And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (9 page)

More handsome than even Crispin, Viscount Dale? Was such a thing possible?

Then Daphne noticed something important. “Phi?”

“Yes?” Her cousin winked owlishly at her.

“Where are your spectacles?”

Phi touched her nose and, realizing she didn’t have them on, plucked them out of her apron pocket and quickly slid them on. She blinked a few times, then glanced at Daphne as if seeing her anew.

Which she was.

“My, don’t you look lovely today!” Phi enthused. Then she must have seen Daphne’s speculative expression. “I know what you are thinking, and yes, even without my spectacles, I can discern a truly handsome man.”

“If you say so—”

“I do,” she insisted, ruffling a bit. “Now where was I? Oh, yes, sorting out the salver—just in case one of
his
letters had been mixed in—when I heard someone coming up the steps. His boots made such an impressive sound—so strong a stride. Immediately I knew.”

Daphne nodded in understanding, thinking of the steady, purposeful beat of Lord Henry’s heels as he’d danced with her.

Though the comparison was not to be taken very seriously. Lord Henry could hardly hold a candle to Mr. Dishforth.

Especially now that she’d seen him. Well, sort of.

“I got the door just as he was about to ring the bell,” Phi said.

“Thank goodness!” Daphne exclaimed, having been curious as to how Great-Aunt Damaris had not been awakened.

“Yes, precisely,” Phi agreed. “Then he bowed—most elegantly—”

“Of course,” Daphne agreed, envisioning him doffing his top hat and making his bow.

“And then he introduced himself,” she said. “And asked to see you. Well, not you, but Miss Spooner. ‘I am here to see Miss Spooner,’ he said and in such a commanding voice, Daphne.” Phi sighed. “Yet he was ever-so-considerate at the same time. I nearly swooned.”

“Truly?” For Phi was the most practical of all the practical Dales.

Phi spoke in hushed tones of awe. “His voice is like the finest plum cake. Rich and deep and ever so tempting.”

Daphne sat back and eyed her cousin. She had the sudden suspicion that Phi had taken to reading those ridiculous
Miss Darby
novels that Harriet swore were the most romantic stories ever written.

“Yes, well,” Phi continued when she realized Daphne was gaping at her, “suffice it to say your Mr. D is handsome, mannerly and speaks in the most heavenly tones.”

“But what did he want?”

“Well, you!” Phi said. “He wanted to see you. He was most insistent.”

Daphne let out the breath she’d been holding. “Whatever did you tell him?”

“That you were not here. That you had gone out of Town.” Phi sighed. “Which is nearly the truth, for you are still planning on returning to Kempton when the others go to
that house party,
are you not?”

“That house party”
being the one at Owle Park.

Phi was a Dale down to her bones in her dismay.

“Yes,” Daphne told her. “I am returning to Kempton. On the afternoon coach, the day after next.”

Phi nodded approvingly, for she’d been on hand when Great-Aunt Damaris had lectured for a full hour on the follies and ruin of associating with the Seldons, including instructing Daphne on how to extract herself from her friendship with Miss Timmons now that Tabitha was to be so tainted in her marriage to one.

“You might want to find some way to delay your return,” Phi said, “for he would not take ‘no’ for an answer when I said you were unavailable.”

Daphne shivered. Handsome
and
forceful. “Whatever did you do?”

“Gave him the letter you asked me to post yesterday. And wished him a good day.” She shrugged. “I had to get him out of the foyer as quickly as possible before Herself caught wind of him . . . or worse, Croston came up from the kitchen.”

Daphne’s mouth dropped open at Phi’s presence of mind.

“Thankfully, he was enough of a gentleman to take no for an answer,” Phi continued, smoothing out her skirt.

Unlike how Lord Henry might have handled the matter,
Daphne found herself thinking, imagining him in the foyer and not leaving well enough alone, bursting into the parlor and giving Great-Aunt Damaris the fright of her life.

Before the old girl gave him one of her own.

Goodness, Daphne thought with a shake, would that man never stop invading her thoughts?

Thank goodness Mr. Dishforth was nothing like him.

Save the handsome part.

A handsome Mr. Dishforth, a wealthy Mr. Dishforth. This gave Daphne some smug satisfaction.

Oh, if only she’d been able to find him last night at the Duke of Preston’s ball before she’d met with such humiliating disgrace. Then she could have danced with him and snubbed the Seldons, one and all, from the sanctuary of Mr. Dishforth’s solid and steady embrace.

And she would never have had to suffer through Lord Henry’s insufferable opinions.

“Are you sure about that?”
she could almost hear him mock.

“Oh!” Phi burst out, straightening up and digging into the pocket of her apron. Her actions jolted Daphne out of her woolgathering. “But that wasn’t all.”

