And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,33

Phi’s presence of mind.

“Thankfully, he was enough of a gentleman to take no for an answer,” Phi continued, smoothing out her skirt.

Unlike how Lord Henry might have handled the matter, Daphne found herself thinking, imagining him in the foyer and not leaving well enough alone, bursting into the parlor and giving Great-Aunt Damaris the fright of her life.

Before the old girl gave him one of her own.

Goodness, Daphne thought with a shake, would that man never stop invading her thoughts?

Thank goodness Mr. Dishforth was nothing like him.

Save the handsome part.

A handsome Mr. Dishforth, a wealthy Mr. Dishforth. This gave Daphne some smug satisfaction.

Oh, if only she’d been able to find him last night at the Duke of Preston’s ball before she’d met with such humiliating disgrace. Then she could have danced with him and snubbed the Seldons, one and all, from the sanctuary of Mr. Dishforth’s solid and steady embrace.

And she would never have had to suffer through Lord Henry’s insufferable opinions.

“Are you sure about that?” she could almost hear him mock.

“Oh!” Phi burst out, straightening up and digging into the pocket of her apron. Her actions jolted Daphne out of her woolgathering. “But that wasn’t all.”

There was more?

“He asked me to pass this on to you.” Phi held it close for a moment longer. “He said he had written it just in case he could not meet you in person.”

Of course he had. Mr. Dishforth was not only a romantic; he was also a practical man who always had the forethought to plan ahead.

It was one of a myriad of reasons Daphne was already in love with him.

Phi continued to hold onto the letter, slowly presenting it, as if she was offering a chest of jewels, ones she truly didn’t want to surrender.

Daphne barely breathed as she reached out for the now familiar thick paper, the address written in that strong, bold hand she liked to trace with her finger.

Miss Spooner

18, Christopher Street

Mayfair, London

“Open it!” Phi said, as breathless as Daphne.

“Yes, yes,” she said, suddenly reluctant to do so. Especially in front of Phi.

What would she say if it held more of those bold, passionate sentiments that his letter of the other day had carried?

But the news, she soon discovered, was of a different sort.

My Dearest Miss Spooner, I have put off telling you this, and I had hoped to tell you all this last night—may I say this frankly, shall we forget last night?—

Forgotten, Daphne would have told him most emphatically.

I am under an obligation to leave Town and will not be back for a month, perhaps longer. I am to attend a house party in the country. Please, after last night, if you are still inclined to correspond with me, address your letters to Owle Park, Kent, . . .

Daphne sucked in a deep breath. Owle Park?

“What is it?” Cousin Phi begged, squinting down at the page.

“He is going to the wedding.”

“He is going to be married?” Her cousin straightened, clearly outraged and ready to pitch herself headlong into a plot to exact revenge.

Daphne reached over and pulled her back. “No, no! He is going to a wedding.” Then, remembering where she was, she lowered her voice. “Tabitha’s wedding.”

Phi paused as she made all the connections, then her mouth fell open. “Dear heavens!”

“Whatever am I to do? Mother has forbidden me from going. Aunt Damaris said she will have me removed from the family annals if I even consider attending.”

Cousin Phi straightened. Then she said something that shocked Daphne right down to her boots. “There is nothing left for you to do but go. You must.”

Had Cousin Phi just urged her to go to the wedding? A Seldon wedding?

“How do I dare?” Daphne whispered.

Phi leaned closer. “If you had met Mr. Dishforth, as I have, you wouldn’t even ask that question.”

Chapter 5

Does it matter what is on the outside, when there is a heart beating inside, a soul full of longing as it waits to discover its own grand passion?

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner

Owle Park, Surrey

A sennight later

Henry came down the main staircase early for breakfast. More to the point, before the rest of the guests arose. Benley would have the newly arrived London papers at the ready for him, and he could eat his kippers and eggs in peace.

Which would be difficult to find—solitude, that is—in the next fortnight, what with Owle Park overflowing with guests. Carriages had arrived in a steady stream the previous day and late into the night,