And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,77
all her secrets and her failings.
Primarily that she was a terrible liar.
So she went back to her choice of gowns, for she was at her wit’s end as to which one to wear for her assignation with Mr. Dishforth. She picked up one, then another, discarded them both and picked up a third. Well, the green muslin would just have to do. She was about to shrug out of the blue silk she was wearing when she found that her friends were not finished with her.
“Daphne, whatever is the matter with you?” Harriet said, rising to her feet and taking the green muslin out of her grasp. “That is the sixth gown you’ve tried on tonight.”
“I always change my mind,” Daphne protested, trying to retrieve the dress, but Harriet held it out of reach and then passed it along to Tabitha, who put it behind her back.
“You change your gown three times before dinner,” Harriet pointed out. “Never six.”
“I just want to look perfect tonight,” Daphne told them.
“What is so important about tonight?” Tabitha repeated, holding the muslin just out of reach, a tempting prize being offered for an honest answer.
Which Daphne was not about to concede. “Nothing. It is just that . . .” She stammered for a moment, then found her lie. “Miss Nashe was going on and on about her gown for this evening, and I would so like to outshine her—”
She had told them what the heiress had said over breakfast, so perhaps . . .
“This has nothing to do with Miss Nashe,” Tabitha said, seeing right through the ruse. “Besides, I think the score between you and Miss Nashe is quite even now.”
“Oh, goodness,” Harriet exclaimed. “It’s Mr. Dishforth, isn’t it?” Then her friend’s eyes widened. “You’ve discovered who he is, haven’t you?”
While she had hoped to keep her meeting a secret—after the disaster that was the engagement ball—she realized she very much needed their help this one last time.
“Nearly,” Daphne confessed.
Henry, who was never late for anything in his life, was late yet again.
Hen was going to have his hide on a platter for such a lapse—or call for a surgeon from London to have him gone over.
At least he had a partial excuse for his tardiness, he mused as he stood at the crossways of two long halls.
Demmed if he could find his way through the ambling maze of passages and wings that made up Owle Park. Unfortunately, this had been Preston’s childhood home, not his.
Getting lost, his sister would expect, but she’d have been shocked to discover the real reason behind his belated arrival: Henry had had Loftus replace not only his cravat—twice—but his boots and his coat as well. The poor valet had finally given up on his usually affable employer, throwing his hands in the air and muttering something about the country air having gone to his lordship’s head.
So he was a bit distracted. Why wouldn’t he be, when tonight his entire life would change?
We must meet. Tonight. In the library. After dinner. ~S
Yet he’d been taken aback as he’d read the sparse lines, sensing an urgency behind them.
On one hand was Miss Spooner, a lady, not just a week ago, he had welcomed meeting.
That is, until he’d crossed paths with Miss Daphne Dale.
Now? Well, he didn’t know what to think. Did he want to be Miss Spooner’s sensible gentleman, a role he’d always found agreeable, or did he want to be the rake he saw reflected in Miss Dale’s engaging glances?
Miss Dale, indeed! What an impossible notion.
No, no, he needed to discover who Miss Spooner might be and move cautiously forward from there. For he had told Zillah the truth: he would not marry just to be married. Not for money, or business, or status.
He’d follow his heart. A rather insensible notion for a man who prided himself on being practical. And he had the very impractical Miss Dale to thank for this change of heart.
That didn’t mean he knew what to do next. He’d spent a good part of the afternoon pacing circles around the fish pond wondering what the devil he was going to say to the chit.
Especially when every time he imagined entering the library and it was none other than Miss Dale who turned around to greet him.
Demmit, whatever would he do then? For he was already half in love with her.
Oh, why try to fool himself. There were no halves about it.