And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,93

their nanny about one of Dishforth’s alleged crimes. It had become one of those oft-repeated sayings between the three of them.

What a horribly unfeeling creature Mr. Dishforth can be. Ever so unreliable.

“That’s it!” Henry said. Raising his glass, he added, “To Dishforth, may he prove himself such a horribly unfeeling creature that she’ll have nothing to do with him.”

Daphne hurried up the stairs and down the first hall she came to, only to discover she was on the wrong floor, and in the wrong wing.

Glancing around, she realized she was standing in front of the music room, and from inside came a crash of the keys.

She whirled around and found Lady Zillah making a beeline for her. The lady seemed to have lost most of her infirmities; fiery determination marked her every step.

“You there!” the lady said, shaking a bony finger at her.

There was no hope of fleeing now.

Lady Zillah came to a stop before her and took in her disheveled appearance with a quick glance and a very loud snort. “Bah! Get in here, Miss Dale. I will have a word with you.”

Daphne found herself rooted in place, for inside the music room was a large fireplace, and even though it was August, there was a good blaze roaring away.

“Don’t keep me waiting!” Lady Zillah chided as she turned back toward the piano. “Any niece of Damaris Dale would have better manners than that.”

She would if she wasn’t so uncertain whether or not the crone before her wasn’t about to pop her in the fireplace.

But Daphne was also Damaris’s niece, so with her head held high, albeit missing hairpins, she strode into the music room as if this was to be merely a friendly chat.

Lady Zillah sat with her back ramrod straight, and she took another look at Daphne before she began with the honesty for which she was famous.

“If you think that rapscallion nephew of mine will marry you even now after he’s obviously tumbled you—”

“My lady!” Daphne burst out.

“Was it him, or wasn’t it?” Lady Zillah demanded. When Daphne refused to answer, Lady Zillah took her silence as confirmation.

The interview went rather downhill from there, and ended with Lady Zillah stalking out of the music room in high dudgeons.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Chapter 13

Come with me, Miss Spooner. Run away and be my bride. I shall await your answer at the inn in the village. My coach and my heart await you.

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner

Early the next morning, with Dishforth’s latest note tucked into her pocket, Daphne stole down the stairs. The entire house was quiet, save for Mr. Muggins, who continued to dog her every step.

Literally.

She turned to the Irish terrier and scratched his head. “Sit here, Mr. Muggins. And wait for Tabitha.”

And then she closed the front door behind her and went down the drive, taking a deep breath and committing herself to the plan before her.

The one outlined in Dishforth’s note, the one she’d found waiting for her, having been slipped under her door during the night. So he had discovered her identity after all.

Yet it was his words that took her breath away.

He loved her still, despite their missed chances, and hoped she’d understand.

Daphne had read those lines twice. Perhaps three times. He loved her. Still.

And as she read the rest of his letter, she knew exactly what she had to do.

Yet with each step she took down the long, winding drive, she wondered if this was the wisest course.

Whatever would her family say?

Daphne took only one glance over her shoulder back at Owle Park and then vowed not to look again.

Whatever her doubts about Dishforth, she had no such qualms or doubts now of his intentions toward her. He wanted to marry her.

She got to the gate and shifted her traveling valise from one hand to another as she crossed under the imposing stone arch, with its colonnaded towers on either side.

“Giving up?”

Daphne paused, for she knew that voice as well as she knew the owner’s kiss.

Lord Henry.

There was a crunch of gravel behind her, and she turned to find the rogue pushing off the base of the column, where he’d apparently been lounging about.

Morning had barely arrived, yet here he was, with his coat flung open, no cravat, his shirt open in a V at the neck and his waistcoat undone. Dusty breeches and scuffed boots showed the wear of a cross-country trek, while his usually properly combed mane of hair was tied