And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (28 page)

Still, having rooms at the ready and a hot supper on the table was worth a few inconveniences.

And a bit of blackmail, he mused, wondering what Mr. Dishforth had needed with a hot shave, two bottles of Madeira and laundry.

No, this had to end. Now. This very night.

“How would you like your supper, my lord?” the innkeeper asked as he came forward.

Supper? Yes, that would be perfect. He’d tell her over an excellent meal. He glanced up at the inn. At least he hoped it would be decent.

“Quickly,” Henry told him. “And in a private dining room, if you will?”

He’d tell her everything. Beg her to marry him, carry her over the border in the morning, make her his wife and then they could go into hiding until the worst of it blew over.

Not a very noble stance, but utterly sensible, given the Dale and Seldon tendencies to overreact when one of their own defied that line that kept them apart.

Well, it was a line no more for him.

“A private room? Of course, my lord! And a fine supper for you and the lady. Quite in order. Why, Mr. Dishforth ordered up that exactly, just last night,” the innkeeper said. Then the man leaned closer. “And Mr. Dishforth also said your lordship would have no complaints in covering his expenses.”

Henry tried to muster his most withering glare, but it was of no use on such a weathered innkeeper, who rubbed his hands together in glee as he hurried off to get everything prepared.

Following him into the inn, his boots tramping along, Henry knew one thing was for certain. After tonight, he would lay the past to rest and there would be no more of that unreliable, horribly unfeeling creature, Abernathy Dishforth, ever again.

D
aphne was halfway down the narrow staircase when a voice in the common room below halted her steps.

“I am seeking word of my cousin—she is traveling toward Gretna Green in a disastrous match. It is imperative I find her.”

Crispin!

Daphne whirled around, scrambling to flee up the stairs, but her path was blocked by the maid who had dressed her hair with such care.

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed.

“Gar! What is it, miss?” the maid said in her thick northern accent.

“My cousin! He’s come to find me, stop me,” Daphne whispered, even as she pushed her way past the girl and ducked higher up the stairs and out of sight.

“No! He can’t,” the girl exclaimed just as vehemently. “Not when you’ve come so far.”

“Exactly,” Daphne agreed. “I just need one more night.”

“Leave it to me,” the girl said, rushing down the stairs.

Daphne peered down the stairwell, just enough to listen.

“Not one of you has seen her? This is quite possibly the only posting inn that hasn’t,” Crispin was saying with that edge of suspicion that sounded very much like Great-Aunt Damaris’s probing, skeptical tones when she sensed a scandal.

“You there, miss,” Crispin called out as the maid came down the stairs. “Have you seen my cousin, Miss Dale? She’s about your height and has fair features. I think she would have come through here not but an hour or so ago.”

“Oh aye, sir, I’ve seen her,” the girl declared.

There was a stirring in the room, not unlike the tremble in Daphne’s heart. Perhaps the maid had landed at the end of the stairs, seen Crispin’s fine presence and sensed a reward that would compensate for her duplicity.

But how wrong Daphne was.

For hadn’t this been the same girl who’d said every lady deserved their happy ever after?

“Yes, sir, I saw her. We all did. She and the gentleman—they came through here about an hour ago. So in love, it about left me in tears.”

“Love! Bah! That scurrilous Seldon has her deceived.”

“Then whyever was he looking for another way across the border—so as to keep the likes of you from finding them?” Then the girl gasped and flung her hand over her mouth as if she wished she could have stoppered the words.

But it was too late. Crispin leapt upon her lie like a bird after bread crumbs.

“Another route into Scotland?” Daphne could almost hear the starch in Crispin’s neckcloth creak as he straightened to his full height. “What other route?”

“Oh, now you’ve done it, lass,” one of the patrons complained. “Done and given those poor lovers away.”

The girl sniffed loudly. “I didn’t mean to!”

“Too late now,” another complained. “Aye, sir, there’s another route. But it will cost you.”

