And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(37)

And her utterly vexing behavior.

Well, thankfully, her stubborn pride and Dale bloodlines had kept her from accepting the invitation to Preston’s wedding and house party—no matter that she was supposedly Miss Timmons’s dearest friend.

But being in the country also left him at a disadvantage; he could hardly press forth with his search for Miss Spooner while he was stuck here rusticating.

His jaw worked back and forth. There hadn’t been a letter or a note from the lady since that night.

The night Miss Dale had ruined everything.

And as it was, every time he thought of that miss, he couldn’t but help compare her to Miss Spooner.

Which left him imagining her as Miss Dale’s true opposite—dowdy, plain, without an ounce of grace—like the creature who’d answered the door at Christopher Street.

For a moment, Henry had feared he’d need to put his own words to the test.

Does it matter what is on the outside . . .

The owlish girl—no, make that spinster—who had answered the door and regarded him with a mixture of suspicion and awe had left him a bit taken aback. That is until he discovered she wasn’t Miss Spooner.

Thank God, he’d nearly cheered, even as she’d taken his letter and efficiently sent him packing.

Must be a relation, he realized, for she had the same sensible and determined air that echoed through the pages of Miss Spooner’s letters. He’d also been struck by the thought that there was something very familiar about the gel, as if he’d seen her before—a family resemblance perhaps to his Miss Spooner—but the only person who kept coming to mind was Miss Dale.

Henry grimaced. Miss Dale, indeed! Wouldn’t that be a nightmare?

No, he wanted a steady, reliable companion to spend his days with.

But what about your nights? a wry voice teased. Who would you rather spend your nights with?

Never mind that the first image that came to mind was Miss Dale, her hair unbound and that sylvan, delectable figure of hers wrapped only in his sheets, enticing him to abandon his sensible nature and come while away the night in the pleasures that only a creature of her nature could offer.

It was an image that had haunted him since that night.

Why, he’d even thought he’d seen her following him in London when he’d gone to discover Miss Spooner’s identity. Ridiculous notion—but that was what Dale women and their insufferable beauty did to sensible men.

Yes, a proper, sensible miss was exactly what he needed to extinguish this restless fire Miss Dale had lit inside him.

With that resolution firmly planted in his heart, he turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs and noticed a single note in the salver. He might have just walked right past, for it was probably no more than some titillating bit of gossip dashed off and left for one of the footmen to deliver to the intended party, but the handwriting stopped him cold.

And not just the handwriting, the name to whom it was addressed:

Dishforth

Glancing around, if only to ensure there was no one looking, Henry’s hand snaked out quickly and snatched it off the silver plate. He gaped down at the single folded page written in none other than Miss Spooner’s sure hand.

How the devil . . .

Taking another surreptitious glance around the open foyer and reassured that no one else was about, he slid his thumb under the wafer, wrenched the folded sheet open, and read the single line it contained.

As it turns out, I was invited as well.

Tucking neatly into her laden plate, Daphne sighed and glanced around the comfortable morning room. She found it unfathomable that this welcoming corner of Owle Park—what with its rococo ceiling, white wainscoting, celery paint and gilt trim here and there—was the design of a Seldon. Even the sparkling morning sunshine pouring in from the long windows at either end of the room cast such a bright, friendly glow that it made it nearly impossible to believe she was so deep in enemy territory.

Owle Park. The hereditary home of the Seldon heirs. She’d tamped down a momentary bit of panic by reaching over and putting her hand atop Mr. Muggins’s wiry head. The Irish terrier, Tabitha’s beast of a dog, had greeted her last night like a long-lost friend and had yet to leave her side—for which Daphne was grateful.

“Out on our own, aren’t we?” she whispered to him as she scratched behind his ears.

Mr. Muggins let out a grand sigh and tipped his head just so, willing to listen to her troubles as long as she continued to hit that spot.