And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,62

houses? However could that be?

“And you don’t have a steward or an agent who handles these matters?” she asked.

Not an unusual question, for most men handed over the care and maintenance of their estates to others—as Preston would have if Henry hadn’t been there.

“No,” he told her as Mr. Muggins jostled his elbow. Henry looked down at the hound, who gazed up at him with the most adoring gaze, as if Henry was the only one on earth who could save the poor beast from starvation. And even though he knew better—for hadn’t Preston warned one and all not to feed Tabitha’s dog or there would be no end to the dog’s attentions— he stole a glance over at Miss Dale, who was even now looking over a letter she held. Before she looked up, Henry slid a sausage from his plate, and the quick-witted terrier snatched it out of the air.

The snap of the dog’s jaws brought the lady’s gaze up.

“Uh, well, I find,” Henry said, quickly filling the space with words to cover his momentary weakness, “that if you want a task done right—”

“You must do it yourself,” Miss Dale finished.

They looked at each other—a sense of mutual understanding coiling between them. Both of them shifted uneasily at the discovery for it should be evident that they held nothing in common.

Or so they wanted to believe.

Miss Dale brought her napkin up and patted her lips. “I often find the same is true with a gown. If you want it just so, you must do the work yourself.”

“Yes, quite,” he said, a bit of a shiver running down his spine. Not for the world would he have admitted he held the same conviction.

Not about gowns, per se, but a task none the less.

“Yes, well, don’t let me delay you,” she told him, taking a sip of her tea and going back to her correspondence.

And normally he would have done just that, gone on with his business matters and letters, but with Miss Dale at the other end of the table, he found his attentions wandering.

Like how was it that no matter the time of day, she always looked enticing? This morning it was a pale blue muslin concoction and her hair tied up simply with a matching ribbon.

One the same color as her eyes.

And why was it that he noticed those things? He couldn’t tell you the color of Miss Nashe’s eyes, or even the shade of Lady Clare’s tresses, but with Miss Dale . . .

Henry took a deep breath and told himself he’d never really paid much attention to such things before he’d begun corresponding with Miss Spooner.

Take Miss Dale. How was it that a lady could look so perfectly refreshed, so utterly composed at such an early hour? He ran his hand over his chin, which he’d shaved himself, his valet, Mingo, having gone off in a fine fettle over something to do with the laundress and cravats, so he knew he was hardly well turned out.

No wonder he’d thought she might be Miss Spooner when they’d met in London. Outwardly she was everything he’d imagined the lady to be—pretty, self-assured and determined.

Just not possessing some of Miss Dale’s other traits—stubborn beyond all reason, presumptuous, and all-too-desirable.

Very much desirable.

Henry wrenched his gaze away from the object of his study and began to put his papers in order. There was an inquiry for the properties he held in Brighton, questions from his solicitor about a shipping venture, and a few other questions about improvements he intended for Kingscote, the house and lands he’d recently purchased.

They all required a measure of discipline and concentration, but he found himself distracted to no end by the scratching quill at the far side of the table.

Good heavens, didn’t she possess a single pen that could write a line without making such an infernal noise?

Miss Dale looked up at him. “What is the matter now?”

“Your quill—it is making the most interminable screeching.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” And then, as if that was the end of the subject, she went back to writing her letter, scratching at it all the much louder, if that was possible. Why she sounded like a hen poking about in the gravel.

Oh, yes, Hen had been right about one thing last night—he was going to pick up Preston’s scandalous role in the family . . . starting right this moment by strangling Miss Dale.

Henry pushed his chair back and started down the table, albeit to sharpen her quill, not