And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,115
they’d found the fellow.
“Finally I can put an end to this gull,” Henry said.
“Leave him be,” Daphne replied, putting a staying hand on his sleeve. “I rather like that our story is told. Look around—who doesn’t love a happy ending?”
And indeed, people were smiling and laughing, and a few were dashing aside tears.
Who was Henry to ruin such a tale?
“Papa?” Harriet asked as they returned to their carriage. “Was that really Mr. Dishforth?”
“I daresay we’ll find out when they charge us twice,” Lord Henry complained.
Daphne laughed. “I think it must be, Harriet. But however did you find out about Mr. Dishforth?”
“Last Christmas. When we went to visit Lady Roxley at Foxgrove,” she said, yawning and ready for her afternoon nap. “She knows all about him. Have you heard of him as well?”
“Aye, sweetling. He used to write me letters.”
Harriet’s eyes grew wide. “Did you write him back?”
Daphne leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Yes, I quite fancied him once. But don’t tell your father.”
Harriet Hathaway has only one wish when it comes to love: to marry the Earl of Roxley. But wishing for his heart and keeping it, Harriet will soon learn, takes more than casting up a whispered desire to earn the perfect happily ever after.
Continue reading for a sneak peek
at the next book
in Elizabeth Boyle’s
Rhymes With Love series
IF WISHES WERE EARLS
Coming soon from Avon Books
Dear Reader,
Just because Lord Henry and Daphne departed early from the house party at Owle Park doesn’t mean the festivities ended. The guests remained firmly entrenched (and wouldn’t you, with such a scandal brewing all around?), so of course the masquerade ball continued as planned, much to the delight of Harriet, who had her own plans for the night. For if Daphne and Tabitha could have their happily ever afters, Harriet was determined to gain hers as well . . .
The Masquerade Ball
Owle Park
“Oh, there you are, Harry. I’m almost afraid to ask what the devil you are doing—”
Harriet Hathaway looked up from her quiet spot on the patio to find the Earl of Roxley standing in the open doorway.
Some hero! Oh, he might look like Lancelot, what with his elbow-length chain mail glittering in the light, his dark blue surcoat and leather breast plate trimmed with gold that seemed to accent both his height and breadth, but he’d taken his bloody time showing up to rescue her. She’d had a devil of a time slipping out so that only he noticed. And even then it had taken him a good half hour to come find her.
“Oh, Roxley, is that you?” she feigned. “I hardly recognized you.”
“Wish I could say the same about you,” he said, his brow furrowed as he examined her from head to toe. “I’ve been sent by my aunt, oh, the Queen of the Nile, to determine if you are awaiting Caesar or Marc Antony.”
She’d spent most of the night dancing with rogues and unsuitable partis waiting for him to intervene and now he had, only he hadn’t really . . . it had been his aunt’s doing.
Yet Harriet wasn’t one to wallow in the details. For here he was, and this was her chance.
“Caesar or Marc Antony, you ask? Neither,” she told him. “I find both quite boring.”
“They wouldn’t find you so,” he said, stepping down onto the patio and looking over her shoulder at the gardens beyond. “You’ve caused quite a stir in that rag, minx.”
Harriet turned around and grinned. “Have I?” Of course, she’d known that the moment she donned the costume. And had very nearly taken it off and sought refuge in some milkmaid’s garb. But once Pansy, Daphne’s maid, had done Harriet’s dark tresses up into an elaborate maze of braids, crowned with a golden coronet of entwined asps and painted her eyes with dark lines of kohl, Harriet had known there was no turning back.
Roxley had come to stand beside her at the edge of the patio. Here, away from the stifling air of the ballroom, the soft summer breezes, tinged as they were with the hint of roses, were inviting.
It was almost magical. Well, nearly so, she discovered.
He glanced over at her again and frowned. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“I’m not,” she pointed out. “You’re here. But I had thought to take a turn in the gardens.” Then she looked over at him again, standing there with a moody glower worthy of Lancelot. “Whatever is the matter?” she asked, hands fisting at her hips.