And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,100

the epitome of beguiling—one fair curl peeking out from beneath her bonnet, fluttering slightly in the breeze, a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and those lush pink lips of hers, the curve of which tempted a man to haul her close and kiss her senseless.

Well, tempted him, at the very least. Tempted him more than he cared to admit.

He knew what the seventh duke would tell him to do.

Kiss her, then follow it with a rousing session of tupping. That solves any number of difficulties with the female persuasion. A good tupping always does.

Henry would argue that it had been kissing that had gotten him into this mess.

But who could blame him? She possessed the wiles of a courtesan and the eyes of a siren. One look, one glance and she’d entangled him, with no hope of escape.

At least not alive. He grimaced again.

“Lord Henry, is something on your mind?” she asked, peering up at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet.

Here it is . . . your chance. Screw up your courage, man, and tell her.

But while he was a Seldon through and through—for wasn’t he leading her to complete ruin with every passing mile?—the Seldons had one weakness.

They were horrible at confessing the truth. Especially when it came to love. His only hope was that she would grow weary of this chase and call it off. Disavow Dishforth. And then the field would be clear for him to . . .

Him to do what?

Henry had no idea. But he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. For truly, how far would Miss Dale go for such a pompous nit as Dishforth?

He shook his head and smiled at her. “No, nothing, Miss Dale. Nothing at all.”

Two days later

“You do not seem overly distressed that we are stranded,” Lord Henry posed as they stood beside the road and watched the posting lad and coachman ride away with their horses.

“Travel is fraught with such mishaps,” Daphne replied, hoping her sense of relief as she watched them disappear around the bend wasn’t overly apparent.

“Don’t you think it odd that all four horses suddenly went lame?”

“I suppose it can happen; in fact it has,” she replied, nodding at their own horses happily trotting down the road and hardly looking lame.

“Still . . .” Lord Henry kicked a stone across the road, his jaw set.

Perhaps she should feign a demeanor fraught with worry and concern for Dishforth, or, more to the point, over her certainly lost reputation.

For here she was stranded out in the middle of nowhere with Lord Henry Seldon.

All alone.

Where anything could happen.

She slanted a glance in his direction. Anything.

And yet nothing was. Much to her growing annoyance.

If anything was leaving her fraught with worry, it was Lord Henry’s suddenly honorable and gentlemanly behavior toward her.

“I will say, though,” she offered, “that if one must be stranded, it is in a perfectly lovely spot.”

Indeed it was. For there was a large oak on the other side of a rock wall, and beyond its sheltering shade were wide meadows dotted with wildflowers. There was even a wide, clear stream dividing the valley laid out before them.

Lord Henry glanced around and huffed another sigh, picking up the basket and crossing the road.

Daphne chewed at her lower lip and went over the last few days in her head. Through all the changes of horses, all the miles, all the hours of traveling so intimately together, not once had Lord Henry attempted anything untoward.

He’d been the epitome of a gentleman.

Wretched beast.

Hopefully this delay would be enough to nudge him into confessing the truth.

That he was Mr. Dishforth.

A few days earlier at Owle Park

“Was it him or wasn’t it?” Lady Zillah demanded.

Something inside of Daphne—most likely that bit of her that had left more than one relation shaking their head and likening her to Great-Aunt Damaris—refused to yield.

She took a few steps forward and smiled at the lady politely. As if she were a Fitzgerald or a Smythe and not this Seldon crone.

“Pardon, my lady?”

“Harrumph!” Zillah snorted. “You have Damaris Dale’s pride all over you.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“That was no compliment.”

“I shall take it as one, all the same.”

“Bah! He’s a fool to even glance in your direction. And what’s worse is that you know it.”

Daphne didn’t reply, for even to acknowledge the lady’s accusation was to give it credit.

Where none was deserved or wanted.

Lord Henry! She didn’t know whether to shout with joy or cry her eyes out. She was