There was more?

“He asked me to pass this on to you.” Phi held it close for a moment longer. “He said he had written it just in case he could not meet you in person.”

Of course he had. Mr. Dishforth was not only a romantic; he was also a practical man who always had the forethought to plan ahead.

It was one of a myriad of reasons Daphne was already in love with him.

Phi continued to hold onto the letter, slowly presenting it, as if she was offering a chest of jewels, ones she truly didn’t want to surrender.

Daphne barely breathed as she reached out for the now familiar thick paper, the address written in that strong, bold hand she liked to trace with her finger.

Miss Spooner

18, Christopher Street

Mayfair, London

“Open it!” Phi said, as breathless as Daphne.

“Yes, yes,” she said, suddenly reluctant to do so. Especially in front of Phi.

What would she say if it held more of those bold, passionate sentiments that his letter of the other day had carried?

But the news, she soon discovered, was of a different sort.

My Dearest Miss Spooner, I have put off telling you this, and I had hoped to tell you all this last night—may I say this frankly, shall we forget last night?—

Forgotten,
Daphne would have told him most emphatically.

I am under an obligation to leave Town and will not be back for a month, perhaps longer. I am to attend a house party in the country. Please, after last night, if you are still inclined to correspond with me, address your letters to Owle Park, Kent,  . . .

Daphne sucked in a deep breath. Owle Park?

“What is it?” Cousin Phi begged, squinting down at the page.

“He is going to the wedding.”

“He is going to be married?” Her cousin straightened, clearly outraged and ready to pitch herself headlong into a plot to exact revenge.

Daphne reached over and pulled her back. “No, no! He is
going
to a wedding.” Then, remembering where she was, she lowered her voice. “Tabitha’s wedding.”

Phi paused as she made all the connections, then her mouth fell open. “Dear heavens!”

“Whatever am I to do? Mother has forbidden me from going. Aunt Damaris said she will have me removed from the family annals if I even consider attending.”

Cousin Phi straightened. Then she said something that shocked Daphne right down to her boots. “There is nothing left for you to do but go. You must.”

Had Cousin Phi just urged her to go to the wedding? A Seldon wedding?

“How do I dare?” Daphne whispered.

Phi leaned closer. “If you had met Mr. Dishforth, as I have, you wouldn’t even ask that question.”

Chapter 5

Does it matter what is on the outside, when there is a heart beating inside, a soul full of longing as it waits to discover its own grand passion?

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner

Owle Park, Surrey

A sennight later

H
enry came down the main staircase early for breakfast. More to the point, before the rest of the guests arose. Benley would have the newly arrived London papers at the ready for him, and he could eat his kippers and eggs in peace.

Which would be difficult to find—solitude, that is—in the next fortnight, what with Owle Park overflowing with guests. Carriages had arrived in a steady stream the previous day and late into the night, the last-minute guests hurrying to stake their claim at what gossip columns were calling “the only house party of note.”

Thus, no one had turned down an invitation.

Especially since the engagement ball—specifically the supper dance, or that “scandalous dance,” as it had been dubbed. One night and he’d become an object of speculation and gossip, a position for which he was ill-fitted.

That had always been Preston’s role in the family, not Henry’s. But now that the duke had become utterly respectable with his engagement to Miss Timmons, the curious had pinned their avid interest on Henry.

And all because of
her
. That demmed Miss Dale.

Not that Henry didn’t feel a bit of guilt over all of it. Perhaps he had provoked her.

Ever-so-slightly.

Still, there was no arguing that her flight from the dance floor had put a crown on his head as the most Seldon of all Seldons, and there was just no removing it—not if the invitations that had suddenly flooded the foyer at Harley Street afterward were any indication. Offers, vouchers and notes from ladies—married and otherwise. All addressed to Lord Henry Seldon.

Not Preston. Not Hen. Him.

Apparently a man who inspired such wrath from a lady demanded a closer inspection.

Overnight, he’d become London’s most notorious rake.

Henry didn’t realize it, but he’d come to a stop on the landing, and one of the newly hired maids scuttled past him, all wide-eyed and curious, as if she were viewing such a creature for the first time.

A rake!

He felt like calling after her, “Boo!”

Instead, he shook his head and continued down the steps, the house around him silent at this unfashionable hour, save for the whispered movements of the servants as they readied the house for the day’s activities.

Which he would have to take part in—at Hen and Preston’s insistence. Penance, he supposed, for the debacle at the engagement ball.

He would have been much happier to have stayed in Town and come down the day before the wedding and then return to London immediately after, but no, now that he’d become the latest
on dit
there had been naught to do but flee to the country.

At least Owle Park afforded him one benefit. No Miss Dale.

