And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(89)

“You!” she gasped, gaping accusatorially at the face looking down at her.

Lord Henry. Well, not her Lord Henry.

Not that he was hers, per se. But . . .

Oh, bother, just stop, Daphne, she chided herself. How was it that scoundrel always left her so tangled up?

“I don’t care what he says,” she told the painting of Henry Seldon, the seventh Duke of Preston, “the resemblance between the two of you is uncanny.”

The seventh duke had no reply other than that mischievous smile that could not be contained in oil and paint, or dimmed with age. As she gazed up at the rogue, she had the feeling that even now, His Grace was looking down at her from his gilt-framed prison and taking a lascivious delight in imagining her clad only in her chemise.

Daphne whirled around and put her back to the painting. “You devil!” she scolded over her shoulder.

Oh, good heavens, what was wrong with her? She was going mad if she was talking to paintings.

Stealing a glance over her shoulder, she found the duke still grinning at her, but all she saw was Lord Henry’s face—as he’d held her tonight in the shadowed hallway and looked to be about to tell her something.

No, rather, show her something.

Well, the seventh duke would know.

“Your grandson hasn’t fallen so far from the tree,” she told the old duke. “He nearly ravished me in the hallway earlier.”

Nearly.

But he hadn’t. And what the devil had she been doing letting herself fall into his arms?

If she’d had any sense, she would have found her footing far more quickly and extracted herself from his grasp without a moment’s delay.

But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d lingered.

Yes, lingered. Just as he’d accused her before.

Dangerously waiting to see if Lord Henry would prove his heritage and make good his Seldon name.

By kissing her.

Daphne’s insides quaked just thinking about that moment. His lips so close to hers, her breasts pressed to his solid chest, his arms coiled around her—holding her fast.

Lord Henry had left her feeling completely undone. As if her hairpins had all fallen out, her gown had been stripped away and she’d been his for the ravishing.

“He may argue to the contrary, but he is no different than you,” she accused. “Well, I suppose you would have finished the task.” Daphne paced before the painting, stealing glances up at the old duke, infamous for his affairs.

Which had been left out of his lengthy description in Debrett’s.

Of course they didn’t put such things in Debrett’s. If they started including all the noblemen’s mistresses and affairs, well, there wouldn’t be enough paper in England to chronicle all that.

Was that why Lord Henry hadn’t kissed her? He was saving himself for another?

“Well, he was rather done up tonight,” she told the duke. “Handsomely so.” She paused. “As if he had an assignation.”

Daphne, well used to filling in lines for others, could well imagine what the duke might say.

Ah, you are correct, my lovely little delight. The perfect cravat. The shine to the boots. The light in his eye. No, our Henry hasn’t fallen too far from the Seldon tree. When he didn’t kiss you, I’d quite feared—

Daphne’s insides turned from that melting sort of memory of being held by Lord Henry into something more like boiling oil.

“And whyever didn’t he?” she demanded of the duke. “Kiss me, that is?”

The rogue had no reply, but the glint in his eye suggested that he would not have failed in such an endeavor.

“I wonder who she is?”

Jealous?

“Not in the least.” Daphne’s brow furrowed. “I suppose I should be thankful. He would have ruined everything.”

If he hasn’t already . . .

“You see,” she continued, for apparently it was quite helpful to have an understanding, yet completely impotent, rogue to confide in, “he’s got me questioning everything about—well, about someone else. Someone I thought would be the perfect choice.”

But there was the rub. What if Dishforth wasn’t like Lord Henry? Didn’t leave her so unsettled, so filled with this restless passion that seemed to have a voice of its own, constantly demanding to be let out?

“Well, that wouldn’t do,” Daphne muttered. She couldn’t discard her reputation, her virtue just to discover what might be possible with a rogue like Lord Henry Seldon.