“Cost me?” Crispin’s outrage was palpable.

“Aye, cost ye. The other lord, he was willing to pay for someone to guide him, if only not to get caught, so if it was worth it to him . . .” The man left off, the room growing still with anticipation to see what would happen next.

“I shan’t be blackmailed,” Crispin declared. “This match is ruinous for the lady, and as gentlemen all, you should be stepping forward to aid me, as you would ask for aid if she were your kinswoman.”

“Mine don’t run off,” another fellow joked. “Wish they would. Should count yerself lucky, milord.”

There was a rough volley of laughter at Crispin’s expense.

“The route!” he demanded.

“Pay up,” the man said, “or spend the night and find it in the daylight yerself. Personally I think you ought to try—but I don’t fancy finding you and your excellent carriage at the bottom of the ravine.”

There were nods all around.

“Yes, well, then, name your price,” Crispin said in a of huff. “But whoever takes me had best know what he is doing, for I must catch them before they are married. Or worse.”

Daphne stilled as a price was arranged and a fellow came forward to ride along with Crispin’s driver.

What followed was a whirlwind of activity and shouted orders, then the creak of the door and the sound of it slamming shut. Not until there was a neigh from the horses and the carriage rumbled out of the yard did Daphne come down the stairwell, only to find the grinning maid waiting at the edge of the steps.

“Oh, thank you,” she said to the girl who had brazened such a scheme. “I just need tonight to tell him everything. To explain everything. To get him to forgive me all of this.”

“Exactly what do you need to explain, Miss Dale?” came a familiar voice. “And what do I need to forgive?”

H
enry didn’t wait for Daphne to answer; he caught her by the arm and hauled her toward the room the innkeeper had set aside for their supper.

He towed her quickly, afraid his temper would boil over before they reached the privacy of the dining room, well away from prying ears and eyes.

But he didn’t make it. For the moment Daphne had expressed her relief, “to get him to forgive me all this,” the truth hit him squarely between the eyes.

She knew. She knew the truth.

He’d never felt such a fool!

“All this . . . the carriage, the chase, your worries and your countless concerns over Mr. Dishforth—you knew!” he burst out just as they gained the room but before the door could be shut.

Daphne reared to a stop. “Which you could have ended at any moment.”

Yes, she did have to point that out.

“How could I? You called that idiot—”

“You mean I called
you,
” she corrected, hands fisted to her hips.

“Yes, yes. You called Mr. Dishforth a simpleton. You claimed you loved him.”

At least she had enough decency left to look slightly guilty. Not for long, though. “The point being? My lord, you could have stopped all this with one single confession.”

“My confession? What about yours?” He threw up his hands. “I should point out that this folly has left you ruined.”

She huffed a sigh. “As well I know.”

“ ‘I know’?! That is all you have to say? This coming from ‘Reputation is everything, sir. A man’s reputation is his shining grace.’ ”

She pinked around the edges as he quoted from one of her letters. As well
she
should. And as if she could feel the heat in her cheeks and what it revealed, she turned her back to him.

“Ruined!” he continued to rail. “Further, you have left me with no alternative but to marry you—if only to save your reputation and mine.”

Oh, that spun her around, her eyes alight with fury. “Why would you bother? As a Seldon, don’t you think that goes against Society’s expectations?”

“Don’t tempt me, Miss Dale.” But honestly, all she did was tempt him. Just by breathing, she had him tangled in the crosshairs.

“Oh, am I ‘Miss Dale’ again? What happened to ‘my dearest Daphne’?”

“That rather leapt out the window when you fell asleep in my arms murmuring love notes to that looby Dishforth instead of to me. The man, I will point out, that you love.”

She waved a hand at him as if he spoke utter nonsense.

Henry was past caring who heard him or how his voice carried. “Haven’t you a thought as to how all this reflects on me? Until I met you, I was a gentleman. Now your family most likely thinks I’ve kidnapped you—stolen you away for nefarious reasons.”

