And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(11)

In that so-very-magical moment they would know. Just know they had found their perfect partner.

Dishforth would be dressed elegantly, but sensibly. No grand waterfall or scads of lace, just a well-cut Weston coat, his sterling white cravat done in a simple, but precise, Mailcoach, and he’d be handsome. Perhaps even as handsome as Preston.

Oh, she’d concede that much about a Seldon. Preston was a good-looking devil. But all the men in his family were reputed to be too well put together by any measure.

Daphne sighed. Still, if Mr. Dishforth was even half as grand . . .

Then she glanced up, telling herself it was all naught but a ridiculous, fanciful dream.

And it was just that, a silly fancy, until she looked across the ballroom and it happened exactly as she thought it ought.

“Ho, there,” the Earl of Roxley called out as Henry tried to slip unobtrusively into the ballroom. He usually arrived promptly at social gatherings, but tonight, Henry was late. And to Preston’s engagement ball, no less.

Hen was going to be furious with him.

Nor was the earl making his entrance any less discreet.

“Ah, hello, Roxley,” Henry said. He wasn’t overly fond of Preston’s gadfly friend, for he could never get a full measure of the man. Yet here he was—as if they had been boon companions since they were in short pants. Of course, with Preston about to be married, the earl was probably looking for a new comrade-in-arms, as it were, to join him in his capering about Society.

Henry shuddered at the thought of such foolishness and was about to make his excuses when he did a double take at the earl.

A man about Town.

Good heavens, Roxley was just the man to help him, for the earl was a regular font of knowledge when it came to the ton, especially as to the ladies.

More to the point, finding one.

So Henry brightened a bit. It was, after all, Roxley and Preston who had placed that demmed ad in the first place; now Roxley could help him finish the matter. Ironic and fitting.

“How nice to see you, old man,” Henry said, trying to smile.

“Of course,” the earl replied, slapping Henry on the back as if that was their usual form of greeting. “Have I missed anything?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Henry told him. “I just arrived.”

“You?” Roxley declared, taking a second long look at Henry. “Rather out of character, my good man.”

Truer words. There was a lot about Henry that was out of character of late. Because of her. Miss Spooner.

The earl continued. “Preston mentioned you’d been skulking about recently. Asked me to keep an eye on you.”

“Me?” Henry shook his head. “I never skulk.”

“So I told Preston,” Roxley avowed. “But here you are, prowling about the edges of your own ballroom. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were looking for someone.”

Oh, good God! Was it that obvious? Still, Henry tried to brazen it out. “Whyever would you say such a thing?”

And then Roxley—who usually appeared half-seas over and made little to no sense—became all too sharp-eyed, rather like that harridan aunt of his, Lady Essex. “Why because you’ve checked the door three times in as many minutes, and you’ve surveyed the dance floor twice. Who is she?”

“No one,” Henry tried. “You must be—”

“My dear man, don’t try and flummox me. I make my living telling bouncers. Who is she?” And then he stood there, poised and ready for Henry’s confession.

Henry pressed his lips together, for certainly he hadn’t told a living soul what he’d done—answering that letter and engaging in a correspondence with some ridiculously named chit, Miss Spooner. At least Henry hoped that wasn’t her real name.

Nor did he want to make a confession to the likes of Roxley. Yet something was different about the earl tonight. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t arrived in a cloud of brandy, and the man’s eyes were sharp and clear.

“I . . . that is . . .” Henry began.

Roxley held up a hand to stave him off. “Will have to wait. There’s my aunt. In full sail with Lady Jersey in her wake.” He shuddered. “I’m doomed if that pair catches me.” He edged into the alcove behind them, then opened the door to the gardens just wide enough to slip out. “Good luck with your search. I fear I must step out for the time being.” He went to leave but then turned around and added, “A word of advice—whatever it is you were about to confide, don’t tell your sister.” He nodded across the way and then was gone.