And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,34

the last-minute guests hurrying to stake their claim at what gossip columns were calling “the only house party of note.”

Thus, no one had turned down an invitation.

Especially since the engagement ball—specifically the supper dance, or that “scandalous dance,” as it had been dubbed. One night and he’d become an object of speculation and gossip, a position for which he was ill-fitted.

That had always been Preston’s role in the family, not Henry’s. But now that the duke had become utterly respectable with his engagement to Miss Timmons, the curious had pinned their avid interest on Henry.

And all because of her. That demmed Miss Dale.

Not that Henry didn’t feel a bit of guilt over all of it. Perhaps he had provoked her.

Ever-so-slightly.

Still, there was no arguing that her flight from the dance floor had put a crown on his head as the most Seldon of all Seldons, and there was just no removing it—not if the invitations that had suddenly flooded the foyer at Harley Street afterward were any indication. Offers, vouchers and notes from ladies—married and otherwise. All addressed to Lord Henry Seldon.

Not Preston. Not Hen. Him.

Apparently a man who inspired such wrath from a lady demanded a closer inspection.

Overnight, he’d become London’s most notorious rake.

Henry didn’t realize it, but he’d come to a stop on the landing, and one of the newly hired maids scuttled past him, all wide-eyed and curious, as if she were viewing such a creature for the first time.

A rake!

He felt like calling after her, “Boo!”

Instead, he shook his head and continued down the steps, the house around him silent at this unfashionable hour, save for the whispered movements of the servants as they readied the house for the day’s activities.

Which he would have to take part in—at Hen and Preston’s insistence. Penance, he supposed, for the debacle at the engagement ball.

He would have been much happier to have stayed in Town and come down the day before the wedding and then return to London immediately after, but no, now that he’d become the latest on dit there had been naught to do but flee to the country.

At least Owle Park afforded him one benefit. No Miss Dale.

That thought should have been some comfort to him, but it only showed that the impudent, wretched bit of muslin continued to invade his thoughts. What with her winsome smiles, her bright eyes and fair features.

And her utterly vexing behavior.

Well, thankfully, her stubborn pride and Dale bloodlines had kept her from accepting the invitation to Preston’s wedding and house party—no matter that she was supposedly Miss Timmons’s dearest friend.

But being in the country also left him at a disadvantage; he could hardly press forth with his search for Miss Spooner while he was stuck here rusticating.

His jaw worked back and forth. There hadn’t been a letter or a note from the lady since that night.

The night Miss Dale had ruined everything.

And as it was, every time he thought of that miss, he couldn’t but help compare her to Miss Spooner.

Which left him imagining her as Miss Dale’s true opposite—dowdy, plain, without an ounce of grace—like the creature who’d answered the door at Christopher Street.

For a moment, Henry had feared he’d need to put his own words to the test.

Does it matter what is on the outside . . .

The owlish girl—no, make that spinster—who had answered the door and regarded him with a mixture of suspicion and awe had left him a bit taken aback. That is until he discovered she wasn’t Miss Spooner.

Thank God, he’d nearly cheered, even as she’d taken his letter and efficiently sent him packing.

Must be a relation, he realized, for she had the same sensible and determined air that echoed through the pages of Miss Spooner’s letters. He’d also been struck by the thought that there was something very familiar about the gel, as if he’d seen her before—a family resemblance perhaps to his Miss Spooner—but the only person who kept coming to mind was Miss Dale.

Henry grimaced. Miss Dale, indeed! Wouldn’t that be a nightmare?

No, he wanted a steady, reliable companion to spend his days with.

But what about your nights? a wry voice teased. Who would you rather spend your nights with?

Never mind that the first image that came to mind was Miss Dale, her hair unbound and that sylvan, delectable figure of hers wrapped only in his sheets, enticing him to abandon his sensible nature and come while away the night in the pleasures that only a creature of her nature could