And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(81)

Miss Dale, indeed! What an impossible notion.

No, no, he needed to discover who Miss Spooner might be and move cautiously forward from there. For he had told Zillah the truth: he would not marry just to be married. Not for money, or business, or status.

He’d follow his heart. A rather insensible notion for a man who prided himself on being practical. And he had the very impractical Miss Dale to thank for this change of heart.

That didn’t mean he knew what to do next. He’d spent a good part of the afternoon pacing circles around the fish pond wondering what the devil he was going to say to the chit.

Especially when every time he imagined entering the library and it was none other than Miss Dale who turned around to greet him.

Demmit, whatever would he do then? For he was already half in love with her.

Oh, why try to fool himself. There were no halves about it.

He was in love with Miss Dale.

And he could even pin it down to the exact moment when she’d succeeded in stealing his heart.

When he’d been watching the spectacle this afternoon. Oh, he hadn’t been eyeing Miss Nashe’s epic dash through Owle Park with Mr. Muggins on her heels. No, his gaze had been fixed on Miss Dale.

Miss Dale, with her lips pressed together so it appeared she was as beset and concerned as everyone else. He hadn’t been fooled. She’d had her mouth clenched shut to keep from laughing.

Much as he had.

And when she’d spied him watching her, she’d mouthed two words: Thank you.

In that instant, Lord Henry Seldon fell in love.

Head. Over. Heels.

With a Dale. He’d been so bowled over, so thunderstruck, that he’d barely been able to get out his answer.

You’re welcome.

Then she’d grinned at him and slipped back into the milling crowd, taking his heart with her.

As he’d stood there, utterly blindsided by this accident of fate, he realized he’d been in love with her for far longer. Probably since the first moment he’d clapped eyes on her at Preston’s engagement ball.

Love. What an ass he’d been all these years on the subject. Love, he now realized, was utter chaos. A maelstrom against the sagacious.

No wonder a bewitching minx such as Daphne Dale had inspired his once sensible heart to take flight.

In a panic, Henry had fled to the music room, hunted down a pen and paper and dashed off a response to Miss Spooner.

Tonight. Yes, my dear Miss Spooner. Tonight.

Henry had never fallen in love before, and panic had seemed the most sensible response.

Miss Spooner would restore his equilibrium, bring him back to his senses.

Yet now, as the time drew closer, he wasn’t sure what he would do. However would he know if he was making the right choice. If Miss Spooner was the right lady for him?

And his answer seemed to come as he rounded a corner and collided with another.

A lady, in fact.

“Oh, dear heavens!” she cried out as she slammed into him, his perfectly pressed jacket now creased beyond repair.

Henry caught hold of her, and the moment his arm wound around her waist, his fingers caught hold of her elbow and he steadied her, he knew.

Miss Dale.

He looked down at her, and for a tremulous second, they gazed into each other’s eyes.

One could have dismissed the night at the ball as mere chance. The afternoon in the folly as, well, folly. But Henry couldn’t deny that each time he looked into Miss Daphne Dale’s wide, innocent blue eyes, his heart stopped.

The entire world stilled, at least for him as he took in her silken wisps of blonde hair escaping from her nearly perfect coif, her pretty, full lips that were just made for kissing—no, make that devouring. It wasn’t panic that filled his veins this time but desire.

Hot, hard desire.

Henry wanted nothing more than to sweep her up in some medieval, high-handed manner and carry her off to the highest reaches of Owle Park.

There, he’d seduce her. Make love to her. Find solace for this restless, aching need racing through him that he knew, just damn well knew, she was the only woman capable of easing.

Of course, finding his way might be a bit of a bother . . . and might require he put her down to ask directions. But once they got there . . .

“Miss Dale,” he whispered. Daphne.

“I’m late . . . and a bit lost,” she murmured, her gaze never leaving his, her lashes fluttering as she spoke.

He had the sense she wasn’t just talking about finding the dining room—that the two of them were on the same errant course. One that kept tossing them together only to pull them apart.