And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(121)

“They wouldn’t find you so,” he said, stepping down onto the patio and looking over her shoulder at the gardens beyond. “You’ve caused quite a stir in that rag, minx.”

Harriet turned around and grinned. “Have I?” Of course, she’d known that the moment she donned the costume. And had very nearly taken it off and sought refuge in some milkmaid’s garb. But once Pansy, Daphne’s maid, had done Harriet’s dark tresses up into an elaborate maze of braids, crowned with a golden coronet of entwined asps and painted her eyes with dark lines of kohl, Harriet had known there was no turning back.

Roxley had come to stand beside her at the edge of the patio. Here, away from the stifling air of the ballroom, the soft summer breezes, tinged as they were with the hint of roses, were inviting.

It was almost magical. Well, nearly so, she discovered.

He glanced over at her again and frowned. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“I’m not,” she pointed out. “You’re here. But I had thought to take a turn in the gardens.” Then she looked over at him again, standing there with a moody glower worthy of Lancelot. “Whatever is the matter?” she asked, hands fisting at her hips.

“It’s that . . . that . . . slip of a gown you’ve got on,” he complained, his hands wavering in front of her.

“This was supposed to be Daphne’s.”

That did not seem to appease him. “I cannot believe my aunt allowed you out in that shameful rag.”

So much for magic, Harriet realized. “There is nothing wrong with this gown. It is as historical as yours.”

“Mine covers me,” he replied. “No wonder Marc Antony lost his honor.”

Harriet laughed. “Perhaps I should go find him and see if he will walk with me in the gardens.” Since the only Marc Antony inside the ballroom was Lord Fieldgate, this only darkened Roxley’s scowl. For most of the evening, the resplendent and rakish viscount had commandeered most of Harriet’s time and dances, claiming her his “perfect Cleopatra.”

He wasn’t done. “How convenient for Fieldgate that Miss Dale’s untimely departure—”

“Elopement,” Harriet corrected.

“That is still left to be seen,” Roxley commented. “It is only an elopement if they marry.”

“When they marry.”

“If you insist,” he demurred.

“I do,” Harriet said firmly. Daphne would never have run off so if she hadn’t been utterly positive that she was about to be married. She just wouldn’t. “Besides, Preston will see them married.”

“He will do his level best. He just has to find Lord Henry and Miss Dale before her cousin interferes.”

Lord Dale. He was a rather bothersome prig, and could very well put a wrench into Daphne’s plans.

Harriet hoped his carriage tumbled off the road.

“True love can overcome all odds,” she said most confidently. At least it always did in her Miss Darby novels. And look at Tabitha and Preston? And Lord Henry and Daphne?

“Can it now?” the earl mused. “Harry, you astound me. Now, here I’ve always thought you the most sensible, practical girl I’ve ever known, but—”

The earl continued on, though Harriet had stopped listening at that one wretched word.

Girl.

Would he ever stop thinking of her as a child?

There was one way to find out.

Harriet straightened slowly, and then tipped one shoulder slightly, letting the clasp at her shoulder—the one which held the sheer silken over-gown up—slide dangerously close to coming off her. The entire gown was like that—illusion after illusion that it was barely on and wasn’t truly concealing the lady beneath. For under the first layer of sheer silk was another one in a shimmering hue of gold and beneath that, another sheer layer. The wisps of fabric, one atop the other, kept the gown from being completely see-through, though when she’d first donned it, she had to admit, she’d felt utterly naked.

Now she wanted to see if Roxley thought the same.

She tipped her head just slightly and glanced up at him.

“Yes, well,” he managed, his gaze fixed on her shoulder. He looked as if he couldn’t quite make up his mind whether or not to intervene—because to save her modesty, he would have to touch her.

So she nudged him along, tipping her shoulder just a bit more. Being Cleopatra gave her a different sort of courage, one she’d never possessed. It was a dizzy, heady sort of feeling.