And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(120)
Henry was about to get up and protest when he spied the mischievous light in Daphne’s eyes and so he followed her lead and listened to the tale of Abernathy Dishforth and his dearest Adelaide. The story vaguely resembled their mad-cap dash, for this one contained a host of villains: highwaymen, broken wheels, their carriage nearly tumbling down a rocky ravine.
The crowd around them listened avidly, cheering when the couple made it to Gretna Green, and there was hardly a dry eye in the house as Mr. Dishforth related Adelaide’s sad passing of late.
Henry leaned forward and whispered in Daphne’s ear, “This is the devil who’s been dunning me all these years.”
For indeed, several times a year, bills from inns and public houses along Manchester Road would arrive addressed to Lord Henry Seldon for the expense and care of one Abernathy Dishforth.
Henry and Daphne had long suspected that someone, a con artist of sorts, had heard their story all those years ago and occasionally put the tale to good use. Now it seemed they’d found the fellow.
“Finally I can put an end to this gull,” Henry said.
“Leave him be,” Daphne replied, putting a staying hand on his sleeve. “I rather like that our story is told. Look around—who doesn’t love a happy ending?”
And indeed, people were smiling and laughing, and a few were dashing aside tears.
Who was Henry to ruin such a tale?
“Papa?” Harriet asked as they returned to their carriage. “Was that really Mr. Dishforth?”
“I daresay we’ll find out when they charge us twice,” Lord Henry complained.
Daphne laughed. “I think it must be, Harriet. But however did you find out about Mr. Dishforth?”
“Last Christmas. When we went to visit Lady Roxley at Foxgrove,” she said, yawning and ready for her afternoon nap. “She knows all about him. Have you heard of him as well?”
“Aye, sweetling. He used to write me letters.”
Harriet’s eyes grew wide. “Did you write him back?”
Daphne leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Yes, I quite fancied him once. But don’t tell your father.”
Harriet Hathaway has only one wish when it comes to love: to marry the Earl of Roxley. But wishing for his heart and keeping it, Harriet will soon learn, takes more than casting up a whispered desire to earn the perfect happily ever after.
Continue reading for a sneak peek
at the next book
in Elizabeth Boyle’s
Rhymes With Love series
IF WISHES WERE EARLS
Coming soon from Avon Books
Dear Reader,
Just because Lord Henry and Daphne departed early from the house party at Owle Park doesn’t mean the festivities ended. The guests remained firmly entrenched (and wouldn’t you, with such a scandal brewing all around?), so of course the masquerade ball continued as planned, much to the delight of Harriet, who had her own plans for the night. For if Daphne and Tabitha could have their happily ever afters, Harriet was determined to gain hers as well . . .
The Masquerade Ball
Owle Park
“Oh, there you are, Harry. I’m almost afraid to ask what the devil you are doing—”
Harriet Hathaway looked up from her quiet spot on the patio to find the Earl of Roxley standing in the open doorway.
Some hero! Oh, he might look like Lancelot, what with his elbow-length chain mail glittering in the light, his dark blue surcoat and leather breast plate trimmed with gold that seemed to accent both his height and breadth, but he’d taken his bloody time showing up to rescue her. She’d had a devil of a time slipping out so that only he noticed. And even then it had taken him a good half hour to come find her.
“Oh, Roxley, is that you?” she feigned. “I hardly recognized you.”
“Wish I could say the same about you,” he said, his brow furrowed as he examined her from head to toe. “I’ve been sent by my aunt, oh, the Queen of the Nile, to determine if you are awaiting Caesar or Marc Antony.”
She’d spent most of the night dancing with rogues and unsuitable partis waiting for him to intervene and now he had, only he hadn’t really . . . it had been his aunt’s doing.
Yet Harriet wasn’t one to wallow in the details. For here he was, and this was her chance.
“Caesar or Marc Antony, you ask? Neither,” she told him. “I find both quite boring.”