And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,18

his chest, hands splayed out over his waistcoat, leaving her fully and completely aware of every bit of the man who’d claimed her.

Stolen her heart.

No wonder poor Agnes Perts had been willing to risk madness and marry John Stakes all those years ago. Even if they’d only had one night together.

Well, half a wedding night.

For to be held like this, Daphne discovered, was the most perfect madness. Her fingers curling over the muscles beneath her hand, her hips swaying slightly, seeking desires as yet unknown.

But oh, the promise . . . it left her breathless. She looked up and into his deep, dark blue eyes and found herself trapped with no wish to ever break this spell.

And whoever he was, Dishforth or no, it mattered naught. He could be anyone for all she cared.

Or so she thought as she glanced up at him, ready for this man who had so quickly stolen her heart to steal so much more.

Henry caught the delightful armful of muslin that came tumbling up against him. She’d been as caught unaware that the music was ending as he’d been.

But not so insensible of the woman in his arms.

From the moment he’d spied her across the ballroom, he’d suspected she was Miss Spooner. Who else could she be?

Now, in the course of a dance, she’d given him all the evidence he needed.

She had been in London for the Season. Demonstrated Miss Spooner’s sharp wit and keen intelligence, both in her words and the bright, sharp light in her eyes.

Though definitely a spinster—he gauged her to be nearly, if not so, at her majority—she wasn’t so far up on the shelf to make one wonder why it was a beauty like her wasn’t married.

He drew a deep breath and thought about her letters, her words. Tart, opinionated, strong-willed.

Those traits in a lady were enough to scare off most gentlemen.

Not him.

Gathering her closer, Henry glanced up to gauge which of the matrons coming closer might be her fire-breathing chaperone.

And how much time he had left to risk.

“There is much that needs to be said between us,” he told her, gazing down into those bright blue eyes. He’d always imagined her thusly—fair and lithe.

“Is there?” she asked, smiling slightly. “I rather thought we’d said all that was necessary.”

“True enough,” he agreed, his blood running thick and hot with her pressed up against him.

Good God, whoever was this minx? Not that it mattered, for whoever she was, she left him insensible with desire. For a thousand utterly irrational reasons, he wanted her, would have her.

Henry could sense the others closing in around them—Hen coming up from behind, Preston and Tabitha moving toward them.

And somewhere, her scaly, fearsome chaperone was beating a path to them.

To make matters worse, here they were, still in the middle of the dance floor. The music had ended, the other couples had scattered throughout the room, and while the crowd had exhaled and moved in to fill up some of the empty space, there was still a wide circle around them.

Leaving a daunting number of curious gazes fixed on them. Enough to give the London gossips a full dish of cat lap on the morrow.

Suddenly the fact that half the ton was watching him—Lord Henry Seldon—and not his errant nephew was a bit unnerving.

That is, until he looked into her starry gaze.

And the light there said she thought him the most rakish, perfectly ruinous gentleman alive.

“I should find your chaperone,” he managed. Not that he meant it.

“Must you?” she whispered, even as she nestled a bit closer. “What if—”

Her question hung there for a moment, sending this tremor of warning through him.

It isn’t going to be this easy . . .

Yet here she was, in his arms, and everything about her perfect . . . and perfectly willing.

I am yours, her lips, parted, moist and pert, seemed to whisper.

Never in Henry’s life had he ever been the rake, never been Seldon enough to manage even a trifler’s reputation. Having lived all his life in Preston’s shadow—as the spare heir, as the sensible Seldon (for in his family that was a worse crime than a scandalous reputation)—he’d never fit in.

Even Hen had all her notorious marriages to maintain her stake in the family tree.

Not that Henry had ever truly minded. He’d never wanted to be the duke, had thought all the scandals more bothersome than essential, and Hen’s penchant for dashing off to the altar? He nearly shuddered.

No, Lord Henry Seldon had been quite content to be