followed hers toward the trio of ladies by the window.
Of course, there sat Lady Alicia, Lady Clare and Miss Nashe—the trio he’d spent the night dancing attendance upon.
Henry decided the best course of action was one of innocence. “Whoever do you mean?”
“Why, Miss Nashe, of course,” she said, tipping her head as she took another examining look at the heiress.
“Whatever does that mean? My sort, indeed,” he puffed before he remembered what he’d said about Crispin Dale earlier.
Not that Miss Dale was going to let him forget as she turned his own sword on him, making a perfectly timed thrust into his chest. She leaned closer as she made her move. “Overdressed. Vain. Wealthy.”
He had the feeling she’d left out a few. Given the arch of her fair brow, he had to imagine that “overreaching mushroom” was a possibility.
Henry knew Miss Nashe was exactly the “sort” a second son like himself sought for a bride—wealthy, gracious and lovely, beloved by the society columns—but there was one impossible hurdle that not even her dowry could tempt him to leap.
The girl herself.
Still, he feigned surprise. “Miss Nashe? You think her vain?”
“You don’t?” Miss Dale’s nose wrinkled. “Why, look at her! Even now she is regaling poor Lady Clare and Lady Alicia with tales of her social prowess.”
Given the set of Lady Clare’s jaw, Miss Dale was probably correct, but Henry wasn’t going to admit such a thing. Instead, he asked, “However can you hear what is being said? They are all the way across the room.”
Miss Dale’s chin rose. “I have a talent for these things.”
Of course she did.
“You do?” he asked against his better judgment.
“Yes, watch,” she said, glancing over at the trio. The next time Miss Nashe opened her mouth, Miss Dale supplied the words.
“Oh, the expectations placed on one when one is mentioned daily in the social columns are exhausting.”
Henry coughed on the fit of laughter that nearly choked him. “She would never say such a thing,” he argued as he tried to compose himself.
“No, no,” Miss Dale told him. “She isn’t finished. Listen—”
Then modulating her tones and clipping her words, she matched Miss Nashe’s overly educated enunciation perfectly.
“Yet I endeavor to provide proper and edifying on dits so as to inspire the lesser of my peers to learn from my grace and status. It is my gift to Society.”
And demmed if Miss Nashe didn’t finish and smile at the end of Miss Dale’s lines, as if indeed she was conveying such a condescending speech to her audience.
Henry snorted back another fit of laughter and turned his back to the trio, for it was devilishly hard to look at Miss Nashe and not hear Miss Dale’s recitation.
Meanwhile, his impish companion grinned with wicked delight. “I told you.”
Henry had to admit that the one thing he rather liked about Miss Dale was the fact that she didn’t suffer from a lack of straightforward honesty. And so he replied in kind. “She is rather impressed with herself.”
Miss Dale covered her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. “What a terrible thing to say, Lord Henry.”
“You started it,” he shot back. “But I confess that after listening to her go on for half an hour as to how she’d modernize Owle Park if she were Tabitha—”
Daphne’s eyes widened with outrage. “Change this house? Whatever for?”
Her annoyance echoed his own. He tipped his head closer. “Apparently it is not the first stare of fashion.”
Miss Dale clucked her tongue. “It isn’t supposed to be. It is a family home.” And she didn’t stop there. “Owle Park is delightful. Rather surprising, actually.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it isn’t what I expected,” she said, glancing away, a bit of a blush on her cheeks.
“What did you think you would find, Miss Dale? Remnants of the Hell Fire Club in the dining room? Stray virgins lolling about awaiting pagan sacrifice?” The color on her cheeks confirmed just that. Henry laughed. “You did, didn’t you?”
“It is just that one hears such tales, and then one supposes . . .”
“Disappointed?”
She paused for a moment and then glanced up at him, a twinkle in her eyes. “Slightly.”
They both laughed, and it seemed the entire room stilled and looked over at them.
Henry stepped away from Miss Dale, probably a bit too quickly, for it made him look guilty . . . of something.
Not that he had anything to feel guilty about. And yet there was Zillah, her dark eyes blazing with accusations. Not again, you foolish boy!
He edged a little farther away from