And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,87

house was haunted until Dove showed me how to get in here. Then I had my revenge. Oh, how they howled.” He chuckled at the memory.

Henry’s gaze flew up to Preston’s back. It was the first time he could ever remember the duke speaking of his long-lost brothers and sister.

Then again, it was miracle enough that Preston had reopened Owle Park, and now here he was happily reminiscing about the family he’d lost nearly overnight.

It was as Hen claimed; they owed a great debt for the healing touch Miss Timmons had brought to his life. Their lives as well, for Preston was now happily settling into his role as the duke and the head of the family.

Perhaps too much so.

“Henry, I still can’t believe you answered one of those letters,” Preston whispered, swiping his other arm in front of him to clear out the cobwebs.

“I’m rather at a loss to explain it myself,” he admitted, hoping the spiders had long since fled. Henry really loathed spiders.

“I wager we find Miss Walding in the library,” Preston said over his shoulder.

“Miss Walding?” Henry shook his head. “Unlikely.”

“Better than Miss Nashe.” Preston shuddered. “Last time I leave the guest list up to Hen.”

Henry didn’t bother to point out that the next guest list Preston had to review would have been compiled by his bride. Nor did he have time to, for Preston stopped and turned, put a warning finger to his lips, then pointed at a small slat in the wall. Shielding the candle with his hand to hide the light, Preston nodded at Henry to slide it open.

Taking a deep breath, and steeling himself against a major disappointment, Henry stepped up to the hole that had been hidden there.

In that moment, the entire guest list ran through his thoughts.

Lady Alicia, Lady Clare, Miss Nashe, Miss Walding, the Tempest twins, Miss Hathaway . . . right there, Henry stopped himself.

For in his mind’s eye, he imagined only one woman in the library.

No, not imagined. Desired. With a thunderous, loud rumble of desire that rushed through his veins like an avalanche.

Daphne Dale. With her willowy ways and impertinent manners. With her rosy, delectable lips, a mouth made for kissing, and a body that left a man with nothing but the most lascivious notions.

Why, that damned gown she was wearing tonight fit her like a glove and left him speechless. Yes, that was all he needed—a bride who would leave him in a perpetual state of dismay and desire.

No, his Miss Spooner was on the other side of this wall, and she would be a sensible, proper lady who would make an excellent partner with whom to live a perfectly prudent life.

That was what he wanted.

Until, that is, he peered through the opening.

And immediately reared back. “Good God, I’m ruined!” he gasped, albeit as quietly as he could.

He found himself with his back to the opposite wall, his chest pounding.

“I’m done for,” he whispered, his frantic gaze fluttering up to meet Preston’s.

Because he knew in his heart that this was exactly what he wanted. Wasn’t it?

“Who is it?” Preston asked in the same hushed tone.

Henry couldn’t say the name. Honestly, didn’t know if he could even speak.

He merely nodded toward the opening. Be my guest.

Preston slanted a quizzical glance at him and then took a look. He had much the same reaction and reeled back from the hole as if it were on fire. “We’re all done for!”

The duke reached over and closed the slat. Then he pointed that they should beat a hasty retreat, handing Henry the candle so he could lead the way.

If only it was that easy.

“Better you found out now,” the duke whispered. “At least you are braced for the meeting ahead.”

Meeting?

“What the devil do you mean?” Henry asked.

“When you go in there,” Preston nudged him forward.

“I’m not going in there.” Was Preston mad? That room was no longer the library. It was the Coliseum, and he was about to be cast into the ring for lions to devour.

No, he wasn’t going. Not willingly. Not unless Preston had a Roman legion to prod his every step.

He wasn’t about to go in there and make a bloody fool of himself. She loved another, not him.

She was expecting her most excellent gentleman . . . not him.

Then the totality of all of it tumbled into place.

Oh, good God, she was expecting Dishforth. Her most excellent gentleman was . . . him.

Henry felt one of Hen’s megrims coming on. Hen never suffered from the