but this time ever-so-fast and furiously.

Panting and anxious, she could only cling to the blanket, his tongue insistent over her, lapping at her, urging her to let go, to find her release.

“Ah, ah, yes, ah,” she gasped.

He caught hold of her hips and drew her closer, as if he knew exactly what her soft cries meant, knew the translation.

And the cure.

He trapped her close and sucked deeply, leaving Daphne rife with desires. With need.

There was nothing left for her to do but let go.

When she did, those anxious, dangerous spirals he’d coiled inside her burst open, tendrils flung out in all directions, wayward branches whipping this way and that as if tossed by this tempest of pleasure he’d unleashed. Above her, the dappled sunshine blinked and winked through the oak leaves like a thousand points of fireworks, fluttering and flashing even as her body danced and tossed with wave after wave of passion.

Lord Henry didn’t stop there, he continued to kiss her, continued to tease her until she was spent and shaken. And only then did he let go. He cradled her, soothed her with kisses to her lips, to her shoulders, with whispered promises of the delights to come.

Daphne could hardly believe him. More? Was that possible?

But when she looked into his deep, passionate gaze, she knew Lord Henry was a man of his word.

And deed.

H
enry wanted nothing more than to bury himself between her legs and slake this desperate need that had burned in his veins since the night of the engagement ball.

He’d wanted her then. He wanted her now, but with such a different longing. To have her always. To tell her everything and for her to understand.

But right now, all he could do was make love to her.

The starry light in her eyes called for him to give in to his pent-up desires. Unleash the fires she stoked within him.

But he wasn’t about to rush this afternoon.

Entwined as they were, he knew instantly the moment her body stirred back to life, for her hips were once again brushing up to explore against him, her fingers trailing down his back, her fingernails taut against his skin.

He loved the way she teased him, like a cat on points, all nails and arched, ready to be tamed.

And then she surprised him, her hands moving to the top of his breeches, opening them, and as he had before with her bodice, she reached inside and let her fingers curl around his rock-hard manhood.

Where it had been straining against his breeches, now it pulsed to life in her grasp. He rolled off her and they lay face-to-face so she had room for her explorations and the leisure to tease him.

Henry tried to breathe as hot sensations of desire shot through him.

Her touch, at first tentative, became stronger, running up and down his length, her mouth coming to join again with his as her touch became more hurried, her tongue teasing at his.

Now it was Henry’s turn to groan, for with each stroke, he grew harder, his body tightened. Her fingers toyed with a glossy bead that had formed on the head, and she used it to torture him as she slid her hand back and forth, his length now slick.

“I want you, Daphne,” he gasped. “I want to be inside of you. I need to be inside you.”

He reached down and began to tease her back to life, until she was once again panting with need, then he rolled her on her back and shifted himself until he was right at her cleft.

“I want you as well,” she whispered.

“Who do you want, Daphne?” he asked as he began to enter her, slowly, opening her and then moving out.

Her mouth opened. “You, Lord Henry. I want you. And only you.”

And then he entered her, breaching her virgin’s barrier and filling her.

She gasped, her eyes fluttering open wide at this invasion.

“It is only like that once,” he told her. “Now remember how it was when I touched you, when I kissed you.” Then he began to stroke her, slowly, until her once soft mews of pleasure became more urgent cries.

As she reached her peak for the second time, Henry’s own climax shot through him emptying him into an abyss of pleasure.

They spent the remainder of the day in each other’s arms, making love again, and eventually, hand in hand, they wandered from their blanket haven and explored the meadows beyond, gamboling through the waist-high grasses and wildflowers like children.

As they strolled back to the tree, Daphne said, “Tell me about this house of yours. This Stowting Mote.”

He grinned at her, reaching over and brushing an errant strand of her hair away from her face. “It has a moat.”

“A moat? Truly?”

“Indeed. The water surrounds the entire house, and you can fish from any window.”

She laughed at him. “Now you are teasing.”

“I’m not. The house is truly surrounded by a moat—it is centuries old, with the last real renovations done about the time Old Bess was queen. But the gardens are good, and it has a lovely orchard that spreads up along a wide lawn in the front.”

“It sounds romantic,” she told him.

“Hardly,” he admitted. “The moat needs to be drained and cleaned, and I imagine once I start mucking around, I’ll find all sorts of places that need shoring up.”

“Whyever did you buy such a place?”

Lord Henry shrugged and glanced off in the direction of the lovely house in the distance. “Stowting Mote has always been a family home. A unique one, granted. Families have lived there for generations, and then come and gone. And yet the house still stands. I suppose I just wanted to be part of that, that legacy of generations, to belong to that history.”

