And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,27
him get a word in edgewise?”
Her bright smile tightened, and her lashes stopped that delectable flutter. And he should have realized the next thrust from this slight English rose would be straight into his gut.
“What would you know of love, Lord Henry?” she returned. “Being a Seldon and all. From what I hear, a Seldon’s forte is to ravage and run.”
She would bring Montgomery Seldon into all this.
Rather than acknowledge her sniping comment—good heavens, that incident had happened during the reign of Charles the Second, but leave it to a Dale to carry it about—he asked, “And is this paragon of yours here tonight? I wouldn’t mind knowing whose wrath I should be fearing.”
Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed together.
What? No answer? Henry knew a mystery when he held one, and Miss Dale’s “engagement” had all the hallmarks of a most intriguing one.
“Well, is he here or not?” he pressed. “It is a simple question.”
“Ours is not a simple engagement,” she shot back.
Of course it wouldn’t be. The fellow must be stark raving mad. Perhaps they had refused to let the poor blighter out of Bedlam to attend this evening’s festivities.
For certainly if Henry had known what was in store for himself, he would have gladly exchanged places with the fool.
“Not that I would expect you to have any understanding of such a relationship,” she was saying.
“A relationship?” he mused aloud and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“Yes, I thought the word would be foreign to you,” she shot back. “And having seen you at work this evening—”
“At work?” What the devil did that mean?
Oh, she told him.
“Lord Henry, I have not been blind to the fact that you’ve flirted and flitted your way through every innocent in the room this evening—”
He hoped she didn’t count herself amongst them. There was nothing innocent about a lady who wore such a gown.
“—but it is refreshing to discover that I am not the only one immune to your rakish charms—”
She thought he had charms? Never mind that. More to the point, she’d been watching him.
Just as you were watching her . . .
“—true love,” she continued, “a meeting of minds and hearts is not found in such trivial pursuits as flirting and dancing.”
“You don’t like to dance?” he said. And to prove his point, he held her closer and swung her tightly through the crowd.
Something fluttered in her eyes, a mischievous light. She loved to dance. Just as he did.
Yet she was also just as stubborn. “There are not so many opportunities at home for such festivities.”
“Ah, yes, in . . . where is it you are from?”
“Kempton,” she told him, her chin notching up slightly.
He nodded. “Preston mentioned the place. Something about all the ladies being cursed. Should I worry for my safety?”
“Only if we were to marry,” she shot back, and was it him, or did her gleeful note imply she’d rather like to see him married to a Kempton bride?
And end up just like all the rest of the village grooms, spending their honeymoons napping in the graveyard.
“That will never happen, I assure you, Miss Dale,” he replied.
She sighed, with a bit of resignation. “The curse is naught but a myth.”
“Yes, well, I hope so,” he told her. “For the sake of your unknown gentleman and my nephew. I would hate to have Preston turn up his toes with a fire iron sticking out of his chest—”
There was a flash of annoyance in her eyes.
So she didn’t like her hometown curse being bandied about or mocked. Yet it was so perfect an opening . . .
“—leaving me in the demmed uncomfortable position of having to inherit,” he finished.
“You wouldn’t want the dukedom?” This surprised her, as it did most people.
“Heavens, no,” he shuddered. “I have other plans for my future.”
She didn’t ask what those were, and he didn’t elaborate.
He could imagine the delight she’d take in laughing at his desires for a comfortable, sensible life in the country, well away from London and the ton.
Speaking of his future, he glanced down at the tempting beauty in his arms and knew that sensible would never be a word attributed to her.
“Now whatever is the matter?” she asked, once again wiggling in his arms to gain some distance between them.
If only she knew what that did to a man—her breasts pressed against him, her hips moving to and fro.
Or perhaps she did.
“Your gown,” he said.
She glanced down at it. “It is the first stare of fashion. Why, there are three other ladies wearing