And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,101

head over heels in love with him and all but promised to another.

“He’d have none of my advice to leave you be. Quite the opposite, he’s determined to make mischief where it doesn’t belong.”

Meaning with her. With a Dale.

“So I am asking you, since for some folly of a reason Preston will not, to leave Owle Park before you have that boy in knots.” Daphne opened her mouth to protest, but again Zillah obviously had been looking for an opportunity to make this speech and had it all planned out. Thus, she continued unabated, “You will make your curtsy, apologize profusely and leave immediately. I will not see him bedeviled another day.”

“I have no reason to leave. Whatever would I say?” Daphne posed.

“Lie,” the lady said plainly. “You’re a Dale, after all. It should come naturally.”

Daphne sucked in a deep breath, every bit of indignation she possessed coming to the forefront.

While Lady Zillah’s age and rank required Daphne to give the lady every bit of respect she possessed, in her estimation, Lady Zillah deserved none.

But there was no time to utter even the quickest of retorts, for Lady Zillah had turned back to the piano and was gathering up her music sheets. She tsk tsk’d over each one. “And after Henry was so kind to make all these notations for me,” she complained, glancing down at the pages she held. “For another time when I won’t be disturbed.”

Then she flounced off with all the arrogance that only the daughter of a duke could possess.

And as she swept past Daphne, her skirt held to one side so as not to even graze a Dale, one of the lady’s music sheets slipped unnoticed from her grasp.

Though not unnoticed by Daphne. Leaning over and snatching it up, she was about to call after her.

Truly she was—not even the wry thought of crumpling the page and tossing it after the old witch’s head had lasted overly long—that is, until she looked at the page, heavily annotated as it was.

Daphne stilled and gaped down at the bold, broad, sure hand that had written all over Lady Zillah’s music sheets.

A script Daphne knew all-too-well.

For not only did it belong to Lord Henry but it also belonged to another.

Mr. Dishforth.

Back on the road to Gretna

So Daphne hadn’t dashed out of the inn in a wild state, determined to save “poor Dishforth” as she’d professed.

She’d done it to force Lord Henry’s hand. To get him to confess the truth. Declare himself.

Because until he did so, how could she?

And now here she was, nearly to the Scottish border, ruined beyond redemption, and not one word had Lord Henry uttered. Oh, this had become a ruinous, ridiculous farce.

One of your own making, Daphne Dale.

And worse yet, it seemed the lie that was Dishforth’s elopement had spread up and down the road that led to Gretna Green.

Every inn they stopped at, every posting house, every tollgate, there was some new addition to the story . . .

The beauty of Dishforth’s faux bride-to-be.

The man’s kindness and gallantry toward his lady love.

And his extravagance. Buying pints all around in one inn to toast his good fortune. Tipping the posting lads ungodly amounts to hasten their dash to Scotland.

Daphne and Henry always seemed to have “just missed the pair.”

Funny, that. Ridiculous lies, all of them. But every time one of these bouncers landed in their lap, she watched for Lord Henry’s reaction, for surely now he would say or do something.

But each time he listened attentively and did nothing.

Daphne ground her teeth together. Whenever was he going to put an end to all this? She couldn’t imagine it would be much longer, for at least she’d had the presence of mind to actually pack a valise.

She’d gone down to the inn outside of Owle Park half expecting him to make a full accounting of himself and then beg her to elope.

And when he hadn’t, and he and the innkeeper and that terrible boy—goodness, whoever had thought to include such a wretched liar in their plans?—had gone on about Dishforth’s departure, she’d had no choice but to force his hand.

And instead of telling the truth, he’d gone along with her madcap scheme.

For what reason, she couldn’t fathom. Not once had Lord Henry looked ready to confess during these last few days, not when it meant wearing the same clothes day after day or even when he’d had to subject himself to the ministrations of whatever hapless servant could be pressed into duty as “his lordship’s