And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (19 page)

“You can say that again,” Lord Henry enthused.

“But she has the loveliest dowry,” the lady added, cackling with open avarice.

Daphne wished Miss Nashe and her lovely dowry to perdition.

And so, it seemed, did Lord Henry.

“Zillah! I have no interest in that girl. She could have a king’s ransom at her feet and I would still find her unworthy.”

The old girl seemed unimpressed. “Well,” she sniffed. “A fortune like that belongs where it can be well served. Not lining a merchant’s pockets.”

“I don’t want it in mine,” he told her in no uncertain terms. “I have no desire to marry some sow’s purse. Mark my words, Zillah, when I wed, I will marry as Preston is doing—when my heart is engaged and the lady is my perfect match.”

“That’s an overly romantic notion for the likes of you. Hardly sensible,” Lady Zillah noted.

“Perhaps I am only now realizing how much of a Seldon I truly am,” Henry told her.

And this time, Daphne grinned and knew she needed to slip away before she was discovered. Yet her escape was delayed when Lady Zillah spoke again.

“You say Miss Dale has another in her sights?” she prodded, obviously unwilling to let go of the subject.

“Yes, Aunt Zillah.”

“Harrumph
! That didn’t stop Dahlia Dale.”

D
aphne spent the rest of the morning in a bit of a tangle about what she’d overheard.

Lord Henry defending her? It seemed too much.

But more to the point, how could anything Lady Zillah had said about him be true?

Throughout nuncheon, served alfresco in the walled garden outside the orangery, she’d found herself stealing glances at him and trying to see him as his aunt had described him.

Nary a scandal to your name . . .

Too nice by half . . .

Respectable . . . kindhearted . . .

Oh, she’d give him the kindly part. She’d seen him at breakfast slipping a sausage to Mr. Muggins when he’d thought she hadn’t been looking.

And she’d done her best to reconcile the man at the ball, at the folly, the one who’d kissed her, the rake who’d teased her last night, with the gentleman before her—the one of property and means, who didn’t flaunt his good fortune.

Rather, spent his time caring for his family and was beloved by them in return.

She’d become so married to the notion that he was naught but a rake that she felt as if she was seeing him with new eyes—for here was a man with fine manners and a reserve to his behavior.

And true to his confession to Zillah, he went out of his way to avoid Miss Nashe’s blatant attempts to catch his eye.

Daphne had to admit—that point alone rather won her over. Not that she wanted to be won over by Lord Henry.

Still, she couldn’t forget what he had said earlier.
I will marry as Preston is doing—when my heart is engaged . . .

A frisson of something oddly close to jealousy ran down her spine, leaving her wondering what it would be like to be Lord Henry’s perfect match.

The very thought left her insides quaking, a fluttering bit of breathless need racing through her. All at once.

His kiss . . . his touch . . .

Daphne felt herself being lured from her plans. Her very sensible plan.

Why wait for happenstance, or even a planned assignation? There was only one way to catch Mr. Dishforth, and that was in the act. Which was why she was here—hidden in the alcove in the foyer where the salver sat.

Waiting for him.

She was ever so determined to uncover his identity. Before . . . Before . . .

The determined clop of boots down the hall brought her gaze up. But when she parted the curtain slightly, to her chagrin it was Lord Henry coming.

The thump of his boots woke up Mr. Muggins from his dozy state, and the giant dog jumped up and barked.

“No, Mr. Muggins, no,” Daphne whispered, but the terrier was already halfway out of their hiding spot, barking happily, his tail waving exuberantly enough to shake the curtains back and forth.

“Ho, there, boy,” Lord Henry said in greeting, “whatever are you doing in there?”

Daphne shrunk back and closed her eyes.

“Up to no good, eh—” Lord Henry was saying, parting the curtain. “Miss Dale!”

Daphne’s breath stopped in her throat. Perhaps he’d just go away. When she opened one eye, he was still there. So much for her prayer that he’d evaporate into thin air.

He pulled the curtain back further. “What the devil are you doing hiding back there?”

She tried to say the words she usually did when faced with Lord Henry and his pompous demands—
wretched, awful man
—but instead found herself listening for that piece of music he’d played, remembering what he’d looked like when he’d pulled her into his arms and kissed her in the folly.

