And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,105
my Dale relations, he might be elevated. Knighted, perhaps.”
Henry closed his eyes. He still was unconvinced he’d heard her correctly, but he had no desire to explore her theories as to why she thought Dishforth was in trade.
His pride couldn’t take it.
So he tried another tack. “Have you considered what you’ll do if you and Mr. Dishforth don’t suit?”
“We already do,” she said with such supreme confidence that Henry wondered how he could ever change her mind.
But it was Miss Dale who took pity on him and changed the subject, albeit unwittingly.
“Is your house like that one?” she asked, nodding toward the residence he’d pointed out before.
He looked at it again. “Yes, the one in Sussex is most similar, but the one in Kent is a rambling pile. If you like Owle Park, you would love Stowting Mote. It’s an amazingly old keep, with a hodgepodge of Tudor additions tacked on. It needs a thorough cleaning and some renovations.” He glanced at her.
“Two houses, Lord Henry?”
Lord Henry grinned at her surprise. “Three, actually.”
“Three? Oh, yes, I quite forgot. You had mentioned that the other day, hadn’t you? I don’t know why I didn’t remember.” She paused. “Rather unusual, isn’t it? A second son with three houses?”
“It isn’t as if I won them at cards or dice, or came by them in some illicit manner.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, no. After all, I am naught but a spare. And a suspected Seldon wastrel at that.”
“I thought we’d declared a truce on that notion.”
“Yes, indeed. My apologies.”
“None needed,” she told him. “I would think having three houses would make you quite a catch.”
“That is why I don’t nose it about Town.” He picked up the loaf of bread and tore it in two, handing her one half. “Besides, there is more to a man than his property and income.”
“There is?” she teased, nibbling at her half of the loaf.
“You are a dreadful minx.”
“Well, property and income—you did say income, didn’t you?”
“Yes. An indecent one, if I do say so myself.”
“Now you are just showing your—”
“Pride?”
She nodded.
“I suppose I am.”
She looked again at the house in the distance. “I’ve always dreamt of being a mistress of such a house.”
“And why wouldn’t you?”
“I’m from Kempton, to begin with.”
“Yes, Preston mentioned some nonsense about the lot of you being cursed.”
“Well, there hasn’t been a happy marriage in quite some time.”
“I think Preston and Miss Timmons will change all that. Suppose it will cause a flurry of courtships in your village.”
She laughed. “I doubt it. Traditions are so very difficult to surmount. Sometimes it is a divide that cannot be crossed.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” he admitted. He thought not of Kempton but of them. Seldon and Dale. “But you aren’t amongst such narrow-minded spinsters. Surely you came to London with the hopes of—”
He resisted teasing her. Snaring a husband . . . Catching a fellow in the parson’s trap . . .
“I had rather hoped that Mr. Dishforth—”
“Ah, yes, we always end up back there,” he said, weary of the subject. “Still, you are a Dale—and one of the loveliest. I can’t imagine you’ll be a spinster for long.”
“Me?” She shook her head. “I am merely Daphne Dale, of the Kempton Dales. I am considered a rather poor relation and hardly one of the family’s beauties.”
He leaned back and studied her. “Then they are all blind.”
Chapter 15
In the light of day, will you come to regret this?
Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner
Lord Henry’s statement, nay, confession, took Daphne’s breath away.
Had he truly just said that? Did he mean it?
Apparently he did, for he pushed off the trunk of the oak, against which he’d been leaning, and crossed the seemingly impossible valley that had sprung up between them.
His hand reached out and cupped her chin, and he drew her closer until his lips captured hers.
Protest, remind him of Dishforth, make him tell the truth first. . . .
Objections fluttered through her thoughts before they were caught on a wayward breeze and lofted far from reach.
His kiss, his touch left her without any reason. Just desire. Heart-pounding, inescapable desires.
He’d claimed her with his kiss before; now his hands, his body captured her. He edged up the blanket, covering her, one hand still cupping her chin, the other on her hip—pulling her ever closer—until she found herself on her back, his body covering hers.
All the while, he kissed her, deeply, insistently. The demanding sort of kisses that claimed not just the woman but her soul as well.