That thought should have been some comfort to him, but it only showed that the impudent, wretched bit of muslin continued to invade his thoughts. What with her winsome smiles, her bright eyes and fair features.

And her utterly vexing behavior.

Well, thankfully, her stubborn pride and Dale bloodlines had kept her from accepting the invitation to Preston’s wedding and house party—no matter that she was supposedly Miss Timmons’s dearest friend.

But being in the country also left him at a disadvantage; he could hardly press forth with his search for Miss Spooner while he was stuck here rusticating.

His jaw worked back and forth. There hadn’t been a letter or a note from the lady since that night.

The night Miss Dale had ruined everything.

And as it was, every time he thought of that miss, he couldn’t but help compare her to Miss Spooner.

Which left him imagining her as Miss Dale’s true opposite—dowdy, plain, without an ounce of grace—like the creature who’d answered the door at Christopher Street.

For a moment, Henry had feared he’d need to put his own words to the test.

Does it matter what is on the outside . . .

The owlish girl—no, make that spinster—who had answered the door and regarded him with a mixture of suspicion and awe had left him a bit taken aback. That is until he discovered she wasn’t Miss Spooner.

Thank God,
he’d nearly cheered, even as she’d taken his letter and efficiently sent him packing.

Must be a relation, he realized, for she had the same sensible and determined air that echoed through the pages of Miss Spooner’s letters. He’d also been struck by the thought that there was something very familiar about the gel, as if he’d seen her before—a family resemblance perhaps to his Miss Spooner—but the only person who kept coming to mind was Miss Dale.

Henry grimaced. Miss Dale, indeed! Wouldn’t that be a nightmare?

No, he wanted a steady, reliable companion to spend his days with.

But what about your nights?
a wry voice teased.
Who would you rather spend your nights with?

Never mind that the first image that came to mind was Miss Dale, her hair unbound and that sylvan, delectable figure of hers wrapped only in his sheets, enticing him to abandon his sensible nature and come while away the night in the pleasures that only a creature of her nature could offer.

It was an image that had haunted him since that night.

Why, he’d even thought he’d seen her following him in London when he’d gone to discover Miss Spooner’s identity. Ridiculous notion—but that was what Dale women and their insufferable beauty did to sensible men.

Yes, a proper, sensible miss was exactly what he needed to extinguish this restless fire Miss Dale had lit inside him.

With that resolution firmly planted in his heart, he turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs and noticed a single note in the salver. He might have just walked right past, for it was probably no more than some titillating bit of gossip dashed off and left for one of the footmen to deliver to the intended party, but the handwriting stopped him cold.

And not just the handwriting, the name to whom it was addressed:

Dishforth

Glancing around, if only to ensure there was no one looking, Henry’s hand snaked out quickly and snatched it off the silver plate. He gaped down at the single folded page written in none other than Miss Spooner’s sure hand.

How the devil . . .

Taking another surreptitious glance around the open foyer and reassured that no one else was about, he slid his thumb under the wafer, wrenched the folded sheet open, and read the single line it contained.

As it turns out, I was invited as well.

Tucking neatly into her laden plate, Daphne sighed and glanced around the comfortable morning room. She found it unfathomable that this welcoming corner of Owle Park—what with its rococo ceiling, white wainscoting, celery paint and gilt trim here and there—was the design of a Seldon. Even the sparkling morning sunshine pouring in from the long windows at either end of the room cast such a bright, friendly glow that it made it nearly impossible to believe she was so deep in enemy territory.

Owle Park. The hereditary home of the Seldon heirs. She’d tamped down a momentary bit of panic by reaching over and putting her hand atop Mr. Muggins’s wiry head. The Irish terrier, Tabitha’s beast of a dog, had greeted her last night like a long-lost friend and had yet to leave her side—for which Daphne was grateful.

“Out on our own, aren’t we?” she whispered to him as she scratched behind his ears.

Mr. Muggins let out a grand sigh and tipped his head just so, willing to listen to her troubles as long as she continued to hit
that
spot.

“Dishforth is close at hand,” Daphne said, happy to have someone to confide in, even if it was just Mr. Muggins. “He’s here, within these walls.”

That very thought should have been enough to bolster her spirits, but there was one other consideration.

While Dishforth may indeed be at Owle Park this very moment, so was Lord Henry Seldon.

Daphne pressed her lips together and sighed. Wretched, awful man.

She couldn’t help it. Every time she thought of him, she reminded herself that he was exactly that.

A wretched, awful man.

Speaking of the devil, his deep voice sputtered from the doorway. “Oh, good God! What are
you
doing here?”

Daphne and Mr. Muggins both looked up to find the very fellow standing in the doorway.

