Read And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake Online
Authors: Elizabeth Boyle
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance
And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (29 page)
The Elephant and Whistle Inn
The Manchester and Glasgow Road
Fifteen years later
“H
enry, I believe we stayed at this inn,” Lady Henry Seldon commented as she climbed out of their carriage, looking around the yard. “Indeed, I am positive.” She smiled brightly at her husband, enchanted by the notion.
“Ever the romantic, my dearest Daphne,” Lord Henry said, kissing her hand and then her lips. How was it he could never, even after all these years, have enough of her, his fair wife. Not even five children—four boys and one girl—had changed her in his eyes. They’d only made her more beautiful.
Her blue eyes sparkled as she recognized the lascivious light in his own gaze. She flitted a glance to where their poor beleaguered nanny was guiding the children inside for the luncheon, then back to her husband. “Tonight,” she whispered.
There had been many such nights since their madcap wedding. After Preston had finally coerced the vicar into marrying them, there had been the scene with Crispin and Damaris.
At first, the viscount had been incredulous at Roxley’s demands, even when the earl had produced the signed and witnessed Special License, as well as the trembling vicar to attest to the validity of the marriage. But after opening Daphne’s door and finding a grinning Henry Seldon in her bedroom, that had been all the evidence Crispin Dale had needed to wash his hands of his sullied cousin.
Oh, their marriage had caused more than just a dustup; even Daphne’s parents had refused to acknowledge the newlyweds. Hen wouldn’t speak to either of them for months, not until they’d announced that Daphne was increasing. That also managed to ease the tensions with the Dales—for being a prolific lot, the Dales adored children. Lots of them.
Daphne’s parents were the first to send their congratulations.
And Zillah? Well, Zillah had been the most shocking.
For they hadn’t heard a word from her in over a year, until the gossip made the rounds that a little Seldon would be making his or her debut in the spring. And then Zillah had arrived, knitting in hand, and with all her trunks.
For while the Dales were prolific, the Seldons regarded babies as something close to the second coming. And Zillah was going to be there when this newest Seldon arrived.
Then Zillah had stayed, she and Daphne finding much in common in their love of the growing brood. The Seldon relic had lived happily with them at Stowting Mote until just this past winter, when the old girl had finally gone in her sleep, a quiet, peaceful ending to a long and scandalous life.
The children missed the old girl and the hours they’d spent with her by the piano listening to her play.
That was the reason for this journey north. Zillah had left them a collection of houses, this last one in Scotland, of all places.
“I had no idea she had so much property,” Henry had said, shaking his head when the solicitor had brought her will to the house. Six in all. One for each of their children, and a spare one in Scotland that they’d decided to go visit.
“Shall we?” Daphne asked, tugging his thoughts back to the present.
“Yes, of course,” Henry said. Taking her hand in his, they walked into the public room, only to find the entire place packed, nearly every bench and stool filled.
Henry had never seen an inn so crowded.
“Mama, it’s him! It’s—” young Harriet whispered as she caught her mother’s hand and pulled her forward.
The boys shushed their sister and stopped her rush to tattle, but now the cat was out of the bag.
“Who, Harry?” Henry asked, brushing his hand over his daughter’s fair head. “Who is it?”
The children shared a guilty glance until Christopher, the eldest, piped up. “Mr. Dishforth.”
“Wha-a—at?” Henry and Daphne said at once.
Harriet pointed to a spot near the fireplace where an old man sat hunched on a stool, the entire room fixed on his every word.
“How can this—” Henry began, but all around them, the crowd added their own “
Ssshh
!” to stop his words, while Daphne gaped in wonder.
“So I stole my dearest Adelaide away from the villainous nobleman who had locked her away, and we rode north—” the old man was saying.
Henry was about to get up and protest when he spied the mischievous light in Daphne’s eyes and so he followed her lead and listened to the tale of Abernathy Dishforth and his dearest Adelaide. The story vaguely resembled their mad-cap dash, for this one contained a host of villains: highwaymen, broken wheels, their carriage nearly tumbling down a rocky ravine.
The crowd around them listened avidly, cheering when the couple made it to Gretna Green, and there was hardly a dry eye in the house as Mr. Dishforth related Adelaide’s sad passing of late.
