edition of Debrett’s—that her ladyship had two daughters and no sons.
Sad luck that, for it meant that Dishforth most likely resided elsewhere. Then again, Daphne was using her Great-Aunt Damaris’s address for her letters to avoid Lady Essex’s discovering the truth.
“If we do not find Dishforth tonight,” Harriet said, “then tomorrow we knock on Lady Taft’s door and interview her butler as to why her ladyship acts as Dishforth’s intermediary.”
“Or who her landlord might be,” Tabitha suggested.
“No!” Daphne exclaimed, for she held a secret hope for a much more romantic venue for their first meeting. And storming the portals of Lady Taft’s rented house did not fit into that scenario.
Of course, all of what Daphne knew about the man assumed that he was being completely honest with her. That his letters were not as fictional as his name.
Certainly she’d been honest with him.
Mostly so. Certainly not her name. For she had replied as Miss Spooner, the name of her first governess. It had seemed the perfect pseudonym at the time. Hadn’t her own Miss Spooner eloped one night with a dashing naval captain?
Still, it wasn’t only her name that wasn’t true. Daphne shifted uncomfortably, for she hadn’t been absolutely honest with Mr. Dishforth. She hadn’t mentioned her lack of finishing school. Or how she loathed London.
But some things were best not admitted in a letter.
And good heavens, if everyone was completely honest in courtship, no one would ever get married.
Woolgathering as she was, Daphne hadn’t noticed that Lady Essex had returned.
“Miss Dale, you appear undone.” The old girl studied her with those piercing blue eyes of hers. “Positively flushed, I say. Miss Manx, my vinaigrette–”
“I am quite well,” Daphne rushed to reassure her.
“It is most likely the heat in this room,” Lady Essex declared. “A ball in July—I never! Do you suppose this Owle Park of Preston’s will be so stifling?”
“No, Lady Essex, not in the least,” Tabitha assured her. “Owle Park is most delightful. Large, airy rooms and a wonderful view of the river.”
“A river? That is promising, as long as it isn’t spoiled with all the heat,” she said. “Young ladies are not to their best advantage when they are damp with the heat. Ruins good silk.” She shot Daphne a significant glance, for earlier the lady had declared her red silk too hot—which had been Lady Essex’s polite way of saying “utterly improper”—and had suggested a more modest muslin for such a warm evening.
But Daphne had been determined. She was going to wear red, and when both Tabitha and Harriet had remarked how pretty and engaging Daphne appeared in her new gown, the old girl had relented.
For if there was one thing Lady Essex wanted for Harriet and Daphne, it was for them to show well. She was taking great delight in claiming full credit for Tabitha’s engagement to Preston, and she now had her sights set on a triple play, but only if she gained excellent matches for Daphne and Harriet.
“I hope you will be attentive to the right gentlemen, Daphne Dale. No more of this missish and particular behavior you’ve displayed of late,” Lady Essex said in no uncertain terms and probably loudly enough for half the ballroom to hear. “And bother your lack of dowry. Men tend to ignore those things when a lady is as fetching as you are. If I had but possessed your hair and fine eyes, I would have been a duchess.”
“Is that why you turned down the earl, Lady Essex?” Tabitha teased. “You were holding out for a duke?”
“Not all of us can be as lucky as you, Miss Timmons!” the lady declared. “A duchess, indeed! And Preston’s bride, no less. The Seldons must be in alt over Preston finally getting married. And to think we all shall be there.”
Daphne shuddered as she always did when she heard that name. There was nothing that set a Dale’s teeth to rattling like that one single name.
Seldon.
How it was that the rest of English society didn’t see them in the same light as every Dale did was beyond Daphne.
“Miss Dale, would you please find a way to smile over Miss Timmons’s happiness,” Lady Essex chided.
“Oh, just say it,” Tabitha told her. “You wish I wasn’t marrying a Seldon.”
“I know I would never marry thusly,” Daphne said diplomatically, because she had resigned herself to the notion that her dearest friend was wildly in love with Preston, and he with her.
If only . . . he wasn’t a Seldon.
“Daphne,” Lady Essex scolded, “that