“There is no arguing that,” came a voice that stopped them both.

Crispin, Viscount Dale. Hell and damnation, he’d returned.

Daphne turned first, and then Henry.

Being first, Daphne had the privilege of seeing her cousin send a bruising fist into Lord Henry’s face.

Henry, on the other hand, never saw it coming.

Chapter 16

I will not be parted from you. I will find you, my dearest love. This, I promise.

The last letter ever penned by Mr. Dishforth (well, nearly the last one)

W
hen Henry came to, it was to the faces of Preston and Hen staring down at him.

“What happened?” he moaned, pushing aside the beefsteak resting over his eye and trying to sit up.

Preston pushed him back down. “You were blindsided by Dale.”

“The brute,” Hen complained. “Loathsome, horrible man!”

Dale?

Then it all came back to him. The argument. Daphne’s gasp as she turned around. And then the blackness.

This time he managed to struggle up to a sitting position. They were in the private dining room he’d ordered up. The dinner still sat on the sideboard, untouched.

“Where is Daphne? Where is she? I must speak to her—”

Again, Preston pushed him back down onto the settee. “She’s gone, my good man. Spirited off by her cousin.”

“Gone?” Henry shook his head, pushing past Preston and going for the door. “We have to go after them. We have to stop them!”

“Can’t.”

Henry turned to his nephew. “Can’t or you won’t?”

“Can’t,” Preston told him.

“Shouldn’t!” Hen enthused. “You are well rid of her, if you want my opinion.”

“Well, I don’t,” Henry told her. Hen looked ready to open her mouth and contradict him, but he cut her off. “Not another word, Hen. Need I remind you what you told Preston and me after you married Michaels?”

Her brow furrowed as she recalled her words. “The situation is hardly the same.”

Preston grimaced and looked about to argue, but one glare from Hen stayed his retort.

“I am going to marry Daphne Dale and you had best get used to it.”

Henry’s adamant announcement sent Hen staggering back, as if he’d struck her. “Never,” she told him. “Besides, she’s well and gone, and by tomorrow she will be too far from your reach to ever discover again. See if they don’t hide her away.”

“I’ll catch them before they reach Blackford,” Henry swore, wrenching open the door as much as holding onto to it to steady himself.

“Can’t,” Preston repeated.

“Whyever not?” Henry asked, a thousand thoughts going through his head. How he’d been an ass. A fool. He should have told her. She loved him and had known. Probably, knowing Daphne, she’d been testing him.

Of course, she had. Given him any number of chances to come clean.

And he’d failed her.

“Because the viscount took all the horses with him. Gave the innkeeper a ridiculous amount of money to allow him to take all the mounts. There isn’t a nag to be had—save my cattle, but they’re dead tired and need to be rested.” Preston shook his head. “Tomorrow. We’ll catch up with them tomorrow. I promise.”

B
ut Crispin proved to be a wary adversary and thwarted Henry’s chase at every turn, bribing the tollgate keepers to delay them unnecessarily, hiring up all the changes at nearly every post, and driving at an indecent speed to beat them back to Langdale.

Daphne found herself locked in her cousin’s carriage, and only let out to use the necessary. And when she‘d nearly managed to slip away once, her determined cousin had caught her, tossed her over his shoulder and carted her right back to her prison.

“Lord Henry will save me,” she told Crispin over and over again, her frantic thoughts going back to the last time she saw him, laying on the floor of the inn.

She didn’t even know if he lived, and she doubted Crispin cared that he might have committed murder.

“He’ll come and save me,” she insisted.

“He can try,” was all Crispin would say in return.

But by the fourth day, Daphne had no idea where Henry might be. She was exhausted and battered from being tossed about the carriage, furious beyond measure at Crispin’s high-handed ways, and wishing over and over she’d told Henry everything that beautiful afternoon beneath the oak tree.

