And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(107)

After all, he was a Seldon and allowed a few scandals.

And her? Well, she’d be ruined and shuttled off to the farthest reaches a Dale could travel.

Yet when Daphne looked at Lord Henry, or caught him studying her—on those rare moments when he thought she wouldn’t catch him—she felt, oh, how she wondered how he could remain silent.

If only . . . if only . . . he’d kiss her again.

Then she’d be able to know . . . she was sure of that.

But he hadn’t tried. Not once in these past few days.

Apparently such mischief was only for the confines of Owle Park.

She glanced down the now empty road and sighed. At least they had the basket the innkeeper’s wife had packed for them this morning—even though they hadn’t ordered one. The thoughtful lady had insisted, saying that it was impossible to know what was ahead but anything could be faced better with a full stomach.

So Daphne had accepted the proffered basket gratefully.

Looking back, one might suspect the lady had known what was in store for them.

But how could she have known? Ridiculous, romantic notion, really.

As if the entire Manchester-to-Glasgow road was conspiring for them to fall in love.

Fall in love. Too late, she would have told them all.

Glancing over at Lord Henry, where he was bent beside a hedge examining something—she frowned, for romance was in very short supply on this misguided and unwitting elopement.

But when he turned around, she realized how wrong she was. In his hands, Lord Henry held a fistful of forget-me-nots.

He walked over to her—well, a Seldon never just walked, they had this way of striding about as if the very soil beneath their boots was theirs to command.

He handed the flowers over without so much as a word, and she took them.

Now he’s going to confess, she thought, biting her bottom lip in anticipation. Now he will finally tell me.

And she dared to look up.

The moment their gazes met, it was so magical—wasn’t it to him?—that it left her trembling. Her heart hammered, her throat went dry, her every limb was a-shiver, as if calling out to him to sweep her into his eager grasp.

But once again, Daphne found herself disappointed.

“Yes, well,” he began, before he turned from her, took up the basket and headed over to the low stone wall by the side of the road. He nodded toward the flowers clenched in her hand. “Perhaps those will last until we reach Gretna. They can be your wedding bouquet when you find Dishforth.”

Like the music sheet back at Owle Park, the forget-me-nots very nearly ended up being tossed at a Seldon’s head.

Very nearly.

Since Lord Henry had made off with the basket, she had no choice but to follow. He’d climbed over the stile and plunked down in a spot under the large oak and was plundering the basket like a pirate by the time she joined him.

“Ah, tarts!” he exclaimed as if he’d just found a cache of Spanish doubloons.

Tarts. The rogue. He knew those were enough to lure her closer. Spread about was a tin—tea, most likely—along with apples, a wedge of cheese and a small round loaf of bread.

“Come sit,” he bid her. “The view is most excellent.”

It was. The Cumbrian countryside rolled all around them, with a scattering of green trees here and there, while the lush green meadows carpeted the valley before them.

“He’s a fool, you know,” Lord Henry told her as she sat down. “To have eloped with the wrong woman.” He handed her a tart.

As she broke it into pieces, she mused that Dishforth wasn’t the only fool.

“He was deceived,” she replied. “Poor Dishforth is not a worldly sort.” She smiled fondly into the distance, as if dreaming of her simple, foolish lover. When she glanced back, she found Lord Henry’s brow furrowed.

“He’s what?”

“Not very worldly, not whatsoever,” she told him most emphatically, liking the way her words made his eye twitch ever-so-slightly with indignation whenever she praised Dishforth’s less than stellar qualities. “He’s a sensible man, but he’s also overly romantic, which, I suspect, is why he was so susceptible to this Jezebel who has him in her clutches.” She clucked her tongue at the injustice of it all. “However, I don’t fault him for it.”

“You don’t?” Lord Henry looked up from the apple he was eating.

“No, not in the least.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out a letter. “Just listen to this—” Daphne read the lines from a poem inscribed there.