And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(75)
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“If you say so,” he mused. “But if you were—”
“Which I wasn’t,” she shot back.
“Miss Dale, you are at a house party, not locked away in a London town house. If you want peace and quiet, Owle Park affords far better choices than a dusty alcove.”
“It wasn’t dusty in the least.”
He laughed. “So you were hiding in there.”
Daphne notched up her chin and refused to be baited further.
“I would have suggested—if you had come to me—”
“Which I wouldn’t—”
“Yes, well, I think we’ve covered that. But as I was saying, next time might I suggest the rose garden, the orangery, or even the maze. All far superior choices for peace and quiet, if that is what one is truly seeking.”
Daphne made a little sniff.
“I could show you around this afternoon,” he offered. “If you would like, so that the next time you are in need of solitude you’ll have the perfect spot at the ready.”
Show her the perfect spot for a secluded interlude? She’d just bet he would. Probably knew every such venue within a five-mile radius—that is, if he didn’t get lost along the way.
“No, thank you,” she replied, of half a mind to report his offer to Lady Zillah. Then they’d see how Lord Henry would spend the rest of the house party.
Trussed up in the cellar.
“Are you certain?” he pressed.
“Decidedly so,” she told him, gritting her teeth. Not a rake, indeed! She went back to her original theory: Lady Zillah was firmly planted in her dotage.
“Well, if you find yourself with a free moment, do not hesitate—”
“I have previous plans,” she told him, which they both knew was a lie. This was a house party, and the schedule was posted every day by Lady Juniper.
The remainder of the afternoon was completely and utterly open for such entertainments.
“Yes, well, if you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
“So you say,” he said in an offhanded manner, which only piqued her temper all that much more.
They walked down the long hall, and Daphne began to feel a momentary bit of triumph. Here she was with Lord Henry, and she wasn’t bothered by it in the least.
He hadn’t any hold or sway over her.
None whatsoever.
Save for the hammering of her heart and those dangerous tendrils of desire that seemed to entwine around her every time she touched him . . .
Those notwithstanding, she had everything under control. Now all she had to do was find Dishforth.
Sensible, nearly reliable Dishforth. She could only hope he kissed as well as he was pragmatic.
Leave it to Lord Henry to nudge her off her confident, lofty perch.
“About your gentleman—” he began.
Daphne came to a staggering halt. “Oh, good heavens. Must we?”
“Yes,” he told her, crossing his arms over his chest. “I fear I might have wronged you.”
Now he was having a lapse into regrets? Now?
“I would rather not discuss this with you!” she declared, continuing down the hall without him.
He followed, his long stride eating up the distance she’d tried to create, and once again he was at her side. “I think we should discuss him.”
“You might think so, but I do not.”
Lord Henry caught her by the arm and stopped her. “I merely want to know if I’ve caused difficulties between the two of you.”
Daphne lowered her voice. “Good heavens, Lord Henry, haven’t you the least notion of propriety? Besides, there was nothing last night to cause anyone a moment’s concern.”
“Are you certain?” he asked, drawing closer.
“Yes.” She went to turn and flee again, but she came up short as he held her fast.
“I must know who he is.”
She shook her head. Vehemently. “Oh, no, I think not.”
“Not?”
“Not!”
“Then I’ll be forced to guess.”
Daphne threw up her hands and this time was free to make her escape. That is, until Lord Henry reined her to a stop with his first conjecture.
“Fieldgate,” he called after her.
Daphne’s feet stopped. Fieldgate? Just like that? With nary a thought?