Thoroughly, passionately. Rakishly . . .

Oh, that would never do!

Dishforth, Daphne!
she reminded herself.
You must find sensible and reliable Mr. Dishforth.

“Miss Dale?” he said in a voice etched with concern.

Smoothing out her skirt and glancing up at him, feigning a look of surprise at his untimely arrival, she stepped around him. “Oh, Lord Henry! Whatever are you doing here?”

“On my way to the ballroom to choose my costume for the masquerade. I would have thought you would have been down there first thing, like all the other ladies.”

“I was delayed—” she replied, stealing a glance at the empty salver, then wrenching her gaze away. Bother, she’d forgotten about the costumes. “—by Mr. Muggins.” She reached over and gave the traitorous terrier a scratch on his wiry head. “I believe he spied a bird.”

“Inside the house?” Lord Henry asked, stepping back and studying her.

Daphne laughed, perhaps a little too hysterically. Drat it all, she was so terrible at lying. “No. Of course not. It was . . .” She glanced around. “Outside. Yes, outside. Just beyond the window.” She turned back and smiled at him. “Mr. Muggins and feathers! He is the very devil.”

Lord Henry’s brow wrinkled. “Yes, so Tabitha mentioned. Went so far as to ban them from the house party.”

“Good thing,” Daphne advised. “Just ask Lady Gudgeon.”

“I heard about that. He chased her across Hyde Park until he’d brought her hat to ground.”

“He did.”

“Rather wished I’d seen that,” Lord Henry admitted. “Never been overly fond of Lady Gudgeon.”

“Apparently that is a sentiment shared by many,” Daphne said.

Just then, Miss Nashe and her mother came strolling through the foyer on their way to the rooms set aside for the costumes. Both mother and daughter wore identical expressions of disapproval. They glanced at each other and Daphne could well guess what passed between them.

See. I told you she’s set her cap.

So you did.

Then Daphne glanced up and realized Lord Henry had edged closer to her, almost protectively. Then once the pair was well and gone, he shuddered.

“Allow me to escort you, Miss Dale,” he said, holding out his arm. “I fear the path ahead is plagued with trolls.”

Since she hadn’t any plausible excuse for hanging about the salver, and no desire to enlist his help in finding Dishforth, there was nothing Daphne could do but accept his offer and lay her hand down on his sleeve.

As she did, he reached over and laid his other hand atop hers, and the moment they touched, it was as it had been in the folly all over again—save without his lips covering hers.

The magic, the heat, that spark that lit inside both of them every time they touched.

Daphne yanked her gaze away from his hand and looked straight ahead, concentrating on her raison d’être.

Find Dishforth. She must find Dishforth.

Or . . . or else . . .

Well, she knew what “or else” meant.

Ruin. At the hands of this very rakish man. No matter what his harridan of an aunt claimed.

“Any word from your family?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“Your family?” he nudged. “I just assumed you were hovering about the salver in case any word of their impending approach arrived.” He laughed a bit, as if this disastrous notion was something worthy of waiting around for.

“I wasn’t hovering about the salver, as you put it, and no, I’ve had no word from my family.”

“Truly?” he asked.

And she hadn’t the least idea if he meant,
Truly you haven’t heard from your family?
or
Truly, you weren’t hovering about the salver?

Nor was she inclined to delve into either subject.

So she did the next best thing. She ignored him and hoped he’d leave well enough alone.

But then again, this was Lord Henry, and he was apparently as tenacious as Mr. Muggins when he spied a feather.

“And here I thought you were hiding from the impending doom of your family’s likely arrival,” he teased.

Daphne glanced over at him. Had he suddenly gone mad to joke about such a thing?

“Hardly,” she replied with the same haughty disdain that was Lady Essex’s trademark. “As I said, Mr. Muggins spied—”

“Miss Dale, you needn’t gammon me.” He shook his head and made a
tsk, tsk
sound. “If you wanted to escape your chaperone, you’ll get no objections from me, nor sanctions. Far from it.”

“Well, I wasn’t.”

