And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(82)

Never mind that she was a Dale . . . oh, he couldn’t deny that was a rub. Henry could almost hear his forebears rising up to protest such a coupling . . . or how Aunt Zillah would take the news.

Perhaps that was exactly why Miss Dale was so devilishly tempting.

“I’m rather lost as well,” he confessed, looking down at her and resisting the urge to brush an errant strand of her blonde hair out of her eyes.

She shook her head as if she didn’t believe him. “How can you be lost?”

“I’ve never been here,” he told her, not even realizing that he had drawn her closer until he felt the rustle of her gown against his hips, or how his words might have a second, more important, meaning.

“Never?” Again the question was so laden with so many implications.

Layers Henry didn’t dare peel back. Even for a peek. “Yes, well, Preston grew up here. Until . . . until . . .” He paused, but one look at the sudden sad light that flickered in her gaze told him she knew the horrible story as well.

How Owle Park had been Preston’s childhood home until his entire family, save him, had perished from fever, leaving him orphaned and the heir all in one fell swoop.

That cold, haunted memory stopped them both. Sent a chill between them as if the ghosts in this house had better sense than they did.

It was enough to give Miss Dale the impetus to step out of his grasp, wavering still, but this time, he suspected her trembling stance wasn’t from their collision.

“There, see,” she said, glancing down at her feet and smoothing her skirts. “No damage done. So sorry to have . . .” Again, she glanced up at him, this time almost warily.

“No, truly, it was my fault,” he told her.

Then it started all again, that awkward silence, followed by the compelling need to close the gap between them.

Henry sensed that if they dared, if they took that one step to close the chasm, there would be no turning back.

Miss Dale drew a deep breath. “I suppose we should find the dining room,” she suggested, glancing right and left and not at him.

So it was decided. Which was for the best. “Yes, quite,” he agreed. After all, he was to meet Miss Spooner tonight.

Sensible, practical, perfectly acceptable Miss Spooner.

The sooner, the better, he realized as his body continued to thrum with reckless desire. So he started down the hall, Miss Dale at his side.

Right where she belongs.

Henry cringed and decided to take a different tack. “Are you in trouble over—”

“That incident which should not be named?” she asked, her lips twitching into a sly smile.

Oh, how it called to him. Henry shrugged off that notion and continued doing his utmost to maintain an orderly veneer. “Yes. Truly, I should never have suggested it. If I had known your daring side—”

“Daring had nothing to do with it,” she told him. “Nor did I. It was all Miss Nashe. Well, nearly all Miss Nashe.”

“Then you had something to do with it,” he pressed.

She glanced away. “A small part. Hardly worth mentioning.”

“Hardly?”

“So slight,” she demurred. “The lady found the gown all on her own and was most insistent on making it hers.”

“Yet you didn’t warn her?”

“Tabitha might have tried,” she admitted.

“Might have?”

“She might have been able to do so if my hand hadn’t been covering her mouth.”

Henry, despite his better nature, burst out laughing. How could he not? The scene was rife with irony: Miss Nashe in all her haughtiness and dear Tabitha, ever the vicar’s daughter, trying to do the right thing.

And then there was Miss Dale.

“Wicked girl!”

She slanted a glance at him. “You shouldn’t sound so admiring over it.”

He straightened, for he shouldn’t. Admire her, that is. “Whyever not?”

“Lady Essex says there will a grand scandal over it.”

“You can count on it,” he told her. “Benley has been laid low with all the posts leaving Owle Park this afternoon. Not one of these gossipy harpies wants to be the last one to make her report.”

“And you don’t mind?” she asked.

Henry shook his head. “Quite immune to it.”

“I suppose you are.”

“And you?”