him in a mess of epic proportions.
Whyever had she gone to such great lengths to come to Owle Park to begin with?
Meanwhile, Miss Dale took one of his sister’s favorite tacks: turning the tables. “This is all your fault.”
If he’d had a sovereign for every time Hen had used that phrase . . . “My fault?” he ventured.
“Yes, yours.” The lady crossed the space between them and stopped right in front of him. “If you had but followed the map—”
So much for that accusation remaining unsaid . . .
“—we would not have run into Crispin. And now . . .” Her words failed her as she gave into a bout of shivers.
He looked at her again, and this time, noting more than just the state of her ruined gown and the shape of her comely figure, he also realized she was chilled to the bone.
Some gentleman he was!
Shrugging off his driving coat, he wrapped it around her shoulders, ignoring her wary gaze and her attempt to brush his gallantry aside and slip out from his grasp. He held onto the lapels and straightened it so it covered her.
Protected her.
Then he looked into her eyes and saw a wrenching light of despair and felt—for whatever reason, for he was hardly the cause of this misery—a twinge of guilt.
He’d done this to her. Worse yet, a nudge of conscience said it was up to him to fix all this.
He let go of the lapels and backed away. He’d never been one to melt over a lady’s languid gaze, but Miss Dale had a way, what with those starry blue eyes of hers, that pierced his sensible hide like no other woman had ever done.
She’d done much the same thing to him on the dance floor at the ball.
Hell, from the first moment he’d spied her.
She’d led him astray that night with those come-hither eyes of hers, led him off course.
Taking up the clearly discernable path of puddles she’d left around the marble floor of the folly, he began to pace. The mess on the floor was in stark contrast to the unnavigable path she was treading upon his heart.
Henry shuddered against such a notion and concentrated on the moment at hand, stealing a glance at the lady and her wrenching expression.
His fault, indeed! It wasn’t. And yet . . .
For about the thousandth time since breakfast—hell, since the engagement ball—he’d reminded himself of two things.
She was a Dale.
And she was none of his concern.
Oh, but she is. And that was the rub. Somehow she’d become his problem, no matter how much he denied it or the lady herself protested. His problem. Or was she?
I’ll have you know, Lord Henry, I am nearly betrothed to another.
Henry latched onto the confession she’d made the other night at the ball. Nearly betrothed . . .
What else had she said about the man? Ay, yes. A gentleman of standing.
Henry skidded to a stop. Turning, his gaze narrowed, and he said, “Him! He’s your nearly gentleman.” He shook his head to clear his muddled thoughts. “Your nearly betrothed.”
She crossed her arms over her bosom and gaped at him. “Whatever are you going on about?”
“Crispin Dale. He’s your nearly betrothed. The one you were crowing about the other night.”
“My lord, I never crow,” she said, and then having taken in the full weight of his accusation, her eyes widened before she laughed. “Me? Betrothed to Crispin?” Her giggles turned into a loud series of guffaws, leaving her with her hands clasped over her stomach as if she’d never heard anything so amusing.
“Whatever did I say?”
“How little you know of the Dale clan.” She tittered again. “Me engaged to Crispin? Ridiculous.”
Henry didn’t see why such a notion was so foolish. “How so? He rather seems your sort.”
“My sort?” Her gaze wrenched up, all of her hilarity evaporating. Once again she was all wary suspicion.
“Yes, your sort,” he said, adding his own imperious stance to hers.
“Whatever does that mean?”
Henry shrugged. “Overdressed. Fussy. Wealthy.” He left out “an overreaching prig.”
“That description could be applied to most of the men in the ton,” she pointed out. Tipping her chin up, she added, “Yourself included.”
“I am not fussy,” Henry shot back.
“If you insist,” she said, shrugging a shoulder.
“I do.” Not liking the course of this conversation—damn the lady, she had a singular knack for turning the tables on him—he shifted the tide back in his favor. “Still, I don’t see why Lord Dale is not your sort.”
She shook her head as if the