And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,70
mine,” he told her in no uncertain terms. “I have no desire to marry some sow’s purse. Mark my words, Zillah, when I wed, I will marry as Preston is doing—when my heart is engaged and the lady is my perfect match.”
“That’s an overly romantic notion for the likes of you. Hardly sensible,” Lady Zillah noted.
“Perhaps I am only now realizing how much of a Seldon I truly am,” Henry told her.
And this time, Daphne grinned and knew she needed to slip away before she was discovered. Yet her escape was delayed when Lady Zillah spoke again.
“You say Miss Dale has another in her sights?” she prodded, obviously unwilling to let go of the subject.
“Yes, Aunt Zillah.”
“Harrumph! That didn’t stop Dahlia Dale.”
Daphne spent the rest of the morning in a bit of a tangle about what she’d overheard.
Lord Henry defending her? It seemed too much.
But more to the point, how could anything Lady Zillah had said about him be true?
Throughout nuncheon, served alfresco in the walled garden outside the orangery, she’d found herself stealing glances at him and trying to see him as his aunt had described him.
Nary a scandal to your name . . .
Too nice by half . . .
Respectable . . . kindhearted . . .
Oh, she’d give him the kindly part. She’d seen him at breakfast slipping a sausage to Mr. Muggins when he’d thought she hadn’t been looking.
And she’d done her best to reconcile the man at the ball, at the folly, the one who’d kissed her, the rake who’d teased her last night, with the gentleman before her—the one of property and means, who didn’t flaunt his good fortune.
Rather, spent his time caring for his family and was beloved by them in return.
She’d become so married to the notion that he was naught but a rake that she felt as if she was seeing him with new eyes—for here was a man with fine manners and a reserve to his behavior.
And true to his confession to Zillah, he went out of his way to avoid Miss Nashe’s blatant attempts to catch his eye.
Daphne had to admit—that point alone rather won her over. Not that she wanted to be won over by Lord Henry.
Still, she couldn’t forget what he had said earlier. I will marry as Preston is doing—when my heart is engaged . . .
A frisson of something oddly close to jealousy ran down her spine, leaving her wondering what it would be like to be Lord Henry’s perfect match.
The very thought left her insides quaking, a fluttering bit of breathless need racing through her. All at once.
His kiss . . . his touch . . .
Daphne felt herself being lured from her plans. Her very sensible plan.
Why wait for happenstance, or even a planned assignation? There was only one way to catch Mr. Dishforth, and that was in the act. Which was why she was here—hidden in the alcove in the foyer where the salver sat.
Waiting for him.
She was ever so determined to uncover his identity. Before . . . Before . . .
The determined clop of boots down the hall brought her gaze up. But when she parted the curtain slightly, to her chagrin it was Lord Henry coming.
The thump of his boots woke up Mr. Muggins from his dozy state, and the giant dog jumped up and barked.
“No, Mr. Muggins, no,” Daphne whispered, but the terrier was already halfway out of their hiding spot, barking happily, his tail waving exuberantly enough to shake the curtains back and forth.
“Ho, there, boy,” Lord Henry said in greeting, “whatever are you doing in there?”
Daphne shrunk back and closed her eyes.
“Up to no good, eh—” Lord Henry was saying, parting the curtain. “Miss Dale!”
Daphne’s breath stopped in her throat. Perhaps he’d just go away. When she opened one eye, he was still there. So much for her prayer that he’d evaporate into thin air.
He pulled the curtain back further. “What the devil are you doing hiding back there?”
She tried to say the words she usually did when faced with Lord Henry and his pompous demands—wretched, awful man—but instead found herself listening for that piece of music he’d played, remembering what he’d looked like when he’d pulled her into his arms and kissed her in the folly.
Thoroughly, passionately. Rakishly . . .
Oh, that would never do!
Dishforth, Daphne! she reminded herself. You must find sensible and reliable Mr. Dishforth.
“Miss Dale?” he said in a voice etched with concern.
Smoothing out her skirt and glancing up at him, feigning