And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,12

darkness had left him with more than just a restless night.

He’d written her specifically about his attendance at this ball. That he wanted to see her wearing red (for she’d professed it her favorite color) and that he would find her.

Glancing over at Preston again, buttonholed as he was by Hen, he decided not to rescue his nephew after all. Instead he began his search for Miss Spooner.

If he found her before the supper dance, this wretched Miss Dale could go hang for all he cared. Tradition or no.

All he had to do was hope that Miss Spooner—whatever her real name—had been invited, though it seemed that every member of the ton still left in London was crammed into their ballroom.

But all too soon he realized his search might not be as simple as he’d once thought. For as it turned out, it seemed half the ladies in the ton had taken his suggestion “to wear red.”

Red muslin. Red silk. Even a red velvet. Red in every hue.

“Good God!” he muttered. Then again, how was he to have known red was the most popular color of the Season? That was what came of having a sister who was perpetually in widow’s weeds. A man had no sense of fashionable colors save black, gray, and her current choice of mauve.

He continued through the room, nodding in greeting to friends and acquaintances alike, rather amused that not a month ago most everyone in this room had turned their backs on the Seldon family over Preston’s antics.

Now the duke’s engagement to the very respectable Miss Timmons had erased years of misdeeds in the eyes of Society.

Henry shook his head. He’d never understand the fickle nature of . . .

His thought went unfinished, for in that moment, the crowd parted and his gaze fell on a young lady across the way—a lithesome vision he’d never seen or met, wearing red silk, a mane of pale blonde hair tumbling down to her bare shoulders in a tempting waterfall of curls.

Then this unknown vision turned, as if tugged by his very examination, and looked at him.

Her eyes widened, just a bit, and then she smiled. Ever so slightly, and he felt as if he’d been harpooned, struck down as it were, the haunting lines from one of Miss Spooner’s latest missives echoing through his stricken thoughts.

Mr. Dishforth, I am taken aback by your words, your unfettered desires. I know not what to say. But when we meet, I have no doubt I will find the words and the means to express my affection for you.

Henry tried to breathe, but apparently when one met their destiny, one stopped breathing.

Good God! It had to be her. Miss Spooner.

He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. His elusive little minx, with her tart replies and her winsome secrets, was here. Standing across the ballroom.

Practical to a fault, Henry didn’t care how the Fates had done this, just that they had, and he wasn’t going to let something as ethereal as chance or serendipity steal her away before he could.

Lord Henry, the most respectable and sensible Seldon who ever lived, suddenly found his inner rake and strode across the ballroom.

However, it was one thing to discover one could be rakish, and quite another to pull it off.

For when he came face-to-face with the lady, he hadn’t a single notion of what to say.

What if she wasn’t Miss Spooner? Demmed if he was going to make an ass of himself.

Still, what if she was?

There was only one way to find out.

So beyond all propriety, and all good manners, he simply bowed. And when he straightened, he said the only thing that came to mind.

“May I have this dance?”

Chapter 2

Your words, Miss Spooner, dare I say it, your confession, have me captivated. I long to find you—though we have promised not to do so until we both desired it thusly. Instead I spend my nights searching for you in the only way I can, prowling every ball, soirée, even the theater, God help me—hoping for a meeting that would instead be in the hands of the Fates, so that I might take your fingers in my grasp and raise them to my lips and whisper for you and your ears only, “At last, my dearest Miss Spooner, we meet.”

A letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner

“May I have this dance?

Daphne nodded—for how could she speak?

She, Miss Daphne Dale, the most practical spinster to have ever come out of Kempton, found