And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,26

every gentleman who’d asked her to dance and then summarily dismissing them after.

Not that he’d been watching her. Not in the least.

“Ahem,” she coughed.

He glanced down at her and wished he hadn’t. For here she was, all blue eyes and fair complexion. And how hadn’t he noticed before that delicate spray of freckles on her nose? So very kissable and so tempting.

“Yes, Miss Dale?” he managed.

“Must you hold me so close?”

He leaned a bit to one side and studied his own stance for a second. “Am I?”

“Yes,” she complained, followed by a stony glance that said what the lady refused to say in public. Let me go, you great pondering ape.

He smiled, tucked her ever so slightly closer, and hoped she knew exactly what he meant.

Not in your life.

While he thought she might make a scene—which would definitely guarantee her a one-way mail coach ticket back to wherever it was she came from, ruin dripping from her hem—at that moment, as she surveyed the crowd around them, she fluttered those long lashes of hers as if she’d suddenly remembered something very important.

And instead of sending him off with a flea in his ear, she did quite the opposite.

As they swept along the edge of the dance floor, the lady’s entire demeanor changed.

She smiled brightly as her gaze swept from one man to the next—all the way down the line.

And her captivated audience gazed back in appreciation.

Henry’s brow furrowed. Normally it didn’t bother him to have the ton’s rakes and Corinthians eyeing the armful he’d gained for a dance. It left him able to smile over the lady’s shoulder with a look that said all too clearly:

Mine if I want her. . . .

Yet when he looked down at this minx, this lady who was causing more than one jaw to drop in admiration, he realized two things:

Firstly, Miss Daphne Dale had every asset necessary to leave a man aching with desire.

And secondly, she would never be his.

Much to his chagrin, that notion—that she was well out of his reach—left him a bit off kilter.

Not that he wanted Miss Daphne Dale. Certainly he wasn’t mad like Lord Norton Seldon, the last known member of his family foolish enough to cross the firmly established lines between the Seldon and Dale clans, but there was just no arguing that she was a tempting piece of muslin.

He saw her as he had earlier, looking up at him with eyes shining—alight all for him. He rather liked the way she tipped her head as she glanced just over her shoulder, letting the waterfall of curls pinned atop her head fall all the way over her bare shoulder . . . a teasing sort of glance that made a man consider how she would look being tossed atop his bed . . . those glorious blonde tresses freed and falling all about her shoulders . . . over her naked . . .

Henry wrenched his gaze away, righting his errant thoughts as quickly as he could.

How he’d ever thought her to be his sensible Miss Spooner, he didn’t know.

Not that Miss Dale seemed to care what her come-hither glances and bright smile might do to a man. In fact, if he didn’t know better, he might think she was posing for another.

Another?

He glanced about the room and tried to gauge who this fribble might be. Not that her previous partners could be considered. A beggary lot of dull sticks for the most part. Ives. Niniham. Trewick. And that dull vicar Hen had insisted be invited.

Yet she’d turned down Middlecott, considered to be the catch of the Season. Odd choice that, given that the man was as rich as Midas and rumored to be ready to set up his nursery.

So if she wasn’t looking for a title and fortune, then what was she after?

He cast one more glance down at her rosebud lips, pursed and ready to be kissed. Henry didn’t know what came over him, but he hitched her up a little closer.

Thorns and all.

Oh, and how those thorns bristled. Her brows arched higher, and in tones dripping with censure, she said, “I’ll have you know, I am nearly engaged, and you are being entirely impudent by insisting on holding me thusly.”

Of all the self-important, pompous Dale presumption. As if he was holding her solely for his benefit.

Which he wasn’t. Not in the least.

“Nearly engaged?” he wondered aloud. “Whatever does that mean? Could it be the man can’t make up his mind, or you haven’t let