And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(85)

She tipped her head just so, letting the collection of curls fall over one bare shoulder. “I would so love a man’s opinion. Does this arrangement suit me?”

“Yes,” he ground out. “Perfectly so.”

He hardly sounded inclined to kiss her. More as if he was in some state of discomfort. Oh, this would never do.

“And this gown?” she asked, holding out her skirt just so.

“Yes,” he replied. “Miss Dale, believe me when I say you would look perfectly amiable in sackcloth and ashes.”

Amiable? That was hardly the description she’d been hoping for.

“I am so pleased that you approve,” she said, knowing all too well that she didn’t sound pleased. And before she had to explain her pique, she started back down the hall.

Perfectly amiable, indeed! Oh, she’d never felt so foolish in her life.

“Whatever is wrong?” Lord Henry said, his stride leaving him capable of catching up with her all too quickly.

“I took great pains to appear to advantage tonight, and you find me just amiable?” she complained.

Having Hen for a twin, Henry knew an argument that could not be won from twenty paces.

And this was just such a mire.

“What I meant was—” he tried.

She waved her hand in dismissal. “Never mind.”

Ah, yes. Unwinnable. But that didn’t mean . . .

“What is so special about tonight?” he asked.

Her steps faltered slightly. “No reason.”

Henry took a glance at her. He hadn’t done business in London all these years not to know when someone was bluffing.

Or had something to hide.

And given the distracted flutter of Miss Dale’s long lashes, he would guess the latter.

But before he could press forward with an inquisition, she turned the tables on him.

“You’ve taken pains tonight as well,” she said, giving him a thorough once-over.

“H-h-hardly,” he faltered.

Miss Dale smirked. “Your cravat is tied in a waterfall, is it not?”

He glanced down at himself. “I suppose it is. Loftus, my valet, rather insisted I—”

“Yes, I suppose so. He must have grown tired of your usual Mailcoach.”

“I allowed it because I truly didn’t think anyone would notice,” he demurred, trying to fob her off. How the devil had she pulled the rug out from beneath him?

But Miss Dale wasn’t done with her perusal. “And your boots. They have extra polish. Perhaps His Grace’s valet did them—for that gloss makes you look quite the Corinthian.”

Henry looked down at his boots as if this was the first he’d noticed them. He’d actually asked Loftus to redo them, which had nearly put his proud valet to tears. “He must have convinced Preston’s valet to share his infamous concoction for boot black.”

“Or he pinched it,” she teased.

“Loftus? He’d quit in shame first!” Henry avowed.

She laughed merrily, and after a few moments, so did Henry.

“If I were a wagering sort,” she mused, “I would say you have done all this in preparation for an assignation tonight.”

Henry came to a blinding halt. “That is utterly ridiculous,” he told her. “Whatever do they teach young ladies in these Bath schools?”

“I wouldn’t know. You will have to ask Miss Nashe—if that is who you are meeting.”

“I’d never—” At least he hoped it wasn’t Miss Nashe. Good God, if it was, he’d be on the first ship out of the London pool.

No matter its destination.

Miss Dale eyed him up and down again. “Yes, there is no doubt in my mind, you are angling to catch some lady’s eye tonight.”

Angling? If anyone was angling . . . “One could say the same of you.” His hands waved at her hair and her gown. “What with all this. Whomever are you fishing for, Miss Dale? Are we all to discover the identity of your most excellent gentleman tonight?”

Touché. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open to protest, but just as quickly snapped shut.

However, Henry’s triumph—and his resolve—were short-lived, for as they continued on down the gallery, Miss Dale came to a blinding halt. “Who is that?” She pointed up at the painting towering on the wall.

“My grandfather,” he told her after taking a closer look. “Actually, I was named after him.”