And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(104)

Spitting into the fire, Sulley shook his head. “Well, this lady is going to find out the truth soon enough, that she’s been right deceived, and see if she doesn’t toss this fellow into the nearest ditch.”

There were nods about the room, including a solemn one from the innkeeper’s wife, who swung her ample hips easily through the crowded room as she refilled pitchers. “Right you are, Sulley,” she agreed as she topped off his cup.

Sulley grinned at the crowd and raised his tankard in triumph. Such a sight was a rare thing to see, considering Sulley had always been one of the most cantankerous coachmen on Manchester Road.

“Don’t you be taking on airs, John Sulley,” she scolded. “It is as fine a tale as I ever heard. And deservin’ of our help.”

“Help?” he sputtered, sending froth all over the front of his coat.

“Yes, help,” she said, casting a firm glare about the room. “We are going to help this gentleman win his lady love.”

“How can we do that, Mrs. Graham?” the lad asked, sitting up straight on his stool, eyes alight with the promise of mischief.

“By getting Mr. Dishforth to Gretna Green.”

“I think you’ve been drinking a bit too much of your own brew, missus,” Sulley told her. “There is no Mr. Dishforth.”

“There is now,” she said. And then she explained exactly what needed to be done.

Simple. Miss Dale thought Dishforth a simpleton.

Lord Henry crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in the seat of the hired carriage, glaring at the countryside whirling past.

To make matters worse, he had the sneaking suspicion she was utterly correct.

Dishforth was a simpleton. Which meant in actuality that he—as in Lord Henry Seldon—was a fool.

For what sort of man would find himself dashing toward Gretna Green with the woman he loved, but not, as one might suspect, with the intention of making a runaway marriage but to stop a man who didn’t exist from eloping with the figment of a stablehand’s overly fertile imagination?

The entire scenario was giving Lord Henry a severe megrim.

But obviously not one painful enough to get him to confess the truth.

For God’s sake, tell her everything, he could almost hear Preston’s stern voice saying.

Lord Henry blew out a breath. Oh, yes, that would be sensible. Miss Dale, you are chasing after a phantom. I know this because I am your beloved Dishforth. I have led you on this merry, ruinous adventure in hopes of your coming to your senses and realizing that I am the only man for you.

She’d kick him out of the carriage. Most likely on a blind corner. With some sharp object imbedded in his back—if she was feeling merciful.

Worse, he’d end up like Kendrick Seldon.

Henry flinched and then shuddered.

However had he gotten so mired into this tangle?

He glanced across the carriage to where Daphne sat, serene and calm, hands folded in her lap and eyes bright as she looked out the window.

She was the epitome of beguiling—one fair curl peeking out from beneath her bonnet, fluttering slightly in the breeze, a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and those lush pink lips of hers, the curve of which tempted a man to haul her close and kiss her senseless.

Well, tempted him, at the very least. Tempted him more than he cared to admit.

He knew what the seventh duke would tell him to do.

Kiss her, then follow it with a rousing session of tupping. That solves any number of difficulties with the female persuasion. A good tupping always does.

Henry would argue that it had been kissing that had gotten him into this mess.

But who could blame him? She possessed the wiles of a courtesan and the eyes of a siren. One look, one glance and she’d entangled him, with no hope of escape.

At least not alive. He grimaced again.

“Lord Henry, is something on your mind?” she asked, peering up at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet.

Here it is . . . your chance. Screw up your courage, man, and tell her.

But while he was a Seldon through and through—for wasn’t he leading her to complete ruin with every passing mile?—the Seldons had one weakness.

They were horrible at confessing the truth. Especially when it came to love. His only hope was that she would grow weary of this chase and call it off. Disavow Dishforth. And then the field would be clear for him to . . .

Him to do what?

Henry had no idea. But he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. For truly, how far would Miss Dale go for such a pompous nit as Dishforth?