And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(49)

She’d done much the same thing to him on the dance floor at the ball.

Hell, from the first moment he’d spied her.

She’d led him astray that night with those come-hither eyes of hers, led him off course.

Taking up the clearly discernable path of puddles she’d left around the marble floor of the folly, he began to pace. The mess on the floor was in stark contrast to the unnavigable path she was treading upon his heart.

Henry shuddered against such a notion and concentrated on the moment at hand, stealing a glance at the lady and her wrenching expression.

His fault, indeed! It wasn’t. And yet . . .

For about the thousandth time since breakfast—hell, since the engagement ball—he’d reminded himself of two things.

She was a Dale.

And she was none of his concern.

Oh, but she is. And that was the rub. Somehow she’d become his problem, no matter how much he denied it or the lady herself protested. His problem. Or was she?

I’ll have you know, Lord Henry, I am nearly betrothed to another.

Henry latched onto the confession she’d made the other night at the ball. Nearly betrothed . . .

What else had she said about the man? Ay, yes. A gentleman of standing.

Henry skidded to a stop. Turning, his gaze narrowed, and he said, “Him! He’s your nearly gentleman.” He shook his head to clear his muddled thoughts. “Your nearly betrothed.”

She crossed her arms over her bosom and gaped at him. “Whatever are you going on about?”

“Crispin Dale. He’s your nearly betrothed. The one you were crowing about the other night.”

“My lord, I never crow,” she said, and then having taken in the full weight of his accusation, her eyes widened before she laughed. “Me? Betrothed to Crispin?” Her giggles turned into a loud series of guffaws, leaving her with her hands clasped over her stomach as if she’d never heard anything so amusing.

“Whatever did I say?”

“How little you know of the Dale clan.” She tittered again. “Me engaged to Crispin? Ridiculous.”

Henry didn’t see why such a notion was so foolish. “How so? He rather seems your sort.”

“My sort?” Her gaze wrenched up, all of her hilarity evaporating. Once again she was all wary suspicion.

“Yes, your sort,” he said, adding his own imperious stance to hers.

“Whatever does that mean?”

Henry shrugged. “Overdressed. Fussy. Wealthy.” He left out “an overreaching prig.”

“That description could be applied to most of the men in the ton,” she pointed out. Tipping her chin up, she added, “Yourself included.”

“I am not fussy,” Henry shot back.

“If you insist,” she said, shrugging a shoulder.

“I do.” Not liking the course of this conversation—damn the lady, she had a singular knack for turning the tables on him—he shifted the tide back in his favor. “Still, I don’t see why Lord Dale is not your sort.”

She shook her head as if the answer would be obvious even to the inhabitants of a nursery. “He’s Crispin.”

Whatever the devil did that mean?

Miss Dale huffed a little sigh and retreated to where her bonnet lay in a limp pile. Then she began ticking off what apparently was Dale canon. “He’s Crispin, Viscount Dale. The Dale of Langdale. The head of the family.”

Again Henry hardly saw why any of this precluded that starched and overbearing jackanape from being her “perfect gentleman.”

She must have seen the confusion in his eyes, so she went on. “Crispin Dale can have his choice of the most beautiful and eligible ladies in London.”

Henry had the suspicion he would never understand any of this, and yet, against his better judgment, he asked, “So why not you? You’re beautiful.”

The words, just like his suddenly vacant good sense, tumbled out into the space between them.

Words. They were only words. A simple statement of fact.

You’re beautiful.

Disarming words. For they held an unmistakable air of confession to them. Even he knew it.

Worse, so did she.

Her gaze flew up to meet his, as if she expected to find him laughing at her.

Just as she’d laughed at him.

And she said as much. “Now you’re teasing me.”

Henry straightened. Ever the Seldon, he’d waded into this mire, and instead of retreating for the safety of the bank, he plodded further into the depths.