And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,35
offer.
It was an image that had haunted him since that night.
Why, he’d even thought he’d seen her following him in London when he’d gone to discover Miss Spooner’s identity. Ridiculous notion—but that was what Dale women and their insufferable beauty did to sensible men.
Yes, a proper, sensible miss was exactly what he needed to extinguish this restless fire Miss Dale had lit inside him.
With that resolution firmly planted in his heart, he turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs and noticed a single note in the salver. He might have just walked right past, for it was probably no more than some titillating bit of gossip dashed off and left for one of the footmen to deliver to the intended party, but the handwriting stopped him cold.
And not just the handwriting, the name to whom it was addressed:
Dishforth
Glancing around, if only to ensure there was no one looking, Henry’s hand snaked out quickly and snatched it off the silver plate. He gaped down at the single folded page written in none other than Miss Spooner’s sure hand.
How the devil . . .
Taking another surreptitious glance around the open foyer and reassured that no one else was about, he slid his thumb under the wafer, wrenched the folded sheet open, and read the single line it contained.
As it turns out, I was invited as well.
Tucking neatly into her laden plate, Daphne sighed and glanced around the comfortable morning room. She found it unfathomable that this welcoming corner of Owle Park—what with its rococo ceiling, white wainscoting, celery paint and gilt trim here and there—was the design of a Seldon. Even the sparkling morning sunshine pouring in from the long windows at either end of the room cast such a bright, friendly glow that it made it nearly impossible to believe she was so deep in enemy territory.
Owle Park. The hereditary home of the Seldon heirs. She’d tamped down a momentary bit of panic by reaching over and putting her hand atop Mr. Muggins’s wiry head. The Irish terrier, Tabitha’s beast of a dog, had greeted her last night like a long-lost friend and had yet to leave her side—for which Daphne was grateful.
“Out on our own, aren’t we?” she whispered to him as she scratched behind his ears.
Mr. Muggins let out a grand sigh and tipped his head just so, willing to listen to her troubles as long as she continued to hit that spot.
“Dishforth is close at hand,” Daphne said, happy to have someone to confide in, even if it was just Mr. Muggins. “He’s here, within these walls.”
That very thought should have been enough to bolster her spirits, but there was one other consideration.
While Dishforth may indeed be at Owle Park this very moment, so was Lord Henry Seldon.
Daphne pressed her lips together and sighed. Wretched, awful man.
She couldn’t help it. Every time she thought of him, she reminded herself that he was exactly that.
A wretched, awful man.
Speaking of the devil, his deep voice sputtered from the doorway. “Oh, good God! What are you doing here?”
Daphne and Mr. Muggins both looked up to find the very fellow standing in the doorway.
“Lord Henry.” Daphne tipped her head slightly in greeting, while inside her thoughts clattered about like a shop bell.
Whatever was he doing up so early? She had assumed that when they—she, along with Lady Essex, Harriet and Lady Essex’s nephew, the Earl of Roxley—had arrived so late the night before and there had been no sign of him, he’d most likely already been engaged in whatever rakish and devilish exploits a man of his reputation and proclivities pursued.
For some reason the very notion of him with another woman piqued her in ways she didn’t like to consider.
Instead, she’d lent her consideration and pity toward the poor deluded lady who was the object of his attentions.
But that didn’t explain what he was doing up so early and looking as if he was in top form—brushed and dressed, his gaze sharp and piercing. Hardly the appearance of a man who’d been out carousing the hours away.
“Miss Dale, where did you come from?” he demanded as he came into the room and stopped at the far end of the table.
“London,” she replied smoothly, despite the flutter of emotions inside her at the sight of him. “Don’t you recall, we met there but a week ago.”
He flinched. “I had heard you declined Preston’s invitation,” he replied, glancing around the empty room and frowning.