And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,29
“How fares your aunt?”
The earl shuddered at the question, as if he wished the entire evening could be dismissed so easily. Teetering over to the sideboard, he poured himself a measure. Then, eyeing it, he tipped the bottle of brandy yet again until the glass was almost full.
Preston shot the nearly overflowing glass a second look. “As bad as all that?”
“Worse,” Roxley avowed. “She’s demanding satisfaction. Wants me to name my seconds. My aunt seems to think that only my shooting Lord Henry on some grassy field will ‘regain her lost honor.’ ”
“Did you point out that I am the better shot?” Henry said.
Roxley nodded. “Unfortunately, she’s quite willing to take the risk.”
Chapter 4
Have you not wondered why the Fates considered bringing us together? I fear at times they could also have a change of heart and pull us apart. Promise me we shall endeavor to avoid their snare, my dearest Miss Spooner.
Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner
Daphne was doing her best to forget the previous evening. Not that Lady Essex was likely to let her.
Where the lady should have been scandalized and overwrought, Roxley’s aunt was instead in alt. The tempest had put her in high demand with every gossip in London, and there was nothing Lady Essex liked more than being the center of attention.
Of course, the Dale clan might applaud Daphne’s scandalous part, saying it was only what a Seldon deserved, but then the inevitable questions and recriminations would come.
What the devil were you doing there in the first place?
And whatever would she say?
That she’d been corresponding with an unknown gentleman, who, she had discovered, was going to be attending the ball and she couldn’t help herself, she’d gone into the Seldon lair if only to discover her Prince Charming?
Yes, that would be about as well received as the gossip that was surely going to land on Aunt Damaris’s doorstep before nightfall—that her niece was a dreadful harridan.
Caused the scene of the Season! some catty relation would come to tell the dowager of the Dale clan.
Though Daphne couldn’t imagine who would be brave (or foolish enough) to drop such a cannonball into Aunt Damaris’s gilt salon.
Which, in itself, might buy Daphne a few days.
Perhaps even enough time to discover Mr. Dishforth’s true identity before she would be shunted off to Kempton, never to be allowed back in London again.
Which was the last thing Daphne wanted or needed. So she’d made her excuses to Lady Essex and fled Roxley’s town house, claiming an obligation to visit her Great-Aunt Damaris one more time before she returned to Kempton.
If anything, she hoped beyond hope that when she got there, she would find a note, a few lines, anything from Mr. Dishforth.
Oh, Mr. Dishforth! Whatever was she going to tell him?
Daphne hurried through the streets of Mayfair, her ever-faithful maid, Pansy, trotting along behind her, her cheeks pink with the heat and the pace.
Not that she could hope to outrun the gossip, but perhaps she could head it off before it turned into an insurmountable storm.
Daphne paused at a corner to wait for traffic and considered how she might explain her wretched behavior to him.
To Mr. Dishforth.
Well, there were only two words to justify what she’d done.
Lord Henry.
Ruinous, awful man! Daphne could not think of him without shivering. No, it wasn’t shivering, more like shuddering, she corrected herself.
For shivering had an entirely different intimation.
And not one she wanted to share with Lord Henry. Not in the least.
“Horrible man,” she muttered as she started across the street.
“My pardon, miss,” a stuffy-looking fellow huffed in reply as he hurried past.
Daphne blushed a bit, especially when Pansy looked over at her with that puzzled, censorious expression she seemed to be wearing much of late.
And feeling a bit of remorse, Daphne knew eventually she would have to admit the truth. Lord Henry couldn’t be blamed entirely. For one thing, she had tripped him.
Not deliberately. Not intentionally.
Well, maybe a little.
Daphne drew herself up straight. Annoying, wretched man. Why, he was the very epitome of all that was wrong with the Seldons and had been wrong for centuries. Too handsome. Too full of his own worth. And much too handsome.
Oh, dear, she’d listed that twice. Well, it needed to be, she told herself as she rounded the corner onto Christopher Street.
No man should look that sinful; it made him capable of driving a perfectly sensible lady to make a complete cake of herself in a crowded ballroom.