And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,14
you mean?”
“I would remember meeting you.” His brow furrowed. “Still, I am at a loss as to how we haven’t met.”
Daphne brightened. Here was an opening to start her queries. “I’ve been in London most of the Season,” she told him, in complete agreement and a bit puzzled as to how this could be. All this time in Town, and how had she not noticed this man? “And you?”
“Yes, of course,” he said with a nonchalant shrug, as if the answer was obvious. “I live here in London.”
Check number one in the “he-is-Dishforth” column.
“You live here?” she repeated, just to be certain.
“Yes, quite close, in fact.” He smiled as if he’d made a joke. Though one that ran right over Daphne’s head, for she was too busy putting a check in the “lives-in-Mayfair” column.
Quite honestly, if Daphne hadn’t fallen in love with the man in the first moment she’d spied him, he was certainly doing his best to secure her affections.
A house in Mayfair . . . If ever there was a way to a practical girl’s heart.
Daphne couldn’t help herself. She sighed.
“And you?” he prompted.
“Pardon?” she managed. Apparently this sharing of information was going to be quid pro quo. Unfortunately, Daphne had been too busy giving in to the speculation that if he had a house in Mayfair, a country estate was most certainly assured. . . .
Daphne bit her lips together to keep from grinning. Truly, she shouldn’t be too obvious.
“Do you live in London?” he repeated.
She shook her head. “No.” When he appeared rather crestfallen over this, she added quickly, “As I said before, I came for the Season. I’ve been here since May.”
This brightened his countenance. “And now that the Season is over?”
“I’ve found reasons to stay.”
“Reasons? Might those reasons be regarding a certain gentleman?”
“They may,” she said, smiling at him.
The man glanced around the room, making a grand show of searching for someone. “Need I worry he’ll arrive and take grave offense to me holding you so close?” As if to prove his point, he moved her even closer.
Oh, good heavens, if Lady Essex found her lorgnette before she found her vinaigrette . . .
“I do believe he is already close at hand,” Daphne advised him.
“Indeed?”
“Indeed,” she told him.
“Is he a gentleman?”
She nodded.
“Like me?”
She smiled, “Yes, most certainly like you.”
“I don’t think we ever truly established that I am indeed a gentleman,” he reminded her.
“I know you are.”
“How so?”
Daphne leaned back a bit and took a critical glance at his ensemble. “A coat reveals everything about a man.”
“It does? What does mine reveal?”
“The cut is excellent but not overly fussy. The wool is expensive and well dyed. The buttons are silver, and the diamond in your stickpin is old. An heirloom, I would venture. Tasteful, but not overly large or showy.”
“Which means?”
“You are no Dandy whose tastes exceed his income. You prefer sensible and well-made over the latest stare. You have an excellent valet, for your coat is perfectly brushed and your cravat well tied. I have no doubt you’re a man of breeding and refinement. A gentleman.”
His eyes widened in amusement. “Indeed?”
“Indeed,” she replied, her insides quaking. Was she flirting? She’d never flirted before in her life. Coming from a family of extraordinary beauties, the sorts who inspired poetry and duels and heated courtships, Daphne had always considered herself quite ordinary. And far too practical to flirt.
But not when this man looked at her.
“You are a forward minx,” he was saying, shaking his head.
“Not in the least,” she shot back. Daphne had to wonder if he was testing her. . . . She raced through all the lines she’d memorized from Dishforth’s letters.
Which meant nearly every one.
Would Dishforth make such an assessment? More so, would he be inclined to like her being brazen?
She truly didn’t need to worry, for this man, this unknown cavalier, leaned down and whispered into her ear, “I find you perfect in every way.”
He lingered there, ever-so-close, as if he might be about to kiss her. If she dared turn her head, tip up her lips, would he?
Already his warm breath was sending shivers down her spine, as if his hands had traced a dangerous line down her back and freed her from the confines of her red silk, leaving her naked to his touch.
Naked? Daphne tried to breathe. What was wrong with her? Dishforth was expecting a sensible, respectable partner.
I opened my window tonight and called to you, softly and quietly, certain the breeze would carry my plea to