“If you say so,” he mused. “But if you were—”

“Which I wasn’t,” she shot back.

“Miss Dale, you are at a house party, not locked away in a London town house. If you want peace and quiet, Owle Park affords far better choices than a dusty alcove.”

“It wasn’t dusty in the least.”

He laughed. “So you were hiding in there.”

Daphne notched up her chin and refused to be baited further.

“I would have suggested—if you had come to me—”

“Which I wouldn’t—”

“Yes, well, I think we’ve covered that. But as I was saying, next time might I suggest the rose garden, the orangery, or even the maze. All far superior choices for peace and quiet, if that is what one is truly seeking.”

Daphne made a little sniff.

“I could show you around this afternoon,” he offered. “If you would like, so that the next time you are in need of solitude you’ll have the perfect spot at the ready.”

Show her the perfect spot for a secluded interlude? She’d just bet he would. Probably knew every such venue within a five-mile radius—that is, if he didn’t get lost along the way.

“No, thank you,” she replied, of half a mind to report his offer to Lady Zillah. Then they’d see how Lord Henry would spend the rest of the house party.

Trussed up in the cellar.

“Are you certain?” he pressed.

“Decidedly so,” she told him, gritting her teeth. Not a rake, indeed! She went back to her original theory: Lady Zillah was firmly planted in her dotage.

“Well, if you find yourself with a free moment, do not hesitate—”

“I have previous plans,” she told him, which they both knew was a lie. This was a house party, and the schedule was posted every day by Lady Juniper.

The remainder of the afternoon was completely and utterly open for such entertainments.

“Yes, well, if you change your mind—”

“I won’t.”

“So you say,” he said in an offhanded manner, which only piqued her temper all that much more.

They walked down the long hall, and Daphne began to feel a momentary bit of triumph. Here she was with Lord Henry, and she wasn’t bothered by it in the least.

He hadn’t any hold or sway over her.

None whatsoever.

Save for the hammering of her heart and those dangerous tendrils of desire that seemed to entwine around her every time she touched him . . .

Those notwithstanding, she had everything under control. Now all she had to do was find Dishforth.

Sensible, nearly reliable Dishforth. She could only hope he kissed as well as he was pragmatic.

Leave it to Lord Henry to nudge her off her confident, lofty perch.

“About your gentleman—” he began.

Daphne came to a staggering halt. “Oh, good heavens. Must we?”

“Yes,” he told her, crossing his arms over his chest. “I fear I might have wronged you.”

Now he was having a lapse into regrets? Now?

“I would rather not discuss this with you!” she declared, continuing down the hall without him.

He followed, his long stride eating up the distance she’d tried to create, and once again he was at her side. “I think we should discuss him.”

“You might think so, but I do not.”

Lord Henry caught her by the arm and stopped her. “I merely want to know if I’ve caused difficulties between the two of you.”

Daphne lowered her voice. “Good heavens, Lord Henry, haven’t you the least notion of propriety? Besides, there was nothing last night to cause anyone a moment’s concern.”

“Are you certain?” he asked, drawing closer.

“Yes.” She went to turn and flee again, but she came up short as he held her fast.

“I must know who he is.”

She shook her head. Vehemently. “Oh, no, I think not.”

“Not?”

“Not!”

“Then I’ll be forced to guess.”

Daphne threw up her hands and this time was free to make her escape. That is, until Lord Henry reined her to a stop with his first conjecture.

“Fieldgate,” he called after her.

Daphne’s feet stopped. Fieldgate? Just like that? With nary a thought?

Daphne felt a spark of ire burn to life inside her. She glanced around the hall. Wherever was a spare pike when a lady from Kempton needed one? “No, it is not Lord Fieldgate.”

At least not so far as she knew.

“Oh, good news that,” he said, sounding like a man who had just received a king’s pardon.

Taken aback by his concern, Daphne’s heart tripped a beat.

“Why is that?” she asked, thinking she might hear a declaration of how Fieldgate was a complete rotter and unworthy of her.

No, unfortunately, Lord Henry’s relief was for an entirely different reason.

“Fieldgate is a deuced good shot. Wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet through a fellow if he thought his honor had been impugned.”