“Oh, Henry, come find me,” she whispered up to the stars night after night, hoping one of them would take pity on her and carry her message to her love.

But when Crispin’s carriage rolled into Langdale, she knew her chances of rescue were dimming. So close to Owle Park, and yet they might as well have taken a ship to the Orient.

Lord Henry would hardly expect Lord Dale to bring her right back to the original scene of the crime.

Nor did she have any hope of effecting an escape.

Especially when she was let out to find not only Great-Aunt Damaris on the front steps but also the Right Honorable Matheus Dale beaming down at her as if she had just stepped out in her finest, most fashionable London garb.

Matheus Dale? Oh, they wouldn’t.

It seemed they would.

Not that anyone was going to explain their plans to her, not that they needed to. Given the haze of tears on Phi’s face, Daphne had her answer.

And late that night, Phi came to her door, to the room where they’d locked her in “for her own good.”

“Cousin?” Phi whispered as she scratched quietly at the door.

“Phi?” Daphne sat up, then rushed to the door, kneeling before it, her fingers pressed to the solid oak barring her escape. “Whatever is going to be done? They aren’t going to—” She couldn’t even finish the thought.

Matheus Dale?!
She shuddered.

“Yes, I fear so!” Phi whispered back. “But they are awaiting a Special License.”

“Get me out,” Daphne begged.

“I cannot. Aunt Damaris has the key well hidden.”

Daphne sank deeper into the door. “Oh, Phi, I love him. With all my heart, I love him.”

“I’m so sorry, Daphne. So very sorry.”

And then Phi was gone.

Two days passed, with Daphne’s only contact being a surly old maid who had no use for pleas or entreaties.

Once Matheus came to the door to invite her downstairs to sup, and she tossed a vase at the panel in a defiant reply.

As night fell that second day, Daphne heard an odd sound. A
ssssh
that whispered loudly in the silence. She glanced over at the door and spied a note that had been shoved beneath.

Daphne leapt upon it, her heart hammering. And indeed, when she turned it over, she found it addressed to:

Miss Spooner.

She hugged it close, and then just as quickly ripped it open.

Open your window, my love. Let me in.

Open her window? Good heavens, she was on the third floor.

Yet when she got to her window, hauling back the heavy drapes, and then pulling and yanking the sash open, there was Lord Henry climbing up a rope that seemed to dangle from the roof above.

He swung himself into the room. “Minx!” he cried out as he opened his arms to her.

Daphne rushed to him. “How did you . . . Whatever were you thinking? . . . Oh, I am ever so glad you’ve come.”

“Yes, to all of that,” he told her, smoothing back her tumbled hair. “But first this.”

And then he kissed her, and all her worries and fears and the buckets of tears she’d shed were all forgotten. The moment his lips touched hers, she knew that everything would be as it should.

When they paused, if only to gasp for breath, she rushed to ask, “How did you know how to find me? Let alone—” She waved her hand at the open window as if she still couldn’t quite believe it.

“The stable lad,” he told her, kissing her brow and her cheeks, as if he couldn’t get enough of her.

“The stable lad?”

“Yes, the one from the inn who told that horrible bouncer about Dishforth.”

“Whatever has he to do with all this?”

“Apparently he feels quite wretched over his poor dissembling—”

“Oh my! He didn’t get sacked, did he?”

Henry shook his head. “Seems he’s a dab hand with horses, but not much for telling a lie.”

“He is that,” Daphne said with a laugh and then covered her mouth. “We must be quiet.”

He nodded and lowered his voice. “The boy came up to Owle Park this afternoon and offered to help.”

She shook her head. “I don’t see how he could.”

Henry’s eyes lit up with mischief. “His sister works here. She’s a chambermaid. Knows the house inside and out. She smuggled him and the rope up to the roof. Couldn’t manage the key. Still, it was all I needed. Some way to get inside, to get to you.”

