And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,40
heiress?” Harriet said, gaping unfashionably at the lady.
“The one and the same,” Tabitha replied, but it was clear she did not like the girl. Though Tabitha was an heiress herself, she hardly played the part as Miss Nashe apparently did, from the French ribbons in her bonnet down to the fine calfskin of her boots. “Lady Juniper insisted she be invited. And you can’t ask Miss Nashe without including Lady Alicia.”
And they all knew why. Wherever Miss Nashe went, glowing reports in the columns were sure to follow—as they had all Season. Where Miss Nashe shopped. Who she danced with. At what times she rode in the park. To be snubbed by Miss Nashe was as good as being ruined.
And of course, there was always her dearest friend, Lady Alicia, right there, with her impeccable bloodlines and connections, though sadly none of Miss Nashe’s blunt.
Meanwhile, Preston was holding up two velvet purses. “I have the names of all the ladies in this pouch”—he held the first one up high and then hefted the other—“and the men in this one. I shall pull the name of a lady and then she will pull the name of her partner. Then the team is free to choose the carriage of their choice and be on their way.” Preston handed the pouch with the men’s names to Tabitha, then reached inside the sack with the ladies’ names. “Miss Hathaway,” he called out.
Harriet shrugged and walked forward. After a moment of trepidation, she shoved her hand in the sack and pulled out a name, holding it up for Preston.
“Fieldgate.”
The man came stalking forward, grinning like a lion. He took a map from Preston, caught Harriet’s hand in his and walked triumphantly toward the racing curricle in front.
And thus it was for the next few minutes, couples being paired up, the field of potential partners narrowing and the faster carriages disappearing quickly.
Even Lady Essex gained a partner, Lord Whenby, an older gentleman who left her blushing with whispered promises as he escorted her to one of Preston’s more daring phaetons.
Much to Daphne’s dismay, all too quickly it came down to her, Miss Nashe, Lord Astbury, and none other than Lord Henry.
Worse yet, the choice of carriages was down to an old curricle and a pony cart. Not exactly the sort of fleet conveyances that would carry one to victory.
Fixing her attention on Lord Astbury, she considered his potential as Dishforth.
He was rumored to be educated and scholarly, and it was said he kept to himself in London. All points in his favor.
And he was handsome. Ever so.
Yet . . . rebelliously her gaze strayed in the other direction.
For there was Lord Henry, grinning with rakish delight at Miss Nashe, as if he was convinced of their pairing. The girl fluttered her lashes at him and smiled, just slightly.
Truly? This was the sort of preening lady that Lord Henry found intriguing?
Once again, Daphne felt a smug satisfaction in her convictions that Lord Henry couldn’t be the man she sought. Her very sensible Mr. Dishforth would view the showy and overly resplendent Miss Nashe with prudent horror.
No, there was no earthly way Lord Henry could be Dishforth.
Just then, Daphne realized that Preston was calling another name.
“Miss Nashe.”
Daphne stilled as she watched the heiress step forward.
Her fate, her very future, was being decided by Miss Edith Nashe.
The girl fished around inside the bag for what felt like an eternity until Lord Henry said, “Miss Nashe, it is but a slip of paper—take one.” His words came out impatiently, almost testily.
“I hardly know which one to choose,” she said, smiling at both gentlemen and obviously immune to the censure.
Good heavens, pull out Lord Henry’s name and be done with it, Daphne wanted to shout. That, or just tug off her boot and clout the simpering fool with it, like she’d seen Harriet do once to one of her brothers.
Lord Astbury was far kinder. He smiled warmly. “You have both our hearts in your dear hand, Miss Nashe.”
Daphne didn’t know why, but she slanted a disgruntled glance at Lord Henry, for she very rightly shared his impatience. And to her surprise, he was looking at her with the same look of utter exasperation.
Whatever is wrong with her?
How am I to know? I would have pulled the name by now.
She wrenched her gaze away. However was it that every time she looked at that man, he had a way of entangling her?
But this time, Lord Henry wasn’t entirely to blame.