And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(32)

Lord Henry.

Ruinous, awful man! Daphne could not think of him without shivering. No, it wasn’t shivering, more like shuddering, she corrected herself.

For shivering had an entirely different intimation.

And not one she wanted to share with Lord Henry. Not in the least.

“Horrible man,” she muttered as she started across the street.

“My pardon, miss,” a stuffy-looking fellow huffed in reply as he hurried past.

Daphne blushed a bit, especially when Pansy looked over at her with that puzzled, censorious expression she seemed to be wearing much of late.

And feeling a bit of remorse, Daphne knew eventually she would have to admit the truth. Lord Henry couldn’t be blamed entirely. For one thing, she had tripped him.

Not deliberately. Not intentionally.

Well, maybe a little.

Daphne drew herself up straight. Annoying, wretched man. Why, he was the very epitome of all that was wrong with the Seldons and had been wrong for centuries. Too handsome. Too full of his own worth. And much too handsome.

Oh, dear, she’d listed that twice. Well, it needed to be, she told herself as she rounded the corner onto Christopher Street.

No man should look that sinful; it made him capable of driving a perfectly sensible lady to make a complete cake of herself in a crowded ballroom.

Well, never again, she vowed. Never again would she be swayed by a tall, handsome, overly charming man. Not whatsoever.

And as if the Fates meant to test her resolve, she looked up and came to a complete halt. For there, hurrying down the steps at the far end of the block—on Great-Aunt Damaris’s steps, to be exact—was a tall figure in an elegantly cut jacket of navy superfine, a tall beaver hat atop his head, the brim obscuring his face.

Just the sort to make a lady’s heart do that odd double thump if only to ensure she’d taken notice.

Yes, Daphne had noticed.

This striking Corinthian paused for a moment at the end of the steps, adjusted his hat to a jaunty tilt and then continued in the opposite direction with a determined stride, his walking stick tapping out his hurried pace.

For some reason, her boots found themselves planted to the sidewalk. She could only stand there on the curb, not even caring that she was gaping like a veritable country rube.

Out of the blue, she found herself thinking it was exactly how Lord Henry might stroll along—the very same self-assured line of his shoulders, the steady stride, as if he owned the very sidewalk.

Goodness! How ridiculous, she told herself, a bit piqued that at every turn he seemed to invade her thoughts.

Now she was even seeing him where he shouldn’t be.

Besides, she told herself, studying this object of curiosity, he didn’t possess Lord Henry’s arrogance. No, certainly not. This man held himself with an air of composure and aplomb that would captivate any woman.

So, whatever was such a man doing visiting Great-Aunt Damaris? Firstly, he was too tall and too dark to be a Dale.

“Who are you?” she whispered, not even realizing she had said the words aloud until this mysterious stranger, who was about to round the corner at the end of the block, paused, as if he had heard her question.

Then, to her shock, he turned slightly and glanced over his shoulder.

Oh, my! Oh, goodness . . . Her thoughts jangled together as his features slowly came into view, until—

“Do you mind?” a voice blared at her as a large fellow shouldered past her. Tall and wide enough, it turned out, to completely blot out her view. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” the old gentleman scolded. “Foolish chits! The same every year! Filling the streets like a baffled horde of dimwits.” He huffed and continued down the block, and by the time she could see past him, the corner where the gentleman had stood was empty.

He was gone.

“Bother,” she muttered. Then, realizing there was only one way to find out who he might be, she hurried down the street to Number 18 and had barely gained the first step when the door flew open.

“Oh, heavens, Daphne!” Cousin Philomena Dale exclaimed. “You just missed him.”

“Him?”

Her cousin didn’t answer immediately, having come down the steps only to herd Daphne and Pansy back up them with great haste. “Come in, come in,” she said.

Pansy, now that her mistress was in good hands, scurried off for the kitchens, while Phi plucked off Daphne’s hat and pelisse, chattering on in a blur of “ooh’s” and “ah’s,” which were punctuated by a chorus of “him” and “shocking” and “ever-so-thrilling’s.”