She nudged him. “You are an incurable romantic, Lord Henry Seldon.”

He dropped her hand and struck a horrified pose. “Insults will land you in the moat, Miss Dale.”

She reached over and took his hand. “Then I expect you will fish me out.”

“I might.”

“Wretched, awful man,” she taunted him back as they resumed their walk to the spot under the tree.

They gathered up the blanket and the remains of the basket and strolled down the hillside toward their carriage. About the time they got to the rock wall, the sound of hooves echoed down the long lane.

Their postilion, their driver and fresh horses came round the bend.

“So soon?” Daphne mused, rather saddened that their perfect afternoon was ending. She knew all too soon that she and Lord Henry would have to have a coming to the truth, a full confession of sorts. She only hoped he would forgive her as much as she was willing to look past his stubborn pride.

He had been right earlier: they were alike. Too much so.

“I thought you were in a hell-fire hurry to get to the border?” Henry posed. For he was no longer Lord Henry, he was her Henry, and she his Daphne.

Daphne tucked up her chin defiantly. “I’ve been known to change my mind,” she told him as he helped her over the low stone wall.

“Truly?” he replied as he climbed over, basket in hand.

“Yes.”

He paused. “Name one occasion.”

She laughed. “I don’t despise you as much as I first did.”

Henry barked a laugh and caught her by the hand, bringing it to his lips. “That’s good, for you are rather stuck with me now.”

“Am I?” she shot back, turning her attentions to the driver and lad, who were even now guiding the horses into their traces.

Henry didn’t press the matter and, following her lead, turned his attention to their long-awaited driver. “Almost thought you’d forgotten us.”

“Terrible time getting new horses, my lord,” the man explained. “Everyone seems to be headed north today.”

“How odd,” Daphne remarked as she climbed into the carriage. “We haven’t seen a soul all afternoon.”

As the carriage rolled down the road, Daphne laid her head against Henry’s shoulder, suddenly finding herself exhausted. The gentle swaying of the carriage and Henry’s steady, solid presence beside her left her ready to slip into dreams.

Besides, it was growing dark, and the shadows made it easy to close one’s eyes.

“Minx, whatever are you going to do?”

“Hmm?” she replied, half awake.

“When we catch up with your Mr. Dishforth?”

Daphne raised her sleepy gaze to his. Still? He wanted to continue this charade? She sighed. “I’ll tell him quite simply that I forgive him his foolish pride.”

“His what?”

“You heard me,” she murmured and snuggled closer.

“Whatever do you see in this bungler?” Henry pressed, sounding a little more than vexed by her continued allegiance to her other lover.

“Many things,” she said. And when he nudged her a bit, she knew he wanted to hear more. “His loyalty to his family. His kindness. His words—they encouraged me to break with the past and dare to dream that I might dance where I may.”

She could hear the soft groan of frustration rumble through his chest. Well, he’d asked.

“And you discovered all this through his letters?”

She shook her head. “No, Henry. A lady reads between the lines.”

“What will you tell him about me? About us?”

“The truth. He’ll understand.” She sighed and sunk closer to a soft refuge of dreams. “I imagine he’ll thank you for bringing me.”

Henry sputtered. “Thank me? How can you be so sure?”

Sleep started to steal at her senses, but she opened one eye. “Because he loves me.”

“Are you certain?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

And she was, as she drifted off to sleep in his arms.

T
hey arrived at the inn just after dark, and Henry hated to wake her up. Then again, everything Daphne had said as she’d drifted off to sleep had left at him at a loss.

What the devil did she mean that Dishforth would love her still?

He would have thought, well, he’d just assumed that once they’d . . . they’d . . . made love, she would have made her choice.

Apparently not.

“Are we there?” Daphne said, her eyes opening. “Are we in Scotland?”

“Hmm,” Henry mused. “No. Just a few miles from the border. Seems we will need to stop here for the night.”

She sat up and stretched. “Just as well. It has been a busy day. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”

Henry got out and helped her down, and once again, to his amazement, rooms were at the ready and Daphne was whisked off in the efficient hands of a sturdy-looking maid.

It had been like that all the way up the road—as if their every stop had been anticipated. But then again, he’d never dashed off to Scotland before, and mayhap that was how things were done on the Manchester Road.

Then again, the cheeky innkeeper two nights before had handed Henry a second bill.

“For Mr. Dishforth’s expenses, if you please, my lord.” And then the fellow had slanted a glance at Daphne and made a greedy waggle of his brows, as if to say,
Best pay up, for it would be a shame if the lady was to discover the truth
.