“Lord Henry.” Daphne tipped her head slightly in greeting, while inside her thoughts clattered about like a shop bell.

Whatever was he doing up so early? She had assumed that when they—she, along with Lady Essex, Harriet and Lady Essex’s nephew, the Earl of Roxley—had arrived so late the night before and there had been no sign of him, he’d most likely already been engaged in whatever rakish and devilish exploits a man of his reputation and proclivities pursued.

For some reason the very notion of him with another woman piqued her in ways she didn’t like to consider.

Instead, she’d lent her consideration and pity toward the poor deluded lady who was the object of his attentions.

But that didn’t explain what he was doing up so early and looking as if he was in top form—brushed and dressed, his gaze sharp and piercing. Hardly the appearance of a man who’d been out carousing the hours away.

“Miss Dale, where did you come from?” he demanded as he came into the room and stopped at the far end of the table.

“London,” she replied smoothly, despite the flutter of emotions inside her at the sight of him. “Don’t you recall, we met there but a week ago.”

He flinched. “I had heard you declined Preston’s invitation,” he replied, glancing around the empty room and frowning.

She wasn’t any more pleased to be alone with him than he was. “I changed my mind.”

“Of course you did,” he said, looking ready to throw up his hands in despair . . . or throw her out.

Daphne reached for Mr. Muggins and tried to look braver than she felt. Whyever did this man leave her so . . . so . . . undone? And certainly she couldn’t let him inspire another scene like the one that had transpired at the engagement ball.

No, no, that would never do.

Stealing another glance at him, with his brow furrowed, his blue eyes dark with something she suspected was not a welcoming light, she thought it might help to remind him of her position here. “I know Tabitha will be ever so glad to see that I was able to come down with
Lady Essex
.”

As she suspected, Lord Henry looked ready to cast up his accounts at the mention of the spinster’s name.

But the devilish man wasn’t completely undone. Composing himself quickly, arms crossed over his chest as if he hadn’t the least notion what she was talking about, he said, “And your family? They approve of you being here? I’d think they’d be up in arms.”

Now it was Daphne’s insides that quaked. “Not in the least,” she lied. “They trust I will not be tempted by your family’s notorious predilections.” Pausing for a moment to look again at his handsome features, she added hastily, “Which I won’t.”

“Thank God for small favors,” he shot back, his deep tone ruffling down her spine with its rich notes of irony, while his gaze raked over her and dismissed her all at once.

“Are there more Dales due to come after you?” he asked, having obviously warmed to his subject: her removal. “A rescue effort so to say? Should we expect the odd catapult to be wheeled over from Langdale?” he said, making light of the Dale property that adjoined Owle Park.

The property resided in by Crispin, Viscount Dale.

That was the one snag in all this. Crispin. She just needed to avoid him. Which would be easily done, since he would never set foot on Seldon land.

Unlike her.

Daphne felt a frisson of guilt but once again pushed it aside. There was more at stake here than deeply held family obligations.

“No, I hardly think that will be necessary,” she said. “I don’t believe my stay will be overlong.”

“No?” Good heavens, he needn’t sound so hopeful.

“No,” she acknowledged, not saying anything more, returning to her breakfast with a determination to ignore the man and concentrate on her plans to find Dishforth.

For she hadn’t much time to accomplish her task.

Daphne had no idea how long Phi could hold up her end of the bargain and stall the family from discovering the truth—that she wasn’t, as her mother believed, continuing her sojourn in London at Great-Aunt Damaris’s home. Which meant the grand dame of the Dale clan had to be kept under the impression that Daphne had returned to her parents’ house in Kempton.

Given that it would take a week or so for the letters to cross and recross, as long as Phi could intercept any damaging correspondence and no one reported Daphne’s whereabouts or repeated some gossipy report from the night of the ball, Daphne would have just enough time to discover Mr. Dishforth, fall utterly in love with him, and then return to London or Kempton betrothed to the perfect gentleman.

At least that was the plan. She glanced down at Mr. Muggins for reassurance.

The dog had his eyes on the plate that Lord Henry was filling over at the sideboard.

She ground her teeth in frustration. Did he have to stay? Then she reminded herself—this was his family’s house, and she was the interloper.

When he noticed her staring at him, he asked, “Whatever are you doing up so early?”

“I prefer to arise at this hour.” She glanced over at him. “As do you, it seems.”

“Yes, I had thought to avoid the wedding hordes.” His glance at her and Mr. Muggins was telling.

Or the stray unwanted Dale.

Daphne smiled blandly, as if she hadn’t a clue what he might mean.

Then he turned, plate in hand, and faced her. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why?” His jaw set. “Miss Dale, your being here is inexplicable.”

“And yet, here I am.”

“Again, I ask why?” he pressed.