And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(92)

“You never know,” he was saying. “Miss Dale might find the entire situation amusing.”

Hope sprang up in Henry’s chest. “You think so?”

Preston shook his head. “No. Not in the least.”





Chapter 12



There is nothing I can say that will gain your forgiveness for my unpardonable lapse.

Found in a letter never sent by Miss Spooner to Mr. Dishforth




Henry took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the library, striding into the middle of the room. Feigning a measure of shock and surprise, he said, “Miss Dale! Whatever are you doing here?”

“Lord Henry?” Her face was the epitome of horror. “What are you doing here?” she finally managed, after—he guessed—she’d gone through a myriad of questions.

You’re Dishforth?

No, it can’t be true.

She glanced at the door, then her eyes narrowed. How the devil am I going to get rid of him?

Henry watched her as she moved around the settee in the middle of the room, strategically placing it between them.

A good plan, but it was hardly the gulf that Henry suspected they needed if they were to truly keep their distance.

“My lord! What are you doing here?” This time her question was a demand.

“What am I doing here?” He forced a puzzled expression onto his face. “Why, I came to get a book, why else?”

“A book?”

No woman had ever sounded so relieved in her life.

To make good his point, he strolled over to the bookshelf and pulled one down. After thumbing through it for a moment, he looked around the room and proceeded to settle into the large chair by the fireplace.

Mr. Muggins opened one eye, examined this new addition to the room, thumped his tail a few times in approval and went back to sleep.

Miss Dale did not share the hound’s opinion. “What are you doing?”

“Thought I’d read a bit before I settle down for the night.”

“Well, you can’t!”

He glanced up from the page. “Pardon?”

“You mustn’t,” she told him.

“I mustn’t what?”

“Read that book! Not here.”

“It is a library, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“And this is where one normally finds a book to read, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Yet I can’t read it here?”

“No.”

“Whyever not?”

“The light is poor.” She glanced around, searching for more coin to add to her lie. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your own room?”

“No.” He stuck out his legs and tucked his boots atop the ottoman. “I rather prefer to read in here. I find this room quite agreeable.” Then he went back to the pages before him.

And while he wasn’t reading, he was counting. One, two, three, four, five . . .

“You need to leave.”

He glanced up. “Leave?”

“Yes,” she said. “Immediately.” She pointed toward the door.

Henry closed the book and tossed it atop a nearby table. “Miss Dale, I have the distinct impression you want to get rid of me. Whatever are you about?” He glanced at her from head to toe. “Are you waiting for a gentleman? Some late-hour assignation?”

Her mouth fell open, but she recovered quickly. “What a scandalous suggestion, my lord!”

But, he noted, she hadn’t denied it. “Is it?”

“Yes! Don’t you recall that I am nearly betrothed?”

“Oh, yes, that,” he mused, waving his hand in dismissal.

“Yes. That.” Her gaze flitted from him to the door and back again, as if she could will him out of his seat.

Henry settled in deeper. “Still, I suppose when one finds a lady alone in the library at this hour of the night—when she should be safely ensconced and chaperoned in the salon with the company of the other ladies all around her—one might assume that she is—”

“Oh, good heavens! Only a man of your inclinations would assume such a thing.”

He ignored the slight she’d thrust into his midsection. “Then what are you doing here, Miss Dale?”

Her lips pursed together and her brow furrowed as she scrambled for an answer. “A book. Of course. That’s why I came here.”