And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(80)

Tabitha and Harriet exchanged a glance, and then Tabitha shooed Pansy out the door.

They all loved Pansy dearly, but the girl was a bit of a gossip.

Once the door was closed and they were all alone, Tabitha turned to Daphne, hands fisted to her hips. “What is so special about tonight.”

Harriet sat up. “Is it Lord Henry?”

“Lord Henry?” Daphne sputtered. “Whyever would you say such a thing?”

Harriet looked to Tabitha for help. When none was forthcoming, she waded in. “It is just after last night—”

“Oh, not that again,” Daphne complained.

“Daphne!” Tabitha chided. “We saw you. The two of you. If you think no one noticed, you are very wrong.”

“There was nothing to see,” Daphne told them with every bit of resolve she possessed. As if that was the end of the matter.

Harriet snorted. “If nothing means Lord Henry was about to kiss you, then yes, I suppose we saw nothing.”

“He was not . . . I would never—” Daphne stammered.

Oh, whyever did it have to be Harriet and Tabitha accusing her? They knew all her secrets and her failings.

Primarily that she was a terrible liar.

So she went back to her choice of gowns, for she was at her wit’s end as to which one to wear for her assignation with Mr. Dishforth. She picked up one, then another, discarded them both and picked up a third. Well, the green muslin would just have to do. She was about to shrug out of the blue silk she was wearing when she found that her friends were not finished with her.

“Daphne, whatever is the matter with you?” Harriet said, rising to her feet and taking the green muslin out of her grasp. “That is the sixth gown you’ve tried on tonight.”

“I always change my mind,” Daphne protested, trying to retrieve the dress, but Harriet held it out of reach and then passed it along to Tabitha, who put it behind her back.

“You change your gown three times before dinner,” Harriet pointed out. “Never six.”

“I just want to look perfect tonight,” Daphne told them.

“What is so important about tonight?” Tabitha repeated, holding the muslin just out of reach, a tempting prize being offered for an honest answer.

Which Daphne was not about to concede. “Nothing. It is just that . . .” She stammered for a moment, then found her lie. “Miss Nashe was going on and on about her gown for this evening, and I would so like to outshine her—”

She had told them what the heiress had said over breakfast, so perhaps . . .

“This has nothing to do with Miss Nashe,” Tabitha said, seeing right through the ruse. “Besides, I think the score between you and Miss Nashe is quite even now.”

“Oh, goodness,” Harriet exclaimed. “It’s Mr. Dishforth, isn’t it?” Then her friend’s eyes widened. “You’ve discovered who he is, haven’t you?”

While she had hoped to keep her meeting a secret—after the disaster that was the engagement ball—she realized she very much needed their help this one last time.

“Nearly,” Daphne confessed.

Henry, who was never late for anything in his life, was late yet again.

Hen was going to have his hide on a platter for such a lapse—or call for a surgeon from London to have him gone over.

At least he had a partial excuse for his tardiness, he mused as he stood at the crossways of two long halls.

Demmed if he could find his way through the ambling maze of passages and wings that made up Owle Park. Unfortunately, this had been Preston’s childhood home, not his.

Getting lost, his sister would expect, but she’d have been shocked to discover the real reason behind his belated arrival: Henry had had Loftus replace not only his cravat—twice—but his boots and his coat as well. The poor valet had finally given up on his usually affable employer, throwing his hands in the air and muttering something about the country air having gone to his lordship’s head.

So he was a bit distracted. Why wouldn’t he be, when tonight his entire life would change?

We must meet. Tonight. In the library. After dinner. ~S

Yet he’d been taken aback as he’d read the sparse lines, sensing an urgency behind them.

On one hand was Miss Spooner, a lady, not just a week ago, he had welcomed meeting.

That is, until he’d crossed paths with Miss Daphne Dale.

Now? Well, he didn’t know what to think. Did he want to be Miss Spooner’s sensible gentleman, a role he’d always found agreeable, or did he want to be the rake he saw reflected in Miss Dale’s engaging glances?