And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(91)

“Miss Walding?” Henry shook his head. “Unlikely.”

“Better than Miss Nashe.” Preston shuddered. “Last time I leave the guest list up to Hen.”

Henry didn’t bother to point out that the next guest list Preston had to review would have been compiled by his bride. Nor did he have time to, for Preston stopped and turned, put a warning finger to his lips, then pointed at a small slat in the wall. Shielding the candle with his hand to hide the light, Preston nodded at Henry to slide it open.

Taking a deep breath, and steeling himself against a major disappointment, Henry stepped up to the hole that had been hidden there.

In that moment, the entire guest list ran through his thoughts.

Lady Alicia, Lady Clare, Miss Nashe, Miss Walding, the Tempest twins, Miss Hathaway . . . right there, Henry stopped himself.

For in his mind’s eye, he imagined only one woman in the library.

No, not imagined. Desired. With a thunderous, loud rumble of desire that rushed through his veins like an avalanche.

Daphne Dale. With her willowy ways and impertinent manners. With her rosy, delectable lips, a mouth made for kissing, and a body that left a man with nothing but the most lascivious notions.

Why, that damned gown she was wearing tonight fit her like a glove and left him speechless. Yes, that was all he needed—a bride who would leave him in a perpetual state of dismay and desire.

No, his Miss Spooner was on the other side of this wall, and she would be a sensible, proper lady who would make an excellent partner with whom to live a perfectly prudent life.

That was what he wanted.

Until, that is, he peered through the opening.

And immediately reared back. “Good God, I’m ruined!” he gasped, albeit as quietly as he could.

He found himself with his back to the opposite wall, his chest pounding.

“I’m done for,” he whispered, his frantic gaze fluttering up to meet Preston’s.

Because he knew in his heart that this was exactly what he wanted. Wasn’t it?

“Who is it?” Preston asked in the same hushed tone.

Henry couldn’t say the name. Honestly, didn’t know if he could even speak.

He merely nodded toward the opening. Be my guest.

Preston slanted a quizzical glance at him and then took a look. He had much the same reaction and reeled back from the hole as if it were on fire. “We’re all done for!”

The duke reached over and closed the slat. Then he pointed that they should beat a hasty retreat, handing Henry the candle so he could lead the way.

If only it was that easy.

“Better you found out now,” the duke whispered. “At least you are braced for the meeting ahead.”

Meeting?

“What the devil do you mean?” Henry asked.

“When you go in there,” Preston nudged him forward.

“I’m not going in there.” Was Preston mad? That room was no longer the library. It was the Coliseum, and he was about to be cast into the ring for lions to devour.

No, he wasn’t going. Not willingly. Not unless Preston had a Roman legion to prod his every step.

He wasn’t about to go in there and make a bloody fool of himself. She loved another, not him.

She was expecting her most excellent gentleman . . . not him.

Then the totality of all of it tumbled into place.

Oh, good God, she was expecting Dishforth. Her most excellent gentleman was . . . him.

Henry felt one of Hen’s megrims coming on. Hen never suffered from the complaint, but she demmed well knew how to give them.

“You have to go in there and tell her,” Preston whispered. No, more like commanded.

Henry took back his sentiment that Miss Timmons was to be commended for her reform of the duke.

A reformed duke was a pain in the ass.

Namely, his. Henry shook his head, as recalcitrant as a child.

Go in and face Miss Dale? Alone? In the library? With that grinning portrait of the seventh duke looking down at him in disappointment that he didn’t have the lady’s gown up over her hips and her crying out in delight?

No. He wasn’t going to do that.

But Preston had another notion. “You owe the lady the truth. Honor demands it. Anything less would be cowardly.”

Henry flinched. Damn Preston. Any moment now he was going to be dredging up the family code of honor, like Zillah would.

They’d gotten to the panel where they’d entered the tunnel and Preston reached over him, feeling around the wall for the latch.