Henry leaned forward and whispered in Daphne’s ear, “This is the devil who’s been dunning me all these years.”
For indeed, several times a year, bills from inns and public houses along Manchester Road would arrive addressed to Lord Henry Seldon for the expense and care of one Abernathy Dishforth.
Henry and Daphne had long suspected that someone, a con artist of sorts, had heard their story all those years ago and occasionally put the tale to good use. Now it seemed they’d found the fellow.
“Finally I can put an end to this gull,” Henry said.
“Leave him be,” Daphne replied, putting a staying hand on his sleeve. “I rather like that our story is told. Look around—who doesn’t love a happy ending?”
And indeed, people were smiling and laughing, and a few were dashing aside tears.
Who was Henry to ruin such a tale?
“Papa?” Harriet asked as they returned to their carriage. “Was that really Mr. Dishforth?”
“I daresay we’ll find out when they charge us twice,” Lord Henry complained.
Daphne laughed. “I think it must be, Harriet. But however did you find out about Mr. Dishforth?”
“Last Christmas. When we went to visit Lady Roxley at Foxgrove,” she said, yawning and ready for her afternoon nap. “She knows all about him. Have you heard of him as well?”
“Aye, sweetling. He used to write me letters.”
Harriet’s eyes grew wide. “Did you write him back?”
Daphne leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Yes, I quite fancied him once. But don’t tell your father.”
Harriet Hathaway has only one wish when it comes to love: to marry the Earl of Roxley. But wishing for his heart and keeping it, Harriet will soon learn, takes more than casting up a whispered desire to earn the perfect happily ever after.
Continue reading for a sneak peek
at the next book
in Elizabeth Boyle’s
Rhymes With Love series
Coming soon from Avon Books
Dear Reader,
Just because Lord Henry and Daphne departed early from the house party at Owle Park doesn’t mean the festivities ended. The guests remained firmly entrenched (and wouldn’t you, with such a scandal brewing all around?), so of course the masquerade ball continued as planned, much to the delight of Harriet, who had her own plans for the night. For if Daphne and Tabitha could have their happily ever afters, Harriet was determined to gain hers as well . . .
The Masquerade Ball
Owle Park
“O
h, there you are, Harry. I’m almost afraid to ask what the devil you are doing—”
Harriet Hathaway looked up from her quiet spot on the patio to find the Earl of Roxley standing in the open doorway.
Some hero! Oh, he might look like Lancelot, what with his elbow-length chain mail glittering in the light, his dark blue surcoat and leather breast plate trimmed with gold that seemed to accent both his height and breadth, but he’d taken his bloody time showing up to rescue her. She’d had a devil of a time slipping out so that only he noticed. And even then it had taken him a good half hour to come find her.
“Oh, Roxley, is that you?” she feigned. “I hardly recognized you.”
“Wish I could say the same about you,” he said, his brow furrowed as he examined her from head to toe. “I’ve been sent by my aunt, oh, the Queen of the Nile, to determine if you are awaiting Caesar or Marc Antony.”
She’d spent most of the night dancing with rogues and unsuitable partis waiting for him to intervene and now he had, only he hadn’t really . . . it had been his aunt’s doing.
Yet Harriet wasn’t one to wallow in the details. For here he was, and this was her chance.
“Caesar or Marc Antony, you ask? Neither,” she told him. “I find both quite boring.”
“They wouldn’t find you so,” he said, stepping down onto the patio and looking over her shoulder at the gardens beyond. “You’ve caused quite a stir in that rag, minx.”
Harriet turned around and grinned. “Have I?” Of course, she’d known that the moment she donned the costume. And had very nearly taken it off and sought refuge in some milkmaid’s garb. But once Pansy, Daphne’s maid, had done Harriet’s dark tresses up into an elaborate maze of braids, crowned with a golden coronet of entwined asps and painted her eyes with dark lines of kohl, Harriet had known there was no turning back.
Roxley had come to stand beside her at the edge of the patio. Here, away from the stifling air of the ballroom, the soft summer breezes, tinged as they were with the hint of roses, were inviting.
It was almost magical. Well, nearly so, she discovered.
