And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,73

all his problems solved, started down the hall, this time without her hand on his sleeve.

Daphne found herself hurrying to catch up.

“Hmm,” he was musing, glancing over at her as she stormed back up to his side, most likely warned by the determined click of her boots. “If it isn’t Fieldgate, then who? Kipps?” He studied her for a moment, then shook his head. “No, never. He’s too impractical for you.”

Harrumph! “Must you continue this?”

“Decidedly,” he told her, as if he was surprised she would even protest. “This is my nephew’s house. Wouldn’t do to have some untoward scandal happening under his roof—”

She cocked a brow at him. Untoward scandal? As if a Seldon wasn’t quite capable of providing enough on dits to keep even the most jaded gossips busy for a month.

They were nearly to the ballroom, where a flurry of activity could be heard.

“Hen loves a good masquerade party,” he said, surveying the chaos before them. “Just like our mother did.”

“Lady Salsbury,” she said, before she realized it.

“Yes, she was Lady Salsbury before she married my father.” He grinned at her. “An aficionado of Debrett’s?”

Daphne flinched. For she had spent a good hour this morning—after her side trip to the music room—searching the pages in the dated volume she’d found on the shelf for any reference to the name Dishforth. That had been Tabitha’s idea.

But much to her chagrin, Daphne’s time had been spent reading the entire section devoted to the Seldon family.

Including Lady Salsbury.

“I believe Tabitha mentioned your mother,” Daphne said instead. “Your sister has given her some of your mother’s jewels—the ones she wore as the duchess.”

Lord Henry nodded. “Of course. Hen is thoughtful that way.”

“Yes, it was thoughtful of her to have all these costumes sent down from London.”

“Perhaps. Mercenary, more like it. She’s also had the ones here brought down and aired. She’s in quite a state to ensure the entire party is well garbed, since invitations have gone out to all the local gentry and there is an entire throng coming down from London.” He paused for a moment. “She wants the reports and gossip to speak only of a glowing success.”

“I doubt she will fail,” Daphne said diplomatically.

Lord Henry let out an impatient snort. “Will be a terrible crush is what it will be. Stand warned, you won’t know who you are dancing with, a local knave or a knight with no title.”

Ahead of them, there was a clamor of excited voices.

“Ah, the costumes,” he said, sounding less than enthused. “You are destined for a shepherdess or worse, I fear.”

“Not in the least,” Daphne told him. “Tabitha and Harriet promised to save me from such a fate.”

“Good news that. For you do recall that Miss Nashe beat you there, and we both know how ruthless she can be.”

Once again, Daphne had the sense of him riding to her rescue, like a Lancelot to slay the evil queen—a costume Miss Nashe ought to consider.

Lord Henry leaned over. “I deplore masquerade balls.”

“So do I,” she agreed without thinking. And there it was, another moment when she discovered something else in common with Lord Henry.

It gave her shivers, as if to tell her to pay attention to this man. But that was madness. For certainly her reasons—disliking old, mangy costumes and overdone Aphrodites—could hardly be the same reasons as his. And just to test her theory, she asked as casually as she might, “What are your reasons?”

“Graying matrons done up as Aphrodite and some old costume my sister thinks will be ‘divine’ on me but instead smells like a horse blanket.”

Daphne cringed. Oh, good heavens. Truly, how many times did she have to tell herself that she and Lord Henry held nothing in common, only to have that dratted man prove her wrong?

Or right.

She wasn’t too sure which it was.

Before he could say more, Lady Juniper came bustling out. “There you are, Henry. Good heavens, you’ll end up being the Nave of Hearts if you don’t go in there and claim a costume.” Suddenly she spied Daphne at his side and her brows rose slightly. It was clear on her face that while she might be the widow of Lord Juniper, she was a Seldon at heart.

Her? What the devil are you doing with a Dale?

But if anything, Lady Juniper held good manners in high regard, and she whisked the shock off her face to say in a polite, albeit a bit strained, fashion, “Yes, well, there you are, Miss Dale. The ladies are choosing