And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(14)

Henry shook his head. He’d never understand the fickle nature of . . .

His thought went unfinished, for in that moment, the crowd parted and his gaze fell on a young lady across the way—a lithesome vision he’d never seen or met, wearing red silk, a mane of pale blonde hair tumbling down to her bare shoulders in a tempting waterfall of curls.

Then this unknown vision turned, as if tugged by his very examination, and looked at him.

Her eyes widened, just a bit, and then she smiled. Ever so slightly, and he felt as if he’d been harpooned, struck down as it were, the haunting lines from one of Miss Spooner’s latest missives echoing through his stricken thoughts.

Mr. Dishforth, I am taken aback by your words, your unfettered desires. I know not what to say. But when we meet, I have no doubt I will find the words and the means to express my affection for you.

Henry tried to breathe, but apparently when one met their destiny, one stopped breathing.

Good God! It had to be her. Miss Spooner.

He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. His elusive little minx, with her tart replies and her winsome secrets, was here. Standing across the ballroom.

Practical to a fault, Henry didn’t care how the Fates had done this, just that they had, and he wasn’t going to let something as ethereal as chance or serendipity steal her away before he could.

Lord Henry, the most respectable and sensible Seldon who ever lived, suddenly found his inner rake and strode across the ballroom.

However, it was one thing to discover one could be rakish, and quite another to pull it off.

For when he came face-to-face with the lady, he hadn’t a single notion of what to say.

What if she wasn’t Miss Spooner? Demmed if he was going to make an ass of himself.

Still, what if she was?

There was only one way to find out.

So beyond all propriety, and all good manners, he simply bowed. And when he straightened, he said the only thing that came to mind.

“May I have this dance?”





Chapter 2



Your words, Miss Spooner, dare I say it, your confession, have me captivated. I long to find you—though we have promised not to do so until we both desired it thusly. Instead I spend my nights searching for you in the only way I can, prowling every ball, soirée, even the theater, God help me—hoping for a meeting that would instead be in the hands of the Fates, so that I might take your fingers in my grasp and raise them to my lips and whisper for you and your ears only, “At last, my dearest Miss Spooner, we meet.”

A letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner




“May I have this dance?

Daphne nodded—for how could she speak?

She, Miss Daphne Dale, the most practical spinster to have ever come out of Kempton, found herself stricken with the most formidable ailment a lady could suffer.

Love at first sight.

It isn’t love, she tried telling herself, for she couldn’t even be certain this man was the one she sought.

But no matter, this was the gentleman her heart wanted, her body seemed to recognize without even the most sensible of reasons.

Why, it was a ridiculous notion, and yet . . .

She set her hand on his sleeve, her fingers trembling slightly until they came to rest on the wool of his jacket. There, beneath the smooth fabric and the linen shirt beyond, lay hidden the solid warmth of his muscled arm.

No dandy, no slight fool, this one. The same shiver that had run through her when she’d first read Dishforth’s advertisement in the paper once again stole down her spine, like a harbinger, the coursing notes of a spring robin.

Here I am, it sang.

Falling in step beside him, Daphne moved toward the dance floor in a bit of a daze. Whatever was she to say? However could she ask him if he was Dishforth? Never mind that she was accepting his request for a dance without the benefit of a proper introduction.

And when she slanted a glance up at him, this handsome rake with his stone-cut jaw, a tawny mane of golden brown hair, and deep, dark blue eyes that held a potent light, she just knew he must be the man she’d been destined to discover this spellbound night.

For when Daphne looked again, her errant imagination took over, and all she could envision was this rake tipping his head down to steal a kiss from her lips.

In his arms, she’d be unable to resist. His lips would touch hers, and the very thought left her insides coiled with a longing that she’d never experienced.

He, and he alone, would know how to unravel this knot, with his kiss, with his touch . . . his fingers undoing the laces of her chemise . . .