And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,65
the Dale dynasty. Well, she’d make sense of all that later.
Right now there was a more insulting matter to be dealt with.
“Above my station?” she echoed.
“Well, of course,” Miss Nashe said in all sympathy.
For her. Daphne Dale of the Kempton Dales.
“Miss Dale, you seem quite intelligent despite your lack of finish and must know the only reason you are here, in this company, is because of Miss Timmons’s dear and simple affection for her former friends.”
Former friends?
“But if it were any other lady marrying the Duke of Preston, you would never have been invited.”
There was some truth there, Daphne would admit. She was a Dale at a Seldon wedding after all, but she doubted that Miss Nashe, with her cit origins and new money, had any notion of the Dale and Seldon relations.
Or therein lack of.
“Surely you can see how embarrassing your pursuit of Lord Henry is becoming—”
“My pursuit?”
“Yes, well, it can hardly be called a courtship when the man has no interest in you,” Miss Nashe declared. “I fear for what little credit you do possess, for there will be nothing left of it when you leave here, unattached and so very humbled.”
Daphne’s blood boiled. Oh, whyever had she promised Tabitha not to dump anything over Miss Nashe? Worse yet, she was so furious that she couldn’t find the perfect retort, the right words to send Miss Nashe packing.
Meanwhile, the other girl was gathering up her belongings, tossing them haphazardly into her expensive writing box and, worse, taking Daphne’s silence as agreement.
Mr. Muggins, hoping for a sympathetic handout, stirred, his gaze flitting from the heiress to the sideboard.
“Leaving so soon?” Daphne said, finally finding her tongue and her own pitchfork. “What of your multitude of admirers?”
Miss Nashe glanced up as if she’d all but forgotten Daphne. “Excuse me?”
“Your correspondence? Your admirers? Won’t they be watching their posts for some tiding from you?”
The girl smiled. “Why, Miss Dale, that is why I have a secretary.” Her smirk finished the sentence. And you clearly do not.
And when she left, Daphne noticed she had not taken the sheet of paper she had borrowed.
“Horrid mushroom,” Daphne said, glancing over at Mr. Muggins.
The dog seemed to agree. For certainly there had been no sausages from Miss Nashe.
“As if I am chasing Lord Henry!” Daphne shook her head. “Nor am I lingering after the man.”
Lingering after him! As if she might want his kiss. Which she did not. Not in the least.
She glanced over at Mr. Muggins. “I don’t,” she told the dog. “Not at all.”
And why would she? Lord Henry left her all a tangle. Furious one moment, and the next . . .
Well, Daphne didn’t want to consider what came next. Not with him.
For there was Dishforth—steady, reliable Dishforth. And he was ever so close. He’d never leave her at sixes and sevens. Never tower over her and accuse her of lingering.
He was all that was comfortable and sensible and right about a gentleman. And Lord Henry, for all his protestations and Miss Nashe’s claims of his desirability, was none of those things.
He is so much more.
That thought stopped Daphne cold. How could she even think such a thing? This was what came from not keeping to their vow to stay out of each other’s company. Well, no more, she promised herself.
Again.
She reached for her pen. This time she meant it. To that end, she snatched up the unused sheet of paper and wrote the only words that needed to be said.
Glancing over at Mr. Muggins, she said, “This is the solution to everything.” With that, she addressed it with the one name that could save her from the lonely depths of humiliation to which Miss Nashe had described with such glee.
Dishforth.
He would rescue her. Save her from Miss Nashe and her ilk.
And from Lord Henry . . . and the other sort of ruin he represented.
Hen’s attempt to pull Henry into another one of Zillah’s tempers came up short when they crossed paths with Benley in the foyer.
“Ah, my lady,” the butler intoned. “A word with you if I may. About the masquerade costumes.” He waved his hand over to the stack of trunks piled up in the corner.
“Excellent,” Hen declared, letting go of Henry and marching over to survey her newly arrived treasures.
Taking advantage of his sister’s diverted attention, Henry backed out of the foyer and beat a quick path toward the morning room, determined to investigate Miss Nashe’s handwriting.