And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(53)

The Dales had Damaris, and the Seldons had Zillah.

“Well?” the old girl demanded. “Who is this Dishforth?”

Preston and Henry shot accusing glances at Hen, since she’d insisted their only other relative be invited. While the Dales were as prolific as a colony of rabbits, the Seldons had never been overly fruitful.

“He’s no one, dear,” Hen told her.

“No one?” Zillah huffed. “You can’t fool me. There’s a note on the salver for him even now.”

Henry caught himself before his head snapped to attention and he let out an eager “There is?”

Instead, he spared a glance at his nephew and sister and gave a sad shake to his head. Poor old girl. Going at long last.

“Henry! A Seldon does not blame others for his misdeeds,” Zillah admonished, wagging a long, thin finger at him and proving that she wasn’t as infirm as Henry would like the others to believe.

“Yes, precisely,” Hen agreed.

“It started to rain. Nothing more,” Henry told them. For about the tenth time. It was the truth and yet no one wanted to believe him.

Gads! Had it been like this for Preston all these years? Glancing over at the duke’s glower, which held a triumphant air to it, revealed that this turnabout wasn’t all that unpleasant for the notorious Duke of Preston.

Then again in his favor, having listened to Preston “explain” his side of his less-than-respectable conduct over the years had taught Henry a thing or two about confession.

Taking a page from Preston’s example, he used enough of the truth to be believable.

“I got lost.”

Hen and Preston glanced at one another and had to shrug in concession. There was no arguing Henry’s poor sense of direction.

Not that Zillah was about to yield the field. “That gel looked tumbled when you brought her back. Tumbled, I say!”

Yes, we all heard you the first time, Henry thought with a flinch. Slanting a glance over at his great-aunt, an ancient crone if ever there was one, he knew there were volumes of old family stories about Zillah’s flamboyant past. Yet looking at her now, Henry found it impossible to believe she even knew what tumbled would look like, let alone be able to still discern it.

Why, not even Hen knew how old Zillah was. And the lady herself? She wouldn’t have revealed her age to save the king or the whole of England. For all they knew, Queen Elizabeth was most likely reigning when Zillah was born.

Probably been her impudent dog who had caused all the fuss between the Dales and the Seldons to begin with.

“Tumbled,” Zillah repeated, before her head nodded back and she let out a loud snore.

Henry shook his head at the others, even as he knew it was an impossible position to defend.

Daphne had looked tumbled, for she’d very nearly been.

So had he—though not in the same way. Never mind that kiss—well, not that he was ever going to forget it, for it alone had been enough to knock him over—but when she’d stood there before him in that state of enticing dishabille, all wet and disheveled, her hair tumbling . . . yes, tumbling . . . down in wet curls, making her stunning confession, she’d turned his world upside down.

Haven’t you ever wanted to dance where you may?

He’d staggered back as if she’d slapped him. Dishforth’s words. Coming out of her lips.

No, not Dishforth’s, but his words.

How the devil had she known to say that? Pure chance? A mockery by the gods of love?

And before he’d been able to react, before he’d been able to demand an explanation from her, haul her back into his arms and kiss her until she was willing to explain how she knew such a thing, Preston, Hen and Tabitha had driven up, all too clearly witnessing the spectacle of the two of them—drenched to the bones, gaping at each other in wonder.

Then everything had sped forward so quickly that it was as if the thread binding them together with those words had been whisked back onto the spool from which it had come.

In the blink of an eye, Miss Dale had been bundled off in Preston’s carriage and Lord Henry had been left with the pony cart to trot obediently behind, with only Mr. Muggins for company. That, and the one burning question that had Henry at sixes and sevens.

Could that minx be . . . ?

No, he’d told himself over and over. Impossible.

Miss Spooner was a respectable lady. Sensible. Well-bred.

With a tart pen and a passionate nature, Dishforth would have added. Don’t you recall what she wrote to us?