And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake - By Elizabeth Boyle Page 0,94

back in merely a simple queue.

She’d never seen him so undone. So entirely at ease. So perfectly handsome.

Had he been up all night? she wondered. Not that she had much time to consider it as he came forward much as he had last night—a lion stalking through his territory, eyeing her as one might easy prey—until he stood before her, blocking her escape. “I asked if you were giving up. Going home, perhaps?”

Daphne tried to get an answer out, but all that she could manage was a stammering “Yes . . . no . . . eventually.” And then she shifted her valise again and went around him.

Persistent rake that he was, he followed and kept up with her easily. “If that is the case, I could call for a carriage.”

She shook her head. “No thank you, my lord.” If she thought that was enough to deter the man, Lord Henry continued to match her pace.

For a while they walked in silence, Daphne continuing determinedly along, Lord Henry doggedly following her.

He rather reminded her of Mr. Muggins.

Finally, tired of this ruse, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Whatever are you doing, loitering after me? Haven’t you something more important to attend to?”

He shook his head. “No, not in the least. Found myself awake early this morning. Couldn’t sleep, so I decided to come down here and watch the sun rise.”

Daphne glanced over her shoulder. “And so it has, so now shouldn’t you be seeing to your breakfast?”

He grinned at her. “Actually, it didn’t show its bright face until you arrived.”

“Pish!” she replied. “Really, Lord Henry? Comparing my arrival to the sun?” She shuddered and shifted her valise again, but she found it removed from her grasp and the gentleman carrying it for her. He didn’t say a word, but the stubborn set of his jaw precluded any opposition to his assistance.

“It is a long way to London,” he noted, nodding up the empty road before them. “I can still call for a carriage.”

“I’m only going to the village.”

“There is no mail coach through the village.”

“I have a ride.”

“You do?”

She nodded.

“Who?”

Daphne huffed an impatient breath. If that was the way he wanted to do this . . . “None of your business.”

“Miss Dale, are you eloping?”

This time she merely shook her head, as she did when Pansy brought her the wrong gown. And she kept walking.

With the wretched lout stalking along beside her.

“Let me see, sneaking off from a house party at an early hour,” he mused. “No need for a coach, mail or otherwise. And a small valise”—he gave it a heft, as if weighing it—“with the necessities for a three-day journey. Hmmm, then I can only assume you are indeed eloping.”

“Oh, bother. Yes. I am.”

“Hardly proper,” he told her.

“But necessary,” she shot back.

“Necessary?”

“As if you have to ask,” she said. She leaned over to retrieve her valise, but he held it out of her reach. Thwarted, but refusing to give up, Daphne continued on.

Lord Henry followed. “Why is this elopement suddenly so necessary?”

She came to a grinding halt, hands fisting to her hips. “Since you ask, any moment now Cousin Crispin and an entire host of Dales will arrive here demanding my removal, and I will be whisked away in shame.”

“Shame?”

“Utter ruin,” she corrected. “Then there will be a family conclave and I will be married off to the first Dale they can find to take me in my tarnished state.”

“Tarnished?” He looked her up and down as if searching for a blemish.

She gave him a withering glance.

To which he smiled. “Never tarnished, Miss Dale. Not to me. To me, you shine brightly.”

“Harrumph!” And this time she managed to regain the possession of her valise, marching onward toward a fate of her own making. Though she knew the necessity of making a good show of it.

“Go away!” she told him, like one might a stray dog.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeated. “As a gentleman—”

“A gentleman! Bah!”

“A man of honor?”

“Piffle!”

He came around in front of her, once again blocking her escape. “What about a fellow in good standing—”

“Please, Lord Henry,” she begged, pointing down the road in the direction from which they’d come, “go back to Owle Park, where you belong. To your life. Leave me to mine. Please.”

“No,” he repeated stubbornly. “Not until I know you’re safe.” He paused for a moment, and when she glared at him, he continued, “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something untoward happened to you. And there it is. You might not think me