And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(43)

“Fieldgate.”

The man came stalking forward, grinning like a lion. He took a map from Preston, caught Harriet’s hand in his and walked triumphantly toward the racing curricle in front.

And thus it was for the next few minutes, couples being paired up, the field of potential partners narrowing and the faster carriages disappearing quickly.

Even Lady Essex gained a partner, Lord Whenby, an older gentleman who left her blushing with whispered promises as he escorted her to one of Preston’s more daring phaetons.

Much to Daphne’s dismay, all too quickly it came down to her, Miss Nashe, Lord Astbury, and none other than Lord Henry.

Worse yet, the choice of carriages was down to an old curricle and a pony cart. Not exactly the sort of fleet conveyances that would carry one to victory.

Fixing her attention on Lord Astbury, she considered his potential as Dishforth.

He was rumored to be educated and scholarly, and it was said he kept to himself in London. All points in his favor.

And he was handsome. Ever so.

Yet . . . rebelliously her gaze strayed in the other direction.

For there was Lord Henry, grinning with rakish delight at Miss Nashe, as if he was convinced of their pairing. The girl fluttered her lashes at him and smiled, just slightly.

Truly? This was the sort of preening lady that Lord Henry found intriguing?

Once again, Daphne felt a smug satisfaction in her convictions that Lord Henry couldn’t be the man she sought. Her very sensible Mr. Dishforth would view the showy and overly resplendent Miss Nashe with prudent horror.

No, there was no earthly way Lord Henry could be Dishforth.

Just then, Daphne realized that Preston was calling another name.

“Miss Nashe.”

Daphne stilled as she watched the heiress step forward.

Her fate, her very future, was being decided by Miss Edith Nashe.

The girl fished around inside the bag for what felt like an eternity until Lord Henry said, “Miss Nashe, it is but a slip of paper—take one.” His words came out impatiently, almost testily.

“I hardly know which one to choose,” she said, smiling at both gentlemen and obviously immune to the censure.

Good heavens, pull out Lord Henry’s name and be done with it, Daphne wanted to shout. That, or just tug off her boot and clout the simpering fool with it, like she’d seen Harriet do once to one of her brothers.

Lord Astbury was far kinder. He smiled warmly. “You have both our hearts in your dear hand, Miss Nashe.”

Daphne didn’t know why, but she slanted a disgruntled glance at Lord Henry, for she very rightly shared his impatience. And to her surprise, he was looking at her with the same look of utter exasperation.

Whatever is wrong with her?

How am I to know? I would have pulled the name by now.

She wrenched her gaze away. However was it that every time she looked at that man, he had a way of entangling her?

But this time, Lord Henry wasn’t entirely to blame.

“Yes, well, here goes,” Miss Nashe said and pulled a name from the bag.





Chapter 6



Miss Spooner, I must make a confession. I rarely dance. It is not that I am against dancing, it is just that it all seems so contrived. The asking, the sets, the observation of so many rules and requirements. Haven’t you, my dear girl, ever wanted to dance where you may? To dance under the stars, to even dare to dance in the rain?

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner




“We are most certainly not lost,” Lord Henry insisted.

“We most certainly are,” Daphne corrected. “I have visited this area on more than one occasion and I know for a fact we are going in the wrong direction.” She shook out the map and pointed at it. “Do you see the curve to the river? And there is the bridge marked here.” Her finger stabbed at the map. “We must turn around and go back in the other direction and take this turn . . .” Her finger tapped the paper again. “ . . . the one I pointed out earlier.”

Mr. Muggins, who had, against everyone’s orders, planted himself in the back of the pony cart and remained there still, looked from Lord Henry to Daphne and then back to Lord Henry again.

Lord Henry’s brow furrowed as he studied the map. “This can’t be correct,” he said, turning it this way and that and ignoring both Daphne and the dog.

How had everything turned out like this? One moment she’d been convinced she was going to be spending the afternoon with Lord Astbury—doing her utmost to determine if he was Mr. Dishforth—and the next, that infuriating Miss Nashe had claimed the marquess.