He glanced over at her again and frowned. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“I’m not,” she pointed out. “You’re here. But I had thought to take a turn in the gardens.” Then she looked over at him again, standing there with a moody glower worthy of Lancelot. “Whatever is the matter?” she asked, hands fisting at her hips.
“It’s that . . . that . . . slip of a gown you’ve got on,” he complained, his hands wavering in front of her.
“This was supposed to be Daphne’s.”
That did not seem to appease him. “I cannot believe my aunt allowed you out in that shameful rag.”
So much for magic, Harriet realized. “There is nothing wrong with this gown. It is as historical as yours.”
“Mine covers me,” he replied. “No wonder Marc Antony lost his honor.”
Harriet laughed. “Perhaps I should go find him and see if he will walk with me in the gardens.” Since the only Marc Antony inside the ballroom was Lord Fieldgate, this only darkened Roxley’s scowl. For most of the evening, the resplendent and rakish viscount had commandeered most of Harriet’s time and dances, claiming her his “perfect Cleopatra.”
He wasn’t done. “How convenient for Fieldgate that Miss Dale’s untimely departure—”
“Elopement,” Harriet corrected.
“That is still left to be seen,” Roxley commented. “It is only an elopement if they marry.”
“
When
they marry.”
“If you insist,” he demurred.
“I do,” Harriet said firmly. Daphne would never have run off so if she hadn’t been utterly positive that she was about to be married. She just wouldn’t. “Besides, Preston will see them married.”
“He will do his level best. He just has to find Lord Henry and Miss Dale before her cousin interferes.”
Lord Dale.
He was a rather bothersome prig, and could very well put a wrench into Daphne’s plans.
Harriet hoped his carriage tumbled off the road.
“True love can overcome all odds,” she said most confidently. At least it always did in her
Miss Darby
novels. And look at Tabitha and Preston? And Lord Henry and Daphne?
“Can it now?” the earl mused. “Harry, you astound me. Now, here I’ve always thought you the most sensible, practical girl I’ve ever known, but—”
The earl continued on, though Harriet had stopped listening at that one wretched word.
Girl
.
Would he ever stop thinking of her as a child?
There was one way to find out.
Harriet straightened slowly, and then tipped one shoulder slightly, letting the clasp at her shoulder—the one which held the sheer silken over-gown up—slide dangerously close to coming off her. The entire gown was like that—illusion after illusion that it was barely on and wasn’t truly concealing the lady beneath. For under the first layer of sheer silk was another one in a shimmering hue of gold and beneath that, another sheer layer. The wisps of fabric, one atop the other, kept the gown from being completely see-through, though when she’d first donned it, she had to admit, she’d felt utterly naked.
Now she wanted to see if Roxley thought the same.
She tipped her head just slightly and glanced up at him.
“Yes, well,” he managed, his gaze fixed on her shoulder. He looked as if he couldn’t quite make up his mind whether or not to intervene—because to save her modesty, he would have to touch her.
So she nudged him along, tipping her shoulder just a bit more. Being Cleopatra gave her a different sort of courage, one she’d never possessed. It was a dizzy, heady sort of feeling.
But just before her gown drifted down her arm, the earl groaned, then reached out and caught hold of the broach at her shoulder and pushed it back up where it belonged, his fingers sliding along her collarbone, her bare skin. His fingers were warm, hard, steady atop her shoulder, and suddenly Harriet could imagine them just as easily plucking the broach away . . .
And then he looked at her, and Harriet saw all too clearly the light of desire in his eyes. Could feel it as his hand continued to linger on her shoulder and knew it would be nothing for him to gather her in his arms and . . . and . . .
“Demmit, Harry—” he muttered, snatching back his hand and stepping off the patio. More like bolting.
“Whatever is the matter?” She hoped she sounded utterly innocent, for she certainly didn’t feel it. His touch had left her shivering, longing for something altogether different.
“I . . . that is . . . I need some air. Yes, that’s it. I came out here to get some air.”
“I thought you came out to find me.” She let her statement drift over him like a subtle reminder. “Yes, well, if you just came out for air, that’s most excellent. I was of the same mind.” And with that, she followed him.
