And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,53

wasn’t anything Hen loved more than a good row.

Hence her disastrous marriage to Lord Michaels.

“Why not just send her packing now?” she continued.

Preston shook his head. “What? And cause more scandal? Besides, Tabitha is over the moon that her ‘dear Daphne’ was allowed to attend. I won’t ruin her happiness.”

“If this disrupts your wedding, you might be of another opinion,” Hen pointed out.

“It won’t,” Henry said, straightening up. Like it or not, until he could prove otherwise, Daphne Dale had become his problem. “I swear I shall see to all this myself.”

“Well, then I suppose there is nothing left to be done,” Hen said, in a way that left her brother and nephew fully advised that she was washing her hands of all of it.

“Nothing to be done?” Zillah exclaimed, waking once more. “The Dales are at our doorstep! Preston, fetch my father’s flintlock. The pistol, not the Brown Bess. I know how to load it.”

And no one doubted that she did.

“Miss Nashe, you’ve made quite the collection of conquests at dinner this evening,” Lady Essex declared. The ladies had all retired to the sitting room to await the gentlemen, who were partaking of their port and cigars.

Dinner had been a lengthy and painful affair as far as Daphne was concerned.

She’d been seated at the far end of the table, wedged between the new vicar, who’d eaten as if he might know something the rest of them were not party to—that this might be the last supper—and Harriet’s brother, Mr. Chaunce Hathaway, who worked doing who-knew-what for the Home Office. It was impossible to determine the particulars because he rarely spoke.

So Daphne had had little to do over the various courses but follow Chaunce’s silent example and study the room.

If anything, it had given her time to clear the peel Lady Essex had rung over her on the dangers and perils of straying so far afield with a gentleman, even if he was a dull stick like Lord Henry Seldon.

Dull stick, indeed, she would have liked to have told the old girl. Try wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Had he truly kissed her like that, or had she imagined it all? It had happened so fast. His lips upon hers, his hands exploring her, leaving a trail of desire that had continued to whisper and tease her every time she’d dared slant a glance in his direction.

How could a kiss from the wrong man—and yes, there were no doubt in her mind that Lord Henry Seldon was entirely the wrong man—have left her feeling so . . . undone? Right down to the soles of her boots.

Thank goodness she’d come to her senses when she had and remembered who and what she was.

Miss Daphne Dale. A proper miss. A sensible lady. In love with another.

Whom you’ve never met. Never kissed . . .

There were more important things than kissing, she’d told herself.

Though, for the life of her, she hadn’t been able to think of one. Not when she looked at Lord Henry.

Which she had done her best not to do. Especially since he’d been seated beside Miss Nashe and making a great show of it—in all his handsome glory, teasing her (and Lord Astbury) for winning the treasure hunt. And when not showering his charms down upon the heiress, he’d been flirting outrageously with Lady Alicia and even sending a few charming sorties out to Lady Clare.

Wretched man! Certainly Mr. Dishforth would never behave in such a rakish manner.

Yet as dinner had progressed, Daphne had realized her search for Mr. Dishforth might not be an easy matter.

However would she discover which of these gentlemen was Dishforth short of standing up and just asking the man to reveal his identity.

Daphne’s fingers had curled around the arms of her chair and she’d been about to push herself to her feet and do just that—demand to know who Mr. Dishforth was—but she’d stopped short when she’d realized Lady Essex had her steady gaze fixed in her direction.

“Bother,” Daphne had muttered as she’d slumped back into her seat, for publicly admitting to such a folly a would be exactly the sort of unladylike display that would have Lady Essex shipping her back to Kempton in irons.

If only she’d been seated beside Lord Astbury. After all, he was, as Tabitha pointed out, the most likely candidate.

He was certainly handsome enough, as Phi avowed the man was. But then again, all around the table were handsome fellows—Captain Bramston and his craggy, rugged features and dark eyes; Lord Rawcliffe,