And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,82

he faltered.

Miss Dale smirked. “Your cravat is tied in a waterfall, is it not?”

He glanced down at himself. “I suppose it is. Loftus, my valet, rather insisted I—”

“Yes, I suppose so. He must have grown tired of your usual Mailcoach.”

“I allowed it because I truly didn’t think anyone would notice,” he demurred, trying to fob her off. How the devil had she pulled the rug out from beneath him?

But Miss Dale wasn’t done with her perusal. “And your boots. They have extra polish. Perhaps His Grace’s valet did them—for that gloss makes you look quite the Corinthian.”

Henry looked down at his boots as if this was the first he’d noticed them. He’d actually asked Loftus to redo them, which had nearly put his proud valet to tears. “He must have convinced Preston’s valet to share his infamous concoction for boot black.”

“Or he pinched it,” she teased.

“Loftus? He’d quit in shame first!” Henry avowed.

She laughed merrily, and after a few moments, so did Henry.

“If I were a wagering sort,” she mused, “I would say you have done all this in preparation for an assignation tonight.”

Henry came to a blinding halt. “That is utterly ridiculous,” he told her. “Whatever do they teach young ladies in these Bath schools?”

“I wouldn’t know. You will have to ask Miss Nashe—if that is who you are meeting.”

“I’d never—” At least he hoped it wasn’t Miss Nashe. Good God, if it was, he’d be on the first ship out of the London pool.

No matter its destination.

Miss Dale eyed him up and down again. “Yes, there is no doubt in my mind, you are angling to catch some lady’s eye tonight.”

Angling? If anyone was angling . . . “One could say the same of you.” His hands waved at her hair and her gown. “What with all this. Whomever are you fishing for, Miss Dale? Are we all to discover the identity of your most excellent gentleman tonight?”

Touché. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open to protest, but just as quickly snapped shut.

However, Henry’s triumph—and his resolve—were short-lived, for as they continued on down the gallery, Miss Dale came to a blinding halt. “Who is that?” She pointed up at the painting towering on the wall.

“My grandfather,” he told her after taking a closer look. “Actually, I was named after him.”

She drew closer and read the plate on the bottom of the frame. “Henry George Seldon, the seventh Duke of Preston. Hmmm. You favor him,” she said, looking at his grandsire and then at him.

Henry took a step back and shuddered. “I should hope not.”

“What do you mean?”

“If family rumors are to be believed, he was a terrible scoundrel. Wild Hal, he was known as,” Henry said, turning from the portrait and the mocking, rakish gaze of the seventh duke.

“Truly? A Seldon who was a scoundrel? Why, I never,” she teased, that light in her eyes glowing with impish delight. As she stepped back to get a better look at the imposing portrait, her skirt brushed against his thigh, reminding him how much she enticed him.

Suggesting that he had more in common with his forebear than he’d ever realized. That was all it took, that ever-so-brief moment, a glance at her, and he was lost.

For there was in her smile and nod of approval evidence that she saw in him that same enticing light that had made the previous Henry Seldon the most notorious courtier of Queen Anne’s court.

Some even said he’d dallied with the old queen herself. Then again, hadn’t Owle Park come into the family about then? And wasn’t Lady Essex encamped in the room known as “The Queen’s Chamber”?

“I am hardly in the same league,” he protested aloud.

Miss Dale shot him a wide-eyed glance, a bit startled by his outburst. After another glance at the seventh duke, she grinned. “In my opinion, the resemblance is uncanny.”

Her words held all the notes of a suggestion. Admiration, even.

But mostly, they held the one thing Henry couldn’t resist. Not from her.

A dare.

Henry turned to her and closed the gap between them. He had every intention of gathering her up in his arms and running away with this tempting miss, but Lord Henry Seldon had yet to master one very important part of being a rake: timing.

“Finally! Someone to help me find the dining room,” came Zillah’s booming voice from behind him. “Confounded place gets me lost every time.”

Then out from behind Henry stepped Miss Dale.

And from the look on his great-aunt’s face, Henry sent up a prayer