And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,24
of it,” Harriet continued. “Show these Seldons that the Dales possess all the manners and grace you keep declaring is the difference between your families. Besides, you know not who else might be watching you.”
Daphne stilled. But of course! Dishforth! Perhaps he was here still—or had been delayed and was even now set to arrive. Oh, yes, he’d been delayed. That was it. Nor would he find her scowling like an old maid, even when faced with Lord Henry’s glowering visage, which made him resemble some stone-carved mythical beast.
Albeit a rather handsome one.
Daphne buttoned down her resolve, as well as the odd rabble of passions he evoked. One dance. That was all.
And the supper . . .
Clearly Lord Henry found this situation as distasteful as she did, for he did nothing to hide the disdain in his glance.
So why was it, as she stared into his stormy gaze, that all she could think of was a line from one of Dishforth’s early letters?
We are all bound by our lot, by tradition, are we not, Miss Spooner? But don’t you long to be free of it all? Free to choose? Free to dance where you may?
Dance where you may . . . She would dance with Lord Henry—under duress—but very soon she would find Mr. Dishforth, and they would dance where they may and no one would naysay her choice ever again.
“Miss Hathaway,” Lord Henry said, bowing low to Harriet. As he rose, he sent a scant glance at Daphne. “Miss Dale.”
The greeting came out in a tone one might use upon finding a beggar curled up on one’s front step.
Ignoring his complete lack of manners—truly, what did she expect?—Daphne pasted a bright smile on her face, the most regal tilt to her chin and sent a slight flutter of lashes at Lord Henry, if only to disarm him.
She was, after all, a Dale.
“Lord Henry,” she replied with a mixture of bright charm and an equal dose of disdain.
Harriet cringed, having recognized the same polite, yet terse, tones Daphne took when she locked horns with Miss Fielding over some point of order in their weekly meetings at the Society for the Temperance and Improvement of Kempton.
“I believe we are expected to begin this dance,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the parties forming. “But, if you . . .”
Daphne shot a glance at Harriet to see if she had heard the implication behind Lord Henry’s statement.
If you refuse me, Miss Dale, it will not break my heart.
Unfortunately for Daphne, Harriet stood stonily at her side, an ever-present reminder, her conscience, per se, that she was not allowed to give in to what she wanted more than anything.
To avoid this dance.
“Apparently it is a Seldon tradition,” she said, reminding him that this was not a situation of her making. It was a slippery slope, a moral equivocation.
She didn’t dare glance over at Harriet, but she heard all too clearly her snort of derision.
No, Harriet wasn’t buying her dissembling in the least.
“Yes, tradition,” he agreed, sounding no more pleased about it than she. “Are we not all bound by it?”
Daphne stilled. Good heavens, he almost sounded like . . .
Then Lord Henry did her the favor of proving himself utterly unworthy of the title of Dishforth, dispelling any further comparisons.
“Well, shall we get this over with?” he asked as the music started.
Get this over with? Daphne wrenched herself out of her woolgathering and let the full impact of his words come to rest. Get this over with? Why, she’d never been so insulted. He should be so lucky to be able to dance with a Dale.
And she would show him just how lucky he was.
Holding Miss Daphne Dale, Henry quickly surmised, was akin to holding a rosebush.
One with a generous portion of thorns that had previously been hidden beneath her beauty.
If only she wasn’t so demmed pretty. That was the real problem, Henry told himself. Lithe and fair, Miss Dale’s gown—some tempting creation of silk that clung to her every curve and left her looking like one of the Three Graces come to life—was enough to make any man mad with desire.
And how ironic that it was red. He nearly shuddered. Now every time he tried to envision his Miss Spooner, all that came to mind was this tempting chit.
Worse, the supper dance had them hedged in—for nearly everyone was dancing. Even Roxley’s old aunt, Lady Essex, was being squired about the floor by some aging gallant.