And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,108

no longer Lord Henry, he was her Henry, and she his Daphne.

Daphne tucked up her chin defiantly. “I’ve been known to change my mind,” she told him as he helped her over the low stone wall.

“Truly?” he replied as he climbed over, basket in hand.

“Yes.”

He paused. “Name one occasion.”

She laughed. “I don’t despise you as much as I first did.”

Henry barked a laugh and caught her by the hand, bringing it to his lips. “That’s good, for you are rather stuck with me now.”

“Am I?” she shot back, turning her attentions to the driver and lad, who were even now guiding the horses into their traces.

Henry didn’t press the matter and, following her lead, turned his attention to their long-awaited driver. “Almost thought you’d forgotten us.”

“Terrible time getting new horses, my lord,” the man explained. “Everyone seems to be headed north today.”

“How odd,” Daphne remarked as she climbed into the carriage. “We haven’t seen a soul all afternoon.”

As the carriage rolled down the road, Daphne laid her head against Henry’s shoulder, suddenly finding herself exhausted. The gentle swaying of the carriage and Henry’s steady, solid presence beside her left her ready to slip into dreams.

Besides, it was growing dark, and the shadows made it easy to close one’s eyes.

“Minx, whatever are you going to do?”

“Hmm?” she replied, half awake.

“When we catch up with your Mr. Dishforth?”

Daphne raised her sleepy gaze to his. Still? He wanted to continue this charade? She sighed. “I’ll tell him quite simply that I forgive him his foolish pride.”

“His what?”

“You heard me,” she murmured and snuggled closer.

“Whatever do you see in this bungler?” Henry pressed, sounding a little more than vexed by her continued allegiance to her other lover.

“Many things,” she said. And when he nudged her a bit, she knew he wanted to hear more. “His loyalty to his family. His kindness. His words—they encouraged me to break with the past and dare to dream that I might dance where I may.”

She could hear the soft groan of frustration rumble through his chest. Well, he’d asked.

“And you discovered all this through his letters?”

She shook her head. “No, Henry. A lady reads between the lines.”

“What will you tell him about me? About us?”

“The truth. He’ll understand.” She sighed and sunk closer to a soft refuge of dreams. “I imagine he’ll thank you for bringing me.”

Henry sputtered. “Thank me? How can you be so sure?”

Sleep started to steal at her senses, but she opened one eye. “Because he loves me.”

“Are you certain?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

And she was, as she drifted off to sleep in his arms.

They arrived at the inn just after dark, and Henry hated to wake her up. Then again, everything Daphne had said as she’d drifted off to sleep had left at him at a loss.

What the devil did she mean that Dishforth would love her still?

He would have thought, well, he’d just assumed that once they’d . . . they’d . . . made love, she would have made her choice.

Apparently not.

“Are we there?” Daphne said, her eyes opening. “Are we in Scotland?”

“Hmm,” Henry mused. “No. Just a few miles from the border. Seems we will need to stop here for the night.”

She sat up and stretched. “Just as well. It has been a busy day. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”

Henry got out and helped her down, and once again, to his amazement, rooms were at the ready and Daphne was whisked off in the efficient hands of a sturdy-looking maid.

It had been like that all the way up the road—as if their every stop had been anticipated. But then again, he’d never dashed off to Scotland before, and mayhap that was how things were done on the Manchester Road.

Then again, the cheeky innkeeper two nights before had handed Henry a second bill.

“For Mr. Dishforth’s expenses, if you please, my lord.” And then the fellow had slanted a glance at Daphne and made a greedy waggle of his brows, as if to say, Best pay up, for it would be a shame if the lady was to discover the truth.

Still, having rooms at the ready and a hot supper on the table was worth a few inconveniences.

And a bit of blackmail, he mused, wondering what Mr. Dishforth had needed with a hot shave, two bottles of Madeira and laundry.

No, this had to end. Now. This very night.

“How would you like your supper, my lord?” the innkeeper asked as he came forward.

Supper? Yes, that would be perfect. He’d tell her over an