And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(35)

Phi spoke in hushed tones of awe. “His voice is like the finest plum cake. Rich and deep and ever so tempting.”

Daphne sat back and eyed her cousin. She had the sudden suspicion that Phi had taken to reading those ridiculous Miss Darby novels that Harriet swore were the most romantic stories ever written.

“Yes, well,” Phi continued when she realized Daphne was gaping at her, “suffice it to say your Mr. D is handsome, mannerly and speaks in the most heavenly tones.”

“But what did he want?”

“Well, you!” Phi said. “He wanted to see you. He was most insistent.”

Daphne let out the breath she’d been holding. “Whatever did you tell him?”

“That you were not here. That you had gone out of Town.” Phi sighed. “Which is nearly the truth, for you are still planning on returning to Kempton when the others go to that house party, are you not?”

“That house party” being the one at Owle Park.

Phi was a Dale down to her bones in her dismay.

“Yes,” Daphne told her. “I am returning to Kempton. On the afternoon coach, the day after next.”

Phi nodded approvingly, for she’d been on hand when Great-Aunt Damaris had lectured for a full hour on the follies and ruin of associating with the Seldons, including instructing Daphne on how to extract herself from her friendship with Miss Timmons now that Tabitha was to be so tainted in her marriage to one.

“You might want to find some way to delay your return,” Phi said, “for he would not take ‘no’ for an answer when I said you were unavailable.”

Daphne shivered. Handsome and forceful. “Whatever did you do?”

“Gave him the letter you asked me to post yesterday. And wished him a good day.” She shrugged. “I had to get him out of the foyer as quickly as possible before Herself caught wind of him . . . or worse, Croston came up from the kitchen.”

Daphne’s mouth dropped open at Phi’s presence of mind.

“Thankfully, he was enough of a gentleman to take no for an answer,” Phi continued, smoothing out her skirt.

Unlike how Lord Henry might have handled the matter, Daphne found herself thinking, imagining him in the foyer and not leaving well enough alone, bursting into the parlor and giving Great-Aunt Damaris the fright of her life.

Before the old girl gave him one of her own.

Goodness, Daphne thought with a shake, would that man never stop invading her thoughts?

Thank goodness Mr. Dishforth was nothing like him.

Save the handsome part.

A handsome Mr. Dishforth, a wealthy Mr. Dishforth. This gave Daphne some smug satisfaction.

Oh, if only she’d been able to find him last night at the Duke of Preston’s ball before she’d met with such humiliating disgrace. Then she could have danced with him and snubbed the Seldons, one and all, from the sanctuary of Mr. Dishforth’s solid and steady embrace.

And she would never have had to suffer through Lord Henry’s insufferable opinions.

“Are you sure about that?” she could almost hear him mock.

“Oh!” Phi burst out, straightening up and digging into the pocket of her apron. Her actions jolted Daphne out of her woolgathering. “But that wasn’t all.”

There was more?

“He asked me to pass this on to you.” Phi held it close for a moment longer. “He said he had written it just in case he could not meet you in person.”

Of course he had. Mr. Dishforth was not only a romantic; he was also a practical man who always had the forethought to plan ahead.

It was one of a myriad of reasons Daphne was already in love with him.

Phi continued to hold onto the letter, slowly presenting it, as if she was offering a chest of jewels, ones she truly didn’t want to surrender.

Daphne barely breathed as she reached out for the now familiar thick paper, the address written in that strong, bold hand she liked to trace with her finger.

Miss Spooner

18, Christopher Street

Mayfair, London

“Open it!” Phi said, as breathless as Daphne.

“Yes, yes,” she said, suddenly reluctant to do so. Especially in front of Phi.

What would she say if it held more of those bold, passionate sentiments that his letter of the other day had carried?

But the news, she soon discovered, was of a different sort.

My Dearest Miss Spooner, I have put off telling you this, and I had hoped to tell you all this last night—may I say this frankly, shall we forget last night?—