And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,43

widened as he spied the panic she couldn’t hide.

There it was. The cat was now out of the bag.

He knew she’d lied. To him and to her family. Thankfully though, he didn’t know why she’d gone to such great lengths.

Oh, bother! It wouldn’t be long before he went digging for the truth. Lord Henry just seemed the sort who would want to know the very why of something.

Including her secrets.

To add to the already ominous air around them, the dark clouds that had been threatening all afternoon were drawing ever closer.

Crispin glanced over his shoulder as the wind freshened, bringing a brisk change to the air and the hint of the rains to come.

“Now, now, Daphne,” her cousin said in the smooth, polite tones one used with an unruly child. “I’ll see to it that you are inside before the weather turns. It would be a dreadful shame for that lovely gown to be ruined.” Then he did exactly what she feared he might.

Gave her the Dale smolder.

That tip of the head, the half-lidded smoky glance that could lure a dedicated and lifelong spinster out of her corset.

It was a snare no woman could resist. Except, so it seemed, Daphne.

You are not like other ladies, are you, Miss Spooner? For that I am most relieved. Most ladies bore me to distraction.

Mr. Dishforth’s words came forth from who knew where. Perhaps the Fates had brought them along with this unseasonable bout of rain. But they gave Daphne the wherewithal she needed to do the last thing Crispin Dale expected.

Defy him yet again.

“No, my lord. I think not,” she told him, settling into the narrow seat of the pony cart as if it were Lady Essex’s well-appointed barouche. “I am most comfortable here.”

“Cousin, I order you to get out of that cart,” Crispin said, smolder replaced by a furious glare.

“And I, Cousin, politely refuse.” She managed a firm smile that belied her quaking insides.

“Daphne Dale!” he commanded. “You cannot be left alone with this . . . this . . .”

“I am of age, my lord,” she pointed out, “and can therefore make my own choices. I will not be bullied by you”—she glanced over at Lord Henry as well—“or any man.” Daphne looked up at the gathering clouds framing Crispin’s towering figure. “You have my answer, my lord. You’d best hurry to Langdale without me, or you’ll find your jacket ruined.”

“We shall see about that!” he said, plunking down in his seat and gathering up the reins. “Consider this choice carefully, Daphne, for once made it cannot be undone—just as many other things cannot be salvaged. You must see how you have no other choice but to return with me.”

Daphne shook at his implication that she was as good as ruined. “I disagree.”

“You cannot refuse me,” he shot back.

“I think she has,” Lord Henry told him, taking up the reins to the cart and clucking a bit at the tired nag. The poor horse was hardly a matched set of bays chafing in their traces, but you couldn’t tell that by Lord Henry’s demeanor. “Now, it is time you ceased badgering the lady and let us get on our way before the rain catches us.”

Crispin’s brow furrowed. “If that is your choice, Daphne.”

“It is.”

“So be it,” he said. “But hear me well, Seldon,” he added, turning his stormy gaze toward Lord Henry. “This lady’s welfare is in your hands. See her safely back to Owle Park. Immediately.”

“I have no desire to be drenched,” Lord Henry replied, neglecting to mention Daphne’s welfare, much to Crispin’s chagrin.

He straightened. “I shall hold you to your word, sir, that Miss Dale is returned without any hint of dishonor.”

Lord Henry bowed slightly in agreement.

Crispin turned to her, his gaze flitting for a second to Mr. Muggins, who hovered close to her shoulder. “Do not think this is the end of this, Daphne.” With that said, he wheeled his carriage around in a tight circle and drove off as if the hounds of hell were nipping his heels.

Or rather, Mr. Muggins after another of his prized hunting dogs.

“Yes, well,” Lord Henry said as the dust of Crispin’s carriage began to settle, “best get you back before he has time to fetch a halberd and settle this in some medieval fashion.” He glanced at her. “I’ve never fancied a pike through the chest.”

“I hardly think he’d choose halberds when he is an excellent shot,” she said, settling her hands primly into her lap. Then, after Lord Henry had