And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,116
. slip of a gown you’ve got on,” he complained, his hands wavering in front of her.
“This was supposed to be Daphne’s.”
That did not seem to appease him. “I cannot believe my aunt allowed you out in that shameful rag.”
So much for magic, Harriet realized. “There is nothing wrong with this gown. It is as historical as yours.”
“Mine covers me,” he replied. “No wonder Marc Antony lost his honor.”
Harriet laughed. “Perhaps I should go find him and see if he will walk with me in the gardens.” Since the only Marc Antony inside the ballroom was Lord Fieldgate, this only darkened Roxley’s scowl. For most of the evening, the resplendent and rakish viscount had commandeered most of Harriet’s time and dances, claiming her his “perfect Cleopatra.”
He wasn’t done. “How convenient for Fieldgate that Miss Dale’s untimely departure—”
“Elopement,” Harriet corrected.
“That is still left to be seen,” Roxley commented. “It is only an elopement if they marry.”
“When they marry.”
“If you insist,” he demurred.
“I do,” Harriet said firmly. Daphne would never have run off so if she hadn’t been utterly positive that she was about to be married. She just wouldn’t. “Besides, Preston will see them married.”
“He will do his level best. He just has to find Lord Henry and Miss Dale before her cousin interferes.”
Lord Dale. He was a rather bothersome prig, and could very well put a wrench into Daphne’s plans.
Harriet hoped his carriage tumbled off the road.
“True love can overcome all odds,” she said most confidently. At least it always did in her Miss Darby novels. And look at Tabitha and Preston? And Lord Henry and Daphne?
“Can it now?” the earl mused. “Harry, you astound me. Now, here I’ve always thought you the most sensible, practical girl I’ve ever known, but—”
The earl continued on, though Harriet had stopped listening at that one wretched word.
Girl.
Would he ever stop thinking of her as a child?
There was one way to find out.
Harriet straightened slowly, and then tipped one shoulder slightly, letting the clasp at her shoulder—the one which held the sheer silken over-gown up—slide dangerously close to coming off her. The entire gown was like that—illusion after illusion that it was barely on and wasn’t truly concealing the lady beneath. For under the first layer of sheer silk was another one in a shimmering hue of gold and beneath that, another sheer layer. The wisps of fabric, one atop the other, kept the gown from being completely see-through, though when she’d first donned it, she had to admit, she’d felt utterly naked.
Now she wanted to see if Roxley thought the same.
She tipped her head just slightly and glanced up at him.
“Yes, well,” he managed, his gaze fixed on her shoulder. He looked as if he couldn’t quite make up his mind whether or not to intervene—because to save her modesty, he would have to touch her.
So she nudged him along, tipping her shoulder just a bit more. Being Cleopatra gave her a different sort of courage, one she’d never possessed. It was a dizzy, heady sort of feeling.
But just before her gown drifted down her arm, the earl groaned, then reached out and caught hold of the broach at her shoulder and pushed it back up where it belonged, his fingers sliding along her collarbone, her bare skin. His fingers were warm, hard, steady atop her shoulder, and suddenly Harriet could imagine them just as easily plucking the broach away . . .
And then he looked at her, and Harriet saw all too clearly the light of desire in his eyes. Could feel it as his hand continued to linger on her shoulder and knew it would be nothing for him to gather her in his arms and . . . and . . .
“Demmit, Harry—” he muttered, snatching back his hand and stepping off the patio. More like bolting.
“Whatever is the matter?” She hoped she sounded utterly innocent, for she certainly didn’t feel it. His touch had left her shivering, longing for something altogether different.
“I . . . that is . . . I need some air. Yes, that’s it. I came out here to get some air.”
“I thought you came out to find me.” She let her statement drift over him like a subtle reminder. “Yes, well, if you just came out for air, that’s most excellent. I was of the same mind.” And with that, she followed him.
For she couldn’t help herself.
He looked over his shoulder at her. “Harry—”
“Yes, Roxley?” She tried to appear as nonchalant as possible.