And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(93)

Yes, of course. “And you came here alone?”

“I was on my way up to bed.”

Bed. That word landed between them and caught them both in its snare, its implications.

“Alone?” He couldn’t help himself. He followed the seventh duke’s example and leered.

Just a bit.

“Of course,” she huffed. “As I was trying to explain, I have a megrim.” And then, remembering her malady, she pressed her hand to her brow. After a few moments of this dramatic repose, she opened one eye to see its effect.

He gave her his best imitation of Zillah’s stare—the one that said all too clearly that the preceding statement was a steaming pile of horse manure.

“Well, it isn’t a truly horrific one. Yet. Just the beginnings of one,” she corrected, fingers going to press her forehead as if that could stem the rising pain. “After making my excuses to your sister and Lady Essex . . . in fact, it was Lady Essex’s suggestion that I retire early—”

“Who am I to disagree with my sister and Lady Essex?”

“Who, indeed?”

“That doesn’t explain how you ended up here, alone, in the library.”

“As I said, I came here to find a book.”

“To read?”

“Of course!”

“To help ease your megrim?”

Miss Dale stilled, like a doe cornered. Then she turned ever so slowly, her chin chucked up and her eyes full of determination.

He had to admire her daring. Her continued battle to maintain this charade.

“Not to read this evening, my lord,” she replied.

“No, of course not.” He shook his head, the master of concern and care.

Lying little minx.

“As you know, I like to arise early—”

Yes, he knew.

“And I thought that if I awoke refreshed, I might like to read before I came down for breakfast.” She finished with a triumphant smile, her chin tipping upward, daring him to refute her story.

He had to admit she had bottom.

But was a terrible liar.

Henry glanced up at the seventh duke’s portrait hanging over her shoulder.

What the devil are you waiting for?

Henry blinked. Had he just heard that? “Pardon?”

“I didn’t say anything,” she told him before she glanced over her shoulder. Henry could have sworn she flinched as she looked at the notorious rake.

There was little doubt in Henry’s mind what the duke would advise his namesake to do.

Get up. Take that bonny bit of muslin in your arms and declare yourself. It’s that simple.

If only it was. For now that he was faced with telling her the truth, he realized he wanted Daphne Dale to choose him for being him—not the man who had written those ridiculous letters.

Dishforth, he would tell Miss Dale, is a right proper prig.

No, Henry wanted her to defy everything that was sensible and proper. Demmit, defy her family as he would his, and choose him. Lord Henry Seldon.

So he began with the first of the seventh duke’s instructions. He got up.

Miss Dale regarded him warily, her fingers digging into the settee before her. “Are you leaving?”

She sounded rather hopeful.

“No,” he told her, crossing the room toward her.

She backed up until she stood right beneath the previous Henry Seldon.

“I came for something,” he told her as he stopped before her.

“Can I help you find it?” she offered, standing her ground. So you’ll be on your way.

“Yes, I believe you can,” he said, reaching out and hauling her into his arms. Rakish step number two accomplished. “Miss Dale, I have something to tell you.”

Overhead, Henry thought it was the duke’s turn to flinch.

Honesty? With a woman? Are you mad? Wait just a bloody moment, did you say Dale—

Henry blotted out any more notions of seeking his grandfather’s advice.

He could do this on his own from here. Thank you very much.

“Lord Henry?”

He looked down at her. “Yes, Miss Dale?”

“Did you know you have a collection of cobwebs on the shoulder of your jacket?”

He glanced over. “I shall advise my valet to be more careful in future.”

“Indeed, in fact—”

“Miss Dale, there is something I must tell you—”