And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(119)

It was then that the man caught the duke’s meaning.

But Preston wanted to make sure the man understood. “Marry my uncle quickly and quietly before he ruins Miss Dale.” They all took another glance up at the bride and groom.

“Yet again,” Roxley added with a grin.





Epilogue





The Elephant and Whistle Inn

The Manchester and Glasgow Road

Fifteen years later

“Henry, I believe we stayed at this inn,” Lady Henry Seldon commented as she climbed out of their carriage, looking around the yard. “Indeed, I am positive.” She smiled brightly at her husband, enchanted by the notion.

“Ever the romantic, my dearest Daphne,” Lord Henry said, kissing her hand and then her lips. How was it he could never, even after all these years, have enough of her, his fair wife. Not even five children—four boys and one girl—had changed her in his eyes. They’d only made her more beautiful.

Her blue eyes sparkled as she recognized the lascivious light in his own gaze. She flitted a glance to where their poor beleaguered nanny was guiding the children inside for the luncheon, then back to her husband. “Tonight,” she whispered.

There had been many such nights since their madcap wedding. After Preston had finally coerced the vicar into marrying them, there had been the scene with Crispin and Damaris.

At first, the viscount had been incredulous at Roxley’s demands, even when the earl had produced the signed and witnessed Special License, as well as the trembling vicar to attest to the validity of the marriage. But after opening Daphne’s door and finding a grinning Henry Seldon in her bedroom, that had been all the evidence Crispin Dale had needed to wash his hands of his sullied cousin.

Oh, their marriage had caused more than just a dustup; even Daphne’s parents had refused to acknowledge the newlyweds. Hen wouldn’t speak to either of them for months, not until they’d announced that Daphne was increasing. That also managed to ease the tensions with the Dales—for being a prolific lot, the Dales adored children. Lots of them.

Daphne’s parents were the first to send their congratulations.

And Zillah? Well, Zillah had been the most shocking.

For they hadn’t heard a word from her in over a year, until the gossip made the rounds that a little Seldon would be making his or her debut in the spring. And then Zillah had arrived, knitting in hand, and with all her trunks.

For while the Dales were prolific, the Seldons regarded babies as something close to the second coming. And Zillah was going to be there when this newest Seldon arrived.

Then Zillah had stayed, she and Daphne finding much in common in their love of the growing brood. The Seldon relic had lived happily with them at Stowting Mote until just this past winter, when the old girl had finally gone in her sleep, a quiet, peaceful ending to a long and scandalous life.

The children missed the old girl and the hours they’d spent with her by the piano listening to her play.

That was the reason for this journey north. Zillah had left them a collection of houses, this last one in Scotland, of all places.

“I had no idea she had so much property,” Henry had said, shaking his head when the solicitor had brought her will to the house. Six in all. One for each of their children, and a spare one in Scotland that they’d decided to go visit.

“Shall we?” Daphne asked, tugging his thoughts back to the present.

“Yes, of course,” Henry said. Taking her hand in his, they walked into the public room, only to find the entire place packed, nearly every bench and stool filled.

Henry had never seen an inn so crowded.

“Mama, it’s him! It’s—” young Harriet whispered as she caught her mother’s hand and pulled her forward.

The boys shushed their sister and stopped her rush to tattle, but now the cat was out of the bag.

“Who, Harry?” Henry asked, brushing his hand over his daughter’s fair head. “Who is it?”

The children shared a guilty glance until Christopher, the eldest, piped up. “Mr. Dishforth.”

“Wha-a—at?” Henry and Daphne said at once.

Harriet pointed to a spot near the fireplace where an old man sat hunched on a stool, the entire room fixed on his every word.

“How can this—” Henry began, but all around them, the crowd added their own “Ssshh!” to stop his words, while Daphne gaped in wonder.

“So I stole my dearest Adelaide away from the villainous nobleman who had locked her away, and we rode north—” the old man was saying.