And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,85
of the walls, interrupted by several large paintings and a grand fireplace. French doors let out into the rose gardens. There was a map desk in the middle of the room, a collection of settees and a grand chair near the fireplace, and a few chairs and stools scattered in the corners, the sort that encouraged settling in for a cozy read. Thick carpets and green velvet curtains gave the large, rambling room a sense of studious decorum.
But at night, the corners were cast in shadows, and the room held an intimate, cozy appeal, the sort a Seldon could appreciate.
Well, she certainly hadn’t invited Mr. Dishforth here for that.
Smoothing out her skirt and doing her utmost to compose her nerves, Daphne tried to gauge the best place to sit and wait—a spot from which she would be seen at best advantage. But no matter where she tried—lolling on the settee, modestly composed on a straight-backed chair or feigning a bluestocking’s interest in some old, dusty tome—she felt only one thing: utterly foolish.
Mr. Muggins suffered from no such nerves. He plopped down on the rug before the hearth and let out a contented sigh.
Since she couldn’t very well follow his example, Daphne decided a dignified pose might be the best. Until, that is, she looked up at the portrait she’d found herself standing beneath.
“You!” she gasped, gaping accusatorially at the face looking down at her.
Lord Henry. Well, not her Lord Henry.
Not that he was hers, per se. But . . .
Oh, bother, just stop, Daphne, she chided herself. How was it that scoundrel always left her so tangled up?
“I don’t care what he says,” she told the painting of Henry Seldon, the seventh Duke of Preston, “the resemblance between the two of you is uncanny.”
The seventh duke had no reply other than that mischievous smile that could not be contained in oil and paint, or dimmed with age. As she gazed up at the rogue, she had the feeling that even now, His Grace was looking down at her from his gilt-framed prison and taking a lascivious delight in imagining her clad only in her chemise.
Daphne whirled around and put her back to the painting. “You devil!” she scolded over her shoulder.
Oh, good heavens, what was wrong with her? She was going mad if she was talking to paintings.
Stealing a glance over her shoulder, she found the duke still grinning at her, but all she saw was Lord Henry’s face—as he’d held her tonight in the shadowed hallway and looked to be about to tell her something.
No, rather, show her something.
Well, the seventh duke would know.
“Your grandson hasn’t fallen so far from the tree,” she told the old duke. “He nearly ravished me in the hallway earlier.”
Nearly.
But he hadn’t. And what the devil had she been doing letting herself fall into his arms?
If she’d had any sense, she would have found her footing far more quickly and extracted herself from his grasp without a moment’s delay.
But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d lingered.
Yes, lingered. Just as he’d accused her before.
Dangerously waiting to see if Lord Henry would prove his heritage and make good his Seldon name.
By kissing her.
Daphne’s insides quaked just thinking about that moment. His lips so close to hers, her breasts pressed to his solid chest, his arms coiled around her—holding her fast.
Lord Henry had left her feeling completely undone. As if her hairpins had all fallen out, her gown had been stripped away and she’d been his for the ravishing.
“He may argue to the contrary, but he is no different than you,” she accused. “Well, I suppose you would have finished the task.” Daphne paced before the painting, stealing glances up at the old duke, infamous for his affairs.
Which had been left out of his lengthy description in Debrett’s.
Of course they didn’t put such things in Debrett’s. If they started including all the noblemen’s mistresses and affairs, well, there wouldn’t be enough paper in England to chronicle all that.
Was that why Lord Henry hadn’t kissed her? He was saving himself for another?
“Well, he was rather done up tonight,” she told the duke. “Handsomely so.” She paused. “As if he had an assignation.”
Daphne, well used to filling in lines for others, could well imagine what the duke might say.
Ah, you are correct, my lovely little delight. The perfect cravat. The shine to the boots. The light in his eye. No, our Henry hasn’t fallen too far from the Seldon tree. When he didn’t kiss you, I’d quite feared—