And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake(96)

Preston’s brows furrowed into a line of confusion. “Why do you care what she thinks of you?”

The confession came out before Henry could stop the words. “Because I love her.”

There was a moment when Preston just stood there—most likely weighing whether or not he’d heard Henry correctly—but then the words registered and the duke sank into the large leather chair.

It creaked and protested.

“No, Henry,” he said, shaking his head. “Not her.”

“Yes, her.”

“She’s a Dale.” It was a statement that in any other circumstances would have been self-evident.

“I couldn’t help myself.”

“One says that over too much wine. Or betting on a nag that any man can see is going to run dead last. But not with one of them.”

A Dale.

Henry raked his hand through his hair. “You like her,” he pointed out.

“Liking her and pulling all the pins out of her hair is an entirely different matter.”

“She’s so demmed gorgeous.” As if that explained the circumstances. Nor could it be resolved by telling Preston that he’d done all that because Daphne Dale was aggravating and opinionated and tempting and delightful.

All at once. No, he’d stick with “gorgeous.”

“Of course she is,” Preston was arguing. “All Dale women are, and that’s the rub. Gorgeous, tempting pieces. Then once you find yourself leg-shackled to one of them, you’ll end up like Cornelius Seldon,” Preston said. “You do recall the story of Cornelius Seldon, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Henry ground out. Zillah used to tell them of Mad Corny’s final trip to Bedlam as a bedtime cautionary tale.

It had given Henry nightmares for years. Until . . .

“And what about Lord Kendrick Seldon? Do you recall how he ended his days once he’d crossed the line?”

Henry’s gaze wandered up to the pike. Kendrick had been the source of his remaining childhood nightmares.

Preston wasn’t done. “I can’t believe you’ve fallen in love with her. What were you thinking?”

Apparently the ruinous interlude in the library was excusable, but falling in love with her, well, that was another matter altogether.

“When and how did this happen?” the duke continued. He glanced around the library. “And I assume this began before tonight?”

Henry nodded. Since it seemed a night for disclosures, he told Preston nearly everything.

About his mistake at the engagement ball. The encounter in the folly.

Meanwhile the duke had gotten to his feet and was once again pacing. “If Hen finds out—”

“Oh, good God, no,” Henry added, coming to his senses.

“Now you see that? After you’ve gone and—”

“Demmit, Preston!” Henry said, getting to his feet as well. “It isn’t like I set out to ruin her.”

It was bad enough she was ruined, but she’d left him aching for more. Left him gobsmacked with the white-hot truth: he’d never stop wanting her.

“You cannot pretend this did not happen,” the duke told him. “There are consequences to these things. There always are.” If anyone would know that, it was Preston. “The Dales will be out for blood.”

“However do you think they will find out?” Henry shot back.

“Someone always finds out,” Preston said, again with the surety of a practiced rake.

“It isn’t as if she is going to tell her family this.” No more than Henry had any intention of telling Hen.

Preston groaned, hand to his forehead. “Of course she won’t say anything directly. But someone will hear of this. Mark my words.”

“Not from Miss Dale. She’s in love with someone else.” Henry paused. “She’s convinced he’s the only man for her.”

The duke turned and studied his nephew. “In love with whom?”

“Dishforth,” Henry said. “She is in love with Dishforth.”

“Dishforth?” Preston’s eyes widened as he tried not to laugh. “That is a tangle.”

“Do not remind me. I loathe the fellow.”

“You are the fellow.”

“Yes, and I’m a wretched bastard in both cases,” Henry admitted.

Preston did laugh this time. “When you tell her that Dishforth is naught but a figment of your imagination, she’ll probably be inclined to share your loathing—so you’ll have something in common.”