And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (6 page)

No, Lord Henry Seldon had been quite content to be rather normal.

Boring, even.

Yet not when this slip of muslin looked up at him with that very dangerous light of desire. Something sparked inside him that he’d never thought he’d inherited.

Now, damning every bit of propriety he possessed as he glanced at her lips, he had only one thought.

To kiss her.

Claim her. Then he’d carry her off to Gretna Green if he must, if only to have her always.

Fire-breathing dragon of a chaperone notwithstanding.

Then it happened all at once.

Later he would realize that the warning note in her voice before that “what if” had been the Fates’ way of saying,
Be careful what you wish for
.

Or rather,
Who you desire
.

“Daphne!”

“Henry!”

“My goodness, unhand her, you bounder!”

That remark, he assumed, came from the chaperone.

As they broke away from each other, Henry swore that something fragile and most rare broke, as if snipped away before it ever had a chance to grow, to fully wind around them, bind them together.

Ridiculous notion, he thought immediately, glancing at her, and yet she was already lost, looking one way and then the other as the barrage of questions and outrage continued.

“What the devil are you doing?” Preston demanded, glancing first at Henry and then at the lady, his expression bordering on horror.

“Daphne, whatever are you about?”

But it was her chaperone who shocked him as she rounded Hen and pushed her way to the forefront. “Daphne Dale! I will have answers! You were supposed to dance with Lord Henry for the supper dance. Now that will make two dances, and there will be talk.” The hawk-eyed matron shot him a stony glance that said she blamed him. Entirely. “As if there won’t be already.”

Not that Henry was really listening, for he’d rather come to an abrupt halt over one thing.

Her name.

Daphne Dale
. His gaze shot back to her. Oh, good God, no!

“Lord Henry?” his once perfect miss was managing to say. Her words came spitting out as if she’d found a pit in a cherry tart. A very sour one. “As in Lord Henry
Seldon
?”

She backed up, her hands brushing down her arms, sweeping away whatever vestiges of him might be still lurking about, her nose wrinkled in dismay.

Not that he felt much better. What the hell sort of spell had she cast to leave him so blind? How had he not seen it? The disingenuous beauty, the deceptively fair and frail features . . . of course she was a Dale.

“Henry, explain yourself,” Hen was saying as she tugged him off the floor and into the folds of the crush of guests.

“Daphne, come with me at once,” Lady Essex said at exactly the same moment, carting off her charge with an air of indignation that suggested Daphne had missed the last tumbrel to her execution.

She cast one last glance at him before the crowd enveloped her, and the furious, scornful shame in her eyes tore at Henry’s heart.

It was as if she was suddenly the dragon to be feared.

As if she had the right to be angry.

Well, he’d like to remind her that this was
his
home. A Seldon home. Whatever was she, a Dale, doing here in the first place?

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she’d gone out of her way to beguile him on purpose. Lured him to her side, teased him into believing . . . tipping her smile just so he might . . . might . . .

Good God! He’d nearly kissed her. Right in front of the entire
ton
.

Meanwhile, Hen was the epitome of fury and composure, smiling to their guests while her fingernails dug into his sleeve. “What were you thinking? How could you not know who she was? I only hope Aunt Zillah didn’t notice you out there making a cake of yourself with one of them. Why, it would be—”

Ruinous
. Yes, he knew.

“How was I supposed to know?” he said in his own defense. Better that than confessing the truth: that he’d thought Daphne Dale was someone else. Against his better judgment, he looked over his shoulder toward her. Not that there was any sight of of the minx, save the whisk of her red skirt as she was pulled from the room by her chaperone.

Henry shook that vision from his thoughts. Shook her from his heart, even as it clamored for him to fetch her back. Demand answers of her.

Gain that kiss . . .

No. None of that. There would be no kissing that minx. Vixen. Witch.

That starry-eyed miss who’d stolen his heart.

No, he reminded himself, “she” had a name.

He only wished she hadn’t
that
one.

Chapter 3

Do you think it is possible that we have met? Have seen each other and not known who the other truly was? Could such a thing be possible, for I think I would know you, sir, anywhere.

Found in a letter from Miss Spooner to Mr. Dishforth

“T
he supper dance is next,” Harriet said happily, rocking on the heels of her slippers as she scanned the crowded dance floor.