“To rescue me,” she said, grinning at him. Her own knight-errant. Then she realized something else. “However do you intend to get me out?” She looked in horror at the rope hanging outside her window.

She rather preferred a rescue that involved the backstairs and a hasty retreat in a good carriage.

“I’m going to climb back out—”

Daphne was already shaking her head. “I can’t . . . I’ll never be able to—”

“You don’t have to. Roxley is going to come to the front door and insist you be released.”

“Whyever would Crispin release me just because the Earl of Roxley insists?”

“Once we are married, he’ll have no choice but to let my wife go.”

“Married?” she gasped.

“Yes, married,” he told her, his gaze searching her gaze for some sign of agreement. So to press his point—and also to reassure her he hadn’t gone stark raving mad—he opened up his coat and dug out a piece of paper. “I’ve a Special License. All you need to do is sign it and the vicar will marry us.”

Daphne wasn’t too sure she’d heard him correctly. Get married? “Henry, I haven’t a vicar handy.”

“Ah, but minx, I do.”

Daphne gazed up at him with disbelief in her eyes. He had to admit it was a madcap scheme, but surely she would appreciate that point.

“Well, I haven’t the vicar just yet. I will in about an hour,” Henry told her. “Didn’t know how long it would take to climb that wall, so Preston is waiting with the fellow just on the other side of the line and will be here at the top of the hour.” He nodded to the mantel clock.

“So we have some time to wait?” Daphne asked in a low, sultry voice that caught his attention like a lure.

“Um, yes,” he managed, his throat going dry. But as she came gliding into his arms, he found the words to murmur in her ear. “You wicked, tempting minx.”

“I’ve missed you,” was all she said before she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him. Claimed him.

“And I, you.”

Murmuring apologies and words of love, they fell into her bed, a tangle of limbs and kisses. The moment he touched her, he was lost—hard and delirious. His lips kissing her, claiming her. His hands stealing away her gown so she was naked beneath him.

Gloriously naked and his.

Her legs opened to him and she took him inside her with little prelude. It was a hot, fierce joining. A reunion and a promise. He thrust deeply and swiftly into her, as if he’d hungered for her for years instead of just days.

And beneath him, Daphne writhed with joy, her hips meeting his thrusts, her legs winding around him, holding him closer as she rocked against him.

When she began to cry out, forgetting even their perilous situation, he covered her mouth with another kiss that contained his own deep growl of possession as he came, filling her with his seed, thrusting and thrusting until he was spent.

It was hasty, hot and quick.

But neither of them minded. They had a wedding to see to. And the rest of their lives to make love.

B
eneath Daphne’s window, Preston was waging another sort of battle.

“This is highly irregular, Your Grace,” the vicar complained as he looked up at the happy couple standing in the window. He was new to his posting and still fresh from his recent ordination. “The lady looks . . . well, she appears to be . . .”

“Tumbled, I’d say. And thoroughly,” Roxley said, filling in where the blushing vicar wouldn’t.

If the man of God wasn’t blushing before, he turned a deep shade of scarlet now.

“Then I’d say it is best we see them married in all due haste,” Preston pointed out.

“Yes, I suppose so, Your Grace,” the vicar said, looking up at the window and around the darkened yard.

Preston had to imagine no amount of divinity school had prepared the poor fellow for this.

Roxley leaned forward and added to the argument. “Might I emphasize the haste part. The Dales aren’t averse to letting their dogs loose. Rather large ones.”

The man squirmed at the dilemma before him, tugging at his collar. “Still, this is a rather difficult moral position, if I must say.”

Preston got to the point. “Do you find your living at Owle Park difficult, sir?”

The man gulped. “No, Your Grace. Not in the least. Why, it is quite comfortable and—”

It was then that the man caught the duke’s meaning.

But Preston wanted to make sure the man understood. “Marry my uncle quickly and quietly before he ruins Miss Dale.” They all took another glance up at the bride and groom.

“Yet again,” Roxley added with a grin.