And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(52)

But then it was as if he heard his own warning, and his eyes widened as if he had just connected the woman before him with the woman to whom he’d pledged earlier to keep his distance.

Much to her chagrin he took a hasty step back. “Yes, yes, I suppose it is for the better.”

They stood there for some time, separated by silence and wariness until Lord Henry asked quietly, “What will he do?”

So quietly that she barely discerned that he’d spoken, for she was still lost in her tangled thoughts, this sudden passion.

Daphne glanced up, blinking. “Pardon?”

“What will Lord Dale do now?” He bent over and picked up his greatcoat, this time handing it to her instead of settling it over her shoulders himself.

Oh, yes, Crispin. She’d nearly forgotten. Shrugging on the coat, she slanted a glance at Lord Henry. It was easy to see why the threat of her relatives was so far from her thoughts.

His blue eyes still held a smoky hue, his tawny hair loose from his usual queue—giving him a pirate air. Without his driving coat, he cut a rakish figure, standing there in his dark jacket, plain waistcoat and breeches. Polished boots encased his muscled calves. And that chest, oh, she knew that chest so well now, for her hands had splayed across it, explored it.

She blushed at her wayward thoughts and looked away.

“Crispin?” he nudged.

“Oh, yes,” she stammered. “Most likely, he’ll write Aunt Damaris.”

“Damaris Dale?” Lord Henry exclaimed, his words followed by a great shudder.

Apparently her great-aunt’s infamy extended even outside the family.

Daphne continued on with the likely scenario. “Then there will be a flurry of correspondence as to what must be done.”

“That could take a week or so,” he offered, most likely trying to appear helpful. That, or calculating the necessary fortifications that would need to be made to Owle Park.

“And then someone will be dispatched to fetch me home.” She made her way back to her sad, lonely bonnet and picked it up. The pink bow lay flat, and the silk flowers that had looked so jaunty earlier were now all well past their bloom.

The whole thing was a shambles.

Just like her plans to find Dishforth.

“Oh, dear!” she gasped, her hands coming to her still swollen lips. Lips that she’d vowed only for another.

However had she forgotten her stalwart, her steady love so quickly? So utterly?

She glanced over at Lord Henry and found him studying her, a bevy of questions mulling about behind the furrow of his brow, the intensity of his scrutiny.

One not to leave any stone unturned, as she feared, he asked, “Why did you come here, to Owle Park, if you knew this would happen?”

This? Their kiss? She looked at him and realized he’d meant—much to her embarrassment—something else entirely.

Why had she come? Why had she risked so much?

Without even thinking, she said the first words that came to her. For they answered both her reasons for coming to Owle Park and perhaps her unfathomable reasons for kissing him.

They were Dishforth’s words, and once again, her mysterious lover seemed to know her better than she knew herself.

“Lord Henry, haven’t you ever wanted to dance where you may?”





Chapter 7



Mr. Dishforth, may I be forward? I am going to be, without hearing your answer, because I know what you would tell me: speak from your heart. And I shall.

Do you have a wen?

Found in a letter from Miss Spooner to Mr. Dishforth




“What the devil were you thinking?” Preston asked. No, more like lectured.

No, actually, bellowed.

Henry did his best to stand his ground in the spot of shame that was a well-worn patch in front of the fireplace. They were in the family salon in the back of the house, far from the guests. Which unfortunately gave Preston all the freedom the duke should desire to unleash his displeasure with his uncle.

It was rather an odd position for Henry to be in. Up until a month or so ago it had always been Preston standing uncomfortably at attention, forced to listen to his relations chastise his behavior.

But here he was, and Henry found it nearly impossible to keep from shifting from one foot to another while Preston and Hen took turns chiding him.

“What were you thinking?” Hen wailed.

“Dishforth made me do it,” he muttered.

“Dishforth? Who the devil is he?” Great-Aunt Zillah demanded from her prime location—the large chair by the fireplace.