“Don’t remind me,” Daphne groaned. If anything, she was becoming desperate. For every tick of the clock that left her search unresolved, every dance that left her lacking an answer, she remained under the threat of having to dance with
him
.

Lord Henry Seldon.

She still wasn’t quite past her shock that the man she’d thought—nay, would have sworn—must be Mr. Dishforth was none other than Preston’s uncle.

His
Seldon
uncle.

Harriet hardly batted an eye. “Have you considered, Daphne, that Lord Henry might be your Mr. Dishforth?”

Daphne tried to speak, but the words choked in her throat.

Her Mr. Dishforth a Seldon? Wasn’t it bad enough she’d considered, even been willing, to let that ne’er-do-well kiss her?

“No, he cannot be,” she told her friend. “I am sure of it.”

“How unfortunate.” Harriet shrugged and continued scanning the crowd around them.

Unfortunate? Daphne would call it a blessing.

Nor did she want to recall the delicious sense of wonder that had unfurled inside her limbs as Lord Henry had held her, gazed down upon her. The hard strength of his chest beneath her hands, the steady drum of his heart.

Daphne shuddered. This was exactly the madness she had hoped to escape when she’d started corresponding with Mr. Dishforth.

A sensible courtship, that’s what she’d sought.

Which certainly meant not letting some dratted man leave her at sixes and sevens, what with his rakish charms and lies.

No, somewhere in this room was a sensible, reliable, perfectly amiable man, and she meant to find him. But when she looked up, all she spied was a portly fellow heading in her direction, and she edged behind a large red velvet curtain to escape his wandering gaze.

Harriet glanced over her shoulder. “What are you doing back there?”

Daphne sighed and stepped out of its protective shadow. “Hiding from Lord Middlecott.”

“Whyever won’t you dance with him?” Harriet asked, propping herself up on her tiptoes and taking a measure of the baron, who was prowling the crowd for his next choice.

“There isn’t a prayer that he is Dishforth,” Daphne replied, maintaining a position well out of the man’s line of sight.

“Is that because he isn’t as handsome as Lord Henry?” Harriet teased.

Daphne cringed, for there was some truth in that statement. However, it wouldn’t do to give an ounce of credit to Harriet’s impertinent opinions. “No. It is because he’s only just come to London. Which rules him out as a possible candidate.”

“And you thought Mr. Ives, that rather rapscallion Mr. Trewick, and that poor vicar—”

“Mr. Niniham,” Daphne supplied.

“Yes, Mr. Niniham, might be Dishforth?” Harriet echoed. “You will dance with him, a vicar with barely enough income to keep you in hats, and two fellows who aren’t worth a snap, just in hopes that one of them might be
him
.”

“Yes,” Daphne told her, though she’d been quite relieved the poor vicar had turned out to be in no way, shape or form her Dishforth.

Oh, she’d been so confident when she’d strolled into the ball earlier. So sure she’d find her dearest, genuine Mr. Dishforth.

But that had been before . . . before
he’d
ruined everything.

Now every time she tried to recall her list of parameters for identifying Mr. Dishforth, the only thing that rose up in her mind was the image of an arrogant, tall, and exceptionally handsome man—one with leonine features, a tawny shock of hair, a piercing gaze and a sure stance.

Daphne’s brow furrowed. For what she envisioned was the very image of Lord Henry.

Lord Henry, indeed!

Her dismay must have been all too obvious, for here was Harriet studying her. “Good heavens, Daphne, whatever has your petticoat in a knot?”

Daphne straightened and pressed her lips into a line. “Harriet Hathaway! What a singularly vulgar thing to say!”

Harriet hardly appeared chastened. Quite the opposite. “Oh, don’t start parroting Lady Essex to me. I know you,” she shot back, arms crossed over her chest. “So what is it?”

“Him!” Daphne said, nodding across the way.

Harriet glanced up. “Lord Henry?”

“Yes, of course, Lord Henry! The man is wretched. I deplore him.”

“Didn’t look that way earlier,” Harriet said. “The two of you looked quite cozy.”

“He tricked me,” Daphne avowed. Though she knew that was only partially true. She’d tricked herself. “He lulled me with his charm.”

Harriet’s eyes widened, a slight smile tugging at her lips. “So what you are saying is that Lord Henry is charming . . .”

Daphne found herself being herded toward a confession she wasn’t going to make.

Ever.

“He can’t help it,” she said, mostly in her own defense. “Look at him over there now, flirting with Miss . . . Miss . . .”

Oh, bother, it was impossible to think of the girl’s name when her gaze kept straying to Lord Henry’s bright smile. And never mind that she knew exactly where he was. She was willing to concede that the Seldon males were overly handsome and eye catching.

Most likely every woman in the room knew exactly where that Lothario stood.

It was their curse,
their charm
. Daphne cringed at that last thought. Lord Henry Seldon was too charming.

“That’s Miss Lantham,” Harriet supplied.

“Yes, well, poor Miss Lantham. For there she is getting her hopes up that he’s taken notice of her, and he won’t. For in about two minutes he will be on to his next conquest.”

Harriet cocked her head to one side as she looked at Daphne. “And you would know this because . . . ?”

“Because that is exactly what he did to me. At least what he attempted to do,” she said. “I can hear him right now. ‘Oh, Miss Lantham, I would remember meeting you—how is it I have yet to have the pleasure of your acquaintance?’ ”

Harriet laughed at her imitation.

But Daphne wasn’t done; she nodded at the pair across the way, and when Miss Lantham began to chatter, she filled in the words for Harriet.

Miss Lantham:
“Lord Henry, I avow I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

“And I you, Miss Lantham,”
Daphne added, with a deep rakish voice.

Miss Lantham:
“I have a very large dowry I would love to show you.”

Lord Henry:
“I possess a great fondness for large dowries and ladies who delight in sharing.”

“Daphne, you are being wicked,” Harriet complained as she laughed. “Do stop, or you’ll have Lady Essex over here to discover why we are having fun and not out dancing with the Lord Middlecotts of the world.” Having composed herself, Harriet dared not look over at Lord Henry, but in his defense she said, “I hardly think he is as bad as all that.”

“He is an unpardonable rake.”

Harriet looked sideways at her. “Daphne Dale, I’ve never known you to be prone to such dramatics. Lord Henry is no rake. By all accounts, he’s considered quite dull.”

Against her better judgment, Daphne glanced across the room where he still stood charming Miss Lantham.

Dull? Hardly.

Not for all the silver in the King’s treasury would she admit the treacherous thoughts that had sprung to mind when Lord Henry raised his heart-stopping gaze and turned ever-so-slightly to look at her.

As if he’d known she’d been watching him.

Wrenching her gaze away, Daphne feigned indifference. Her insides were a little more difficult to tame, for her heart raced, and something wild and tempting uncoiled inside her, teasing her to look again.

Well, she wouldn’t.

“Whoever is your partner for the supper dance?” Daphne asked her friend, hoping this would change the subject.

“Oh, just Fieldgate,” Harriet said, casting the name aside with a breezy wave of her hand.

“Fieldgate!” Daphne made a
tsk, tsk
. “But you’ve danced with him twice tonight. I hope Lady Essex hasn’t noticed. She’s already vexed that I’ll be dancing with Lord Henry twice, but another round with Fieldgate? Harriet!” She wagged her finger at her friend. “She’ll complain to Roxley.”

“I know,” Harriet said, a slight grin tipping her lips.

“You deplore the viscount, Harriet.”

“I do indeed.”

“And Roxley avows he is a scandalous, scurrilous fellow.”

“Precisely his appeal,” Harriet said, once again smiling like a well-pleased cat.

Daphne shook her head. “You’ll push Roxley too far.”

“Not far enough,” Harriet said, glancing around for the earl, who was even now across the room chatting with a tall, well-dressed widow. The sight did nothing but bring a glower to Harriet’s face. “And what about you? Are you ready to risk England’s welfare and dance with Lord Henry a second time, or shall I stand warned that such a happening will most likely bring down the realm?”

“You shouldn’t tease,” Daphne told her, though when Harriet said it, it did sound rather ridiculous. “The Seldons are an egregious lot. Any Dale would tell you so.”

“Harrumph!” Harriet snorted. “However did this ridiculous feud get started?”

“I haven’t the least notion,” Daphne replied. She actually did know, but it was a very private matter. And not spoken of. Not by Dale or Seldon.

At least not in public.

“Daphne! There you are,” Tabitha said, having appeared out of the crush. “My goodness, you’ve been difficult to catch up with. If I didn’t know better, I would swear you’ve been hiding behind that curtain—which can only mean you haven’t found him.”

Oh, but I have,
her errant and newfound desires cried out.
He’s right over there.

Daphne fixed her gaze on Tabitha and did not indulge in another glance across the ballroom.

Tabitha, taking her friend’s silence and distraction all wrong, linked her arm in Daphne’s and began towing her along the edge of the ballroom. Harriet brought up the rear.

While it may appear a sisterly and affectionate move, Daphne was not fooled. Her friends were herding her toward her next partner. The last dance on her card. The one she’d been ordered to fill with a solitary name—and rebelliously she’d left blank.

The supper dance with Lord Henry.

“Whyever must I do this?” Daphne complained.

Heaving a sigh, Tabitha launched right in. It seemed she was quite prepared for this last protest. “Because it is Seldon family tradition. A sign that both families are in agreement over the marriage.”

“Rather ironic, don’t you think?” Harriet mused. “The two of you leading the way—”

“Yes, yes, very amusing,” Daphne shot back. “If Preston can scoff at the Kempton curse, whyever is he holding fast to this tradition?”

Tabitha smiled. “It is considered a blessing, a sign of good luck on the marriage. Don’t you want that for me?”

Daphne clenched her teeth. Oh, bother. Tabitha would have to say something like that.

And now it seemed Daphne would have no choice. Even when she’d left the supper dance blank on her card solely because she had held out every last hope that when she discovered the identity of Mr. Dishforth he would take Lord Henry’s spot.

Nay, demand it.

Miss Dale, it is my privilege, my right to claim this dance. Save you from this knavish Seldon.

At least that was how she’d imagined it.

Unfortunately for Daphne, all she had to show for an evening of accepting one dance after another was a pair of sore feet. She’d quite worn out her new slippers.

She took a moment to look down and mourn their loss. Daphne did so love a pretty pair of shoes.

“Oh, dear!” Tabitha exclaimed. “It appears Lady Essex is over there badgering Lady Juniper again. Most likely about the buntings for the wedding ball. Do you mind? I must extract her from Lady Essex’s clutches before Preston intervenes—you all know what happened the last time he crossed swords with Lady Essex.”

They all smirked. For the lady liked to remind one and all that the Duke of Preston had once kissed her.

Though not in that way,
she was wont to add.

“No, I don’t mind in the least,” Daphne said, glancing over toward the garden doors.

It would hardly be her fault if she missed her dance with Lord Henry because she needed a breath of fresh air. . . .

“Don’t you dare, Daphne Dale,” Tabitha warned, having taken two steps and then turned back.

“Dare what?” Daphne exclaimed, wrenching her gaze away from the lure that the open doors offered, the deep shadows of night enveloping the roses and graveled paths.

“Go hide in the garden to escape your dance with Lord Henry. I will not have this evening ruined by your lack of attendance at the supper dance. You must be there to lead it off with Lord Henry—it means everything to Preston. Besides, if you refuse, there will be talk.”

“I think their first dance together covered that issue quite nicely,” Harriet said with a well-meaning smirk.

Daphne’s gaze flew up. “I hardly think . . .”

But the look that passed between Tabitha and Harriet said it all. Oh, goodness, it hadn’t looked as bad as all that, had it?

Apparently so.

But gossip? Daphne stifled a groan, for the last thing she needed was
on dit
about her attendance at this ball bandied about London. A Seldon ball. She was still a bit in horror that someone might let drop to Great-Aunt Damaris that they’d spied her niece dancing the night away.

With Lord Henry Seldon.

She might be able to explain away her attendance—for Tabitha’s sake and all. But a second dance? Unforgivable.

“Daphne? Do you promise?” Tabitha said, giving her a little shake to rattle her out of her reverie.

Harriet crossed her arms over her chest and shot her pointed stare. “I’ll see that she makes it over to his lordship,” she said, more to Daphne than Tabitha.