And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,60
also make a good footman and fetch him a couple. Just between friends and all.
Some chaperone. Once fed, the dog would surely look the other way at any goings-on.
Of which there weren’t going to be any. None whatsoever. Last night had been disaster enough.
“What are you doing down here so early?” Miss Dale continued, shooting a wry glance at Mr. Muggins, one that suggested she found the dog’s attentions downright traitorous.
“I had thought to avoid you,” he said, setting his papers and writing box down at his chair near the head of the table. At least the chit had chosen a spot well away from his.
“Harrumph!” Miss Dale sputtered, her teacup rattling in the saucer as she set it down.
Ignoring her glower, he went to fetch a plate from the sideboard. Mr. Muggins followed, tail wagging happily.
“You don’t intend to stay?” she protested as much as she questioned.
“You could leave,” he pointed out as he slowly filled his plate, stopping before the platter of sausages. “So we might avoid another near catastrophe.”
“That was hardly my fault,” she pointed out. “And speaking of last night—”
Oh, must they? His ears were still ringing from the peal Hen had rung over him. The one she’d begun the very moment she’d been able to decipher what Zillah’s shrieking had been about.
Fortunately for him, his great-aunt’s ranting had managed to pull every pair of eyes in Zillah’s direction and give him enough time to set Miss Dale well out of reach. By the time anyone had been able to make out what had the lady in such a lather—he’s going to kiss her—all the evidence had been quite to the contrary.
Henry had been standing at one end of the pianoforte, feigning interest in the music sheets, and Miss Dale had stood at the other, studying the painting of the sixth Duchess of Preston.
“Kiss who?” he’d said, laughing. “No one but you, Zillah.” Then he’d bussed the old girl on the cheek and winked at the crowd as if to say, Poor dear, half out of her wits.
However, his ruse hadn’t fooled Hen. Or Preston. And as such there had been another family dustup in the back salon, where he had spent a good hour explaining that Great-Aunt Zillah had had it all wrong: he hadn’t been kissing Miss Dale. He’d finally gained a reprieve when he’d reminded Hen and Preston of the previous Christmas when Zillah had ordered ’round Bow Street because she’d thought there were Dales hiding in the basement.
Sadly, that was not the end of it, for Hen had spent the next hour giving him a thorough wigging on which ladies were proper prospects for the second son of a duke and which ladies weren’t. It didn’t take a member of the Royal Society to know on which side of that argument Hen placed Miss Dale.
Besides, he hadn’t actually kissed Miss Dale. Just meant to call her bluff.
Nor did it appear that Miss Dale had fared much better as a result of Zillah’s tirade.
“—I had to endure another lengthy lecture from Lady Essex—”
She had him there. Lady Essex could probably put even Hen to shame when it came to delivering a blistering scold. Henry was ready even to offer some condolences when she went on and said, “—despite my reassurances to her that your overly licentious nature casts no spell on me—”
Now, just a bloody moment. His licentious nature?
Henry stormed down to the end of the table. “My nature?”
“Yes, yours,” she said. “You are determined to mire me in ruin, and I won’t have it. I have my future to think of. I understand that you can’t help yourself—”
“I am not the one with the made-up suitor,” he shot back.
“Made up?” she said, her hands balling into fists. “I’ll have you know that my dear—”
But to his chagrin, she stopped herself before the name slipped out.
Henry arched a brow and gave her the most quelling Seldon stare he could manage. The one his father often used to silence the entire House of Lords.
Not that it daunted Miss Dale. Not in the least.
“My situation is none of your business,” she finished.
He smiled, because this time she hadn’t said “affair.”
“Who is he?” Henry asked. “This suitor of yours?”
Her lips pressed together, her brow crinkled.
“Then I return to my original theory that he is a figment of your imagination. For whyever would any man let you wander about if you are his true love?”
“Because he is secure in my affections and I in his,” she said.