And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake

chapter 10



Do you ever make mischief? I know we agreed to live a sober, sensible life, but sometimes one must laugh.

Found in a letter from Miss Spooner to Mr. Dishforth

“Well, I think I have apologized for everything, save the entire Irish race,” Tabitha declared as she came into their room to change before supper. She shot Harriet and Daphne pointed glances. “It should be the two of you down there groveling.”

Harriet glanced up from where she was ensconced on the settee reading the latest Miss Darby novel. “Apologize for what?”

Daphne bit her lips together, but it was no use; she couldn’t hold back the laughter.

Which turned out to be doubly contagious.

Tabitha quickly shut the door and, leaning against it, began laughing until tears were running down her cheeks.

“Did you see her face?”

“That first bark! He did warn her.”

“Who would have thought her so fleet?”

“Or so vulgar?”

They all laughed again, this time falling onto the settee around Harriet and laughing until they could barely breathe.

Mr. Muggins sat at their feet, looking askance at each of them.

He saw nothing humorous in any of it. There had been feathers afoot, and as far as the Irish terrier was concerned, he’d saved them all from a fate most dire.

For the moment Miss Nashe had paraded out of the morning room with her prized costume, she’d been met by Mr. Muggins.

Now some might have seen that confection of green silk, French lace and dyed feathers as the most beautiful costume ever.

They, however, were not an Irish terrier with attitude.

It had taken Mr. Muggins about two seconds to decide that particular gown was a menace to Society.

Miss Nashe, who wasn’t about to relinquish her prize, found herself very quickly backed up against the opposite wall with the gown clutched to her bosom. Not even when faced with a half-mad dog would she release her hold on her prize.

Instead, her screams—sharp, shrieking tones that Lady Essex would later say were inherited from the gel’s fishwife forebears—had brought the entire house running.

Not that Mr. Muggins was going to let anyone near. Not when there were feathers afoot.

“That was a standoff for the history books,” Harriet declared.

Tabitha shook her head. “I still don’t see how she was able to make it nearly to the stairs before Mr. Muggins caught her.”

Mr. Muggins wasn’t the only one in the girls’ room looking askance over the entire scene. Daphne’s maid, Pansy, stood by the clothespress, her mouth set in disapproval over their unladylike display. She sniffed and went back to sorting out Daphne’s gowns.

Thus chastened, the trio of friends did their best to look remorseful, for certainly they would have to make it through dinner and the rest of the evening without falling into another case of the whoops.

“Oh, my goodness,” Tabitha exclaimed, bounding to her feet, “is that the time?”

Pansy glanced over at the mantel clock. “Yes, miss.” She then shot a pointed stare at her mistress, for the maid knew all too well how long it took Daphne to get dressed.

“No, it cannot be!” Daphne declared. “I’ve hardly had time to choose a gown!”

And she had every reason to find the perfect dress. For after the dust had settled on what Lady Essex had declared “the feather incident,” Daphne had discovered a single note in the salver.

Tonight. Yes, my dear Miss Spooner. Tonight.

Dishforth had replied to her. Promised to meet her.

Daphne’s hand went to her belly to soothe her restless nerves before she once again surveyed her choice of gowns. The blue one she was wearing would not do, she could see that now.

Oh, to finally meet Mr. Dishforth. This was exactly why she’d come to Owle Park, and now it was to happen.

It had to happen. Why, she’d spent the rest of the afternoon composing list after list of the perfect things to say when she met him.

My dear Mr. Dishforth . . .

At last we meet . . .

I am speechless . . .

No, no, that would never do. If she was truly speechless, she wouldn’t be able to manage that much.

Oh, dear, whatever was she going to say?

When we meet, mere words will never be enough, my dear Miss Spooner.

Ah, yes, leave it to Mr. Dishforth to have the perfect answer for such an awkward situation.

She turned from the pile of gowns on the bed and hugged herself. Everything would be perfect from here on out.

Whirling around, she faced her maid. “Where is my green gown?”

“Another one, miss?” Pansy asked. “You look pretty as a picture in that one.”

“No, this shade of blue won’t do.”

“Do what?” Harriet asked. Suffering no case of nerves, Harriet had dressed with her usual casual efficiency in a modest gown and had had Pansy pin her dark hair up in a simple crown of ringlets.

“Nothing,” Daphne told her. “I have the right to change my mind.”

“No one is arguing that,” Tabitha said. “But look at the time.”

“Oh, bother!” Daphne said. None of her gowns seemed to be right. Not for tonight. She paused, taking another look at the apple green muslin she’d had made in London just a few weeks earlier and that Pansy had fetched from the clothespress. But it was too much like the gown Miss Nashe had worn yesterday. As a day dress. “No. This just won’t do.”

Tabitha and Harriet exchanged a glance, and then Tabitha shooed Pansy out the door.

They all loved Pansy dearly, but the girl was a bit of a gossip.

Once the door was closed and they were all alone, Tabitha turned to Daphne, hands fisted to her hips. “What is so special about tonight.”

Harriet sat up. “Is it Lord Henry?”

“Lord Henry?” Daphne sputtered. “Whyever would you say such a thing?”

Harriet looked to Tabitha for help. When none was forthcoming, she waded in. “It is just after last night—”

“Oh, not that again,” Daphne complained.

“Daphne!” Tabitha chided. “We saw you. The two of you. If you think no one noticed, you are very wrong.”

“There was nothing to see,” Daphne told them with every bit of resolve she possessed. As if that was the end of the matter.

Harriet snorted. “If nothing means Lord Henry was about to kiss you, then yes, I suppose we saw nothing.”

“He was not . . . I would never—” Daphne stammered.

Oh, whyever did it have to be Harriet and Tabitha accusing her? They knew all her secrets and her failings.

Primarily that she was a terrible liar.

So she went back to her choice of gowns, for she was at her wit’s end as to which one to wear for her assignation with Mr. Dishforth. She picked up one, then another, discarded them both and picked up a third. Well, the green muslin would just have to do. She was about to shrug out of the blue silk she was wearing when she found that her friends were not finished with her.

“Daphne, whatever is the matter with you?” Harriet said, rising to her feet and taking the green muslin out of her grasp. “That is the sixth gown you’ve tried on tonight.”

“I always change my mind,” Daphne protested, trying to retrieve the dress, but Harriet held it out of reach and then passed it along to Tabitha, who put it behind her back.

“You change your gown three times before dinner,” Harriet pointed out. “Never six.”

“I just want to look perfect tonight,” Daphne told them.

“What is so important about tonight?” Tabitha repeated, holding the muslin just out of reach, a tempting prize being offered for an honest answer.

Which Daphne was not about to concede. “Nothing. It is just that . . .” She stammered for a moment, then found her lie. “Miss Nashe was going on and on about her gown for this evening, and I would so like to outshine her—”

She had told them what the heiress had said over breakfast, so perhaps . . .

“This has nothing to do with Miss Nashe,” Tabitha said, seeing right through the ruse. “Besides, I think the score between you and Miss Nashe is quite even now.”

“Oh, goodness,” Harriet exclaimed. “It’s Mr. Dishforth, isn’t it?” Then her friend’s eyes widened. “You’ve discovered who he is, haven’t you?”

While she had hoped to keep her meeting a secret—after the disaster that was the engagement ball—she realized she very much needed their help this one last time.

“Nearly,” Daphne confessed.

Henry, who was never late for anything in his life, was late yet again.

Hen was going to have his hide on a platter for such a lapse—or call for a surgeon from London to have him gone over.

At least he had a partial excuse for his tardiness, he mused as he stood at the crossways of two long halls.

Demmed if he could find his way through the ambling maze of passages and wings that made up Owle Park. Unfortunately, this had been Preston’s childhood home, not his.

Getting lost, his sister would expect, but she’d have been shocked to discover the real reason behind his belated arrival: Henry had had Loftus replace not only his cravat—twice—but his boots and his coat as well. The poor valet had finally given