And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(86)

She drew closer and read the plate on the bottom of the frame. “Henry George Seldon, the seventh Duke of Preston. Hmmm. You favor him,” she said, looking at his grandsire and then at him.

Henry took a step back and shuddered. “I should hope not.”

“What do you mean?”

“If family rumors are to be believed, he was a terrible scoundrel. Wild Hal, he was known as,” Henry said, turning from the portrait and the mocking, rakish gaze of the seventh duke.

“Truly? A Seldon who was a scoundrel? Why, I never,” she teased, that light in her eyes glowing with impish delight. As she stepped back to get a better look at the imposing portrait, her skirt brushed against his thigh, reminding him how much she enticed him.

Suggesting that he had more in common with his forebear than he’d ever realized. That was all it took, that ever-so-brief moment, a glance at her, and he was lost.

For there was in her smile and nod of approval evidence that she saw in him that same enticing light that had made the previous Henry Seldon the most notorious courtier of Queen Anne’s court.

Some even said he’d dallied with the old queen herself. Then again, hadn’t Owle Park come into the family about then? And wasn’t Lady Essex encamped in the room known as “The Queen’s Chamber”?

“I am hardly in the same league,” he protested aloud.

Miss Dale shot him a wide-eyed glance, a bit startled by his outburst. After another glance at the seventh duke, she grinned. “In my opinion, the resemblance is uncanny.”

Her words held all the notes of a suggestion. Admiration, even.

But mostly, they held the one thing Henry couldn’t resist. Not from her.

A dare.

Henry turned to her and closed the gap between them. He had every intention of gathering her up in his arms and running away with this tempting miss, but Lord Henry Seldon had yet to master one very important part of being a rake: timing.

“Finally! Someone to help me find the dining room,” came Zillah’s booming voice from behind him. “Confounded place gets me lost every time.”

Then out from behind Henry stepped Miss Dale.

And from the look on his great-aunt’s face, Henry sent up a prayer that the lady didn’t know the way to the armory any better than she did the dining room.





Chapter 11



Tonight, I will find you, my dearest Miss Spooner. And no longer shall we be separated by pen and paper. Nothing will ever keep us apart again.

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner




In the dining room, where the men were enjoying their port and cigars after dinner, Henry heaved a sigh that he’d survived so far. Now all that was left was to escape without too much undo notice.

Though he wouldn’t be surprised to find Zillah outside the door waiting for him.

The look she’d bored into him in the hallway, a combination of guilt and fury that said, Not her again. It had been enough of a censure to have him on edge all through dinner.

Lost in thought, he hadn’t even noticed that Preston had wandered over until the duke said in an oft-handed fashion, “What the devil is the matter with you?”

“Me? Why, nothing,” Henry told him, drawing himself up into a composed stance.

At least that was how he was supposed to look.

Preston’s brow arched upward. “Henry, I’ve known you all my life. And you’ve never looked so havey-cavey as you do tonight.” His nephew paused and studied him closer. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you have an assignation in the works.”

“Why does everyone think that tonight?” Henry said far too quickly.

“Aha!” Preston snapped his fingers. “So you do!”

“Ridiculous!” Henry said, resorting to a lawyer’s trick of neither confirming nor denying the truth.

“So who else thinks you’ve got a lady love stashed away above stairs?”

“No one—”

Preston gave him the Seldon stare, a glower that could wrench even a king into confessing his most dire secrets. And while Preston hadn’t quite mastered the dark glance, he was—much to Henry’s dismay—acquiring an admirable knack for it.

“Oh, bother,” Henry complained. “First there was Loftus.”

“Rather telling, my good man,” Preston remarked.

“How so?”

“A valet knows these things. If Loftus believes—”