And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(47)

She pressed her lips together and refused to speak. She certainly wasn’t going to tell Lord Henry why she had dared to come to a Seldon wedding.

Why she had defied her entire family.

“Yes, well, when the Dale clan arrives, armed to the teeth and looking for blood, I for one am not going to stand firm over your folly,” he declared. “If I have any say in the matter, they will find you at the front gate, with your bags packed and a note pinned to your pelisse with directions to the nearest madhouse.”

After a few moments of driving in silence, Daphne let out a long sigh. “Are you finished?”

“Yes, quite,” he admitted.

“Then you should know that you missed the turn back there.” She nodded toward the narrow track that ran off the road. “If you continue on this course, we shall be lost. Again.”

“Not in the least. This is a shortcut,” he told her. “I promised to see you safely back to Owle Park, and I shall. No matter what you opine, I am a gentleman and a man of honor.”

Now it was Daphne’s turn to let out a snort.

Pompous, arrogant know-it-all. He was going to get them lost.

And just for those reasons, she didn’t argue the fact. She rather liked the idea of proving him wrong.

Utterly.

At least she did until the clouds opened up and emptied their bounty all over her lovely new gown.

The folly appeared on the rise before them just at the point when Henry was about to have to concede to Miss Dale that she’d been correct.

He’d gotten them lost.

Utterly.

But then they had turned a corner, and as he’d dashed the rain out of his eyes, there it had appeared—the stone rotunda his grandfather, the seventh duke, had built after his Grand Tour.

“Come now, let’s get out of this,” he said, pulling the horse to a stop and catching hold of her hand.

Her fingers were like ice, and he glanced over at her.

Just as her cousin, Lord Dale, had predicted, her gown was drenched, ruined. Ignoring the twinge of guilt—for no gentleman should let a lady end up in such a state—they dashed toward the covered pavilion, hand in hand, dancing over puddles and around the larger rivulets of water rushing over the path.

Mr. Muggins had needed no urging and was already ahead of them, shaking the rain out of his fur in a wild flurry of droplets.

By the time Henry and Miss Dale had climbed the wide steps and gotten out from the drenching downpour, the dog had already found a dry spot beneath one of the benches and lain down, head on his paws.

As for the two of them, they came to a halt in the middle, and save for the heavy pattering of rain all around them, it was as if the countryside had stilled.

Henry didn’t know quite what to say or do—but when he glanced over at Miss Dale, he realized two things.

He hadn’t let go of her hand.

Nor did he want to.

How could he? She looked utterly divine. Like one of the goddesses a temple like this might have been dedicated to—a nymph who currently stood before him in a pique of rage.

Not that she left the decision up to him. She wrenched her fingers free of his grasp and stalked over to Mr. Muggins.

Apparently a wet hound was preferable company.

Well, he would tell her that he’d had other plans for this afternoon. His sights set on finding another lady.

A proper lady. A sensible one.

Might have found her by now if it hadn’t been for Preston and his cork-brained treasure hunt.

Which had left him with the ungodly luck of being paired with Miss Dale.

Miss Dale! The most insensible woman in all of England. Or at the very least, the one who drove him to the edge of madness. Why, he’d nearly kissed her at Preston’s engagement ball, and now he was lost with her in his company.

The woman was determined to lure him into some scandalous mire.

He glanced over at her to see what sort of mischief she was making now—only to find her unpinning her sodden bonnet, which, once freed, she tossed down on the stone bench. Her shawl followed, as did her gloves. Thus divested of her wet outer garments, she paced around the edge of the columns, circling him like a vengeful griffin.

He suspected he was about to be flayed alive. Nor could Tabitha’s mangy beast of a dog be counted on to save him.

“Go ahead,” he told her, bracing himself.

She paused and glanced over at him. “Pardon?”

“Go ahead,” he said, holding out his hands, as if to be locked away.