And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,39
so I invited him,” Tabitha confided. “Imagine my surprise when he accepted.”
The man noticed their attentions and bowed to the three of them.
Daphne sighed. There wasn’t a spinster in Kempton who didn’t dream of being the mistress who restored Rawcliffe Manor to its former glory, the grand Tudor mansion having sat empty for far too many years. If he were Dishforth . . .
She slanted one more glance at the Earl of Rawcliffe and considered the possibilities.
No wonder Lady Essex and several other ladies from Kempton—the Tempest twins and even shy Miss Walding—hovered about in the man’s orbit.
As they continued to move along the outside of the crowd, Daphne discarded several of the guests as unlikely candidates: Harriet’s brother Chaunce, too much a Hathaway to sit down and compose a letter; Roxley, too much a gadfly even to think of such a thing; and the Earl of Kipps? Easily dismissed, for he had pockets to let.
Kipps needed an heiress. Not something one sought by placing an advertisement in the Morning Chronicle.
As they got to the front of the crowd, Daphne spied Lord Henry off to Preston’s right, and discovered, much to her annoyance, that he was watching her.
She wet her lips and glanced away, that wild tremor racing through her limbs, the one that always ran rampant whenever she looked at him.
She had to imagine that when she found Dishforth, her entire body would tremble so, and so she glanced around at the crowd of gentlemen, waiting for one of them to inspire such a passion.
A slight shiver.
A spark?
And yet there was nothing.
“Daphne,” Harriet whispered. “Smile. That scowl you are wearing will have Lady Essex over here with her vinaigrette, convinced you have need of it.”
“I am hardly scowling,” she whispered back, doing her best to smile and not look at Lord Henry. “Do you know what all this is about, Tabitha?”
“Preston will explain,” the future duchess said, nodding toward her soon-to-be husband.
The duke leapt onto a mounting block and held up his hands. “Here is the challenge for today. A treasure hunt.”
There were cheers and some bits of muttering. Gentlemen cast mischievous glances at the ladies, while fans fluttered over the prospect of such a task.
The duke continued, “Each pair will be provided a map and instructions for where their treasure is hidden, and all you have to do is find it and return before anyone else.”
“However are the teams to be decided?” Fieldgate asked, sending a wink over at Harriet.
“By lots,” he told them.
This took everyone aback, and this time the muttering grew louder.
“Yes, but—” Roxley objected.
“No objections or you will not be eligible for the prize,” Preston told his friend.
“A prize?” whispered Daphne.
“Yes, just listen,” Tabitha told her.
“The winning team will have the first choice of dancing partner for the unmasking waltz at the ball.”
Daphne took a deep breath. How utterly romantic. If she were to win or Dishforth did, they could be together for the unmasking.
She saw it so perfectly in her imagination.
“Miss Spooner,” he would whisper, his fingers gently tugging at the laces of her mask, and when it fell away, they would see each other for the first time.
But much to her chagrin, as she imagined the moment, it wasn’t just any handsome features staring down at her but Lord Henry’s.
She wrenched her eyes open and shuddered.
“Whatever is the matter?” Harriet asked.
“A chill,” Daphne replied.
“I am beginning to think you do need Lady Essex’s smelling salts,” Harriet muttered back.
“I daresay it is going to rain,” Tabitha added. They both looked at her. “Well, Daphne always shivers just before it starts to rain.”
“There’s nary a cloud in the sky,” Harriet said, crossing her arms over her chest and giving Daphne a searching glance.
“It might rain,” Daphne said, not wanting to reveal the true cause of her trembling.
And this time, she didn’t look in his direction. Rather she scanned the rest of the crowd and noticed ladies off to one side near Lord Astbury. One of them wore a fine apple green silk that Daphne had seen in a draper’s shop in London. She’d nearly died over the cost—it had been prohibitively expensive—and now here was a young woman who not only could afford it but could also wear it done up in an ordinary day gown.
“Tabitha,” Daphne whispered. “Who is that lady—” She nodded toward Lord Astbury. “The one in the apple green silk?”
Sparing a quick glance in that direction, Tabitha’s nose wrinkled. “Miss Nashe. And of course, Lady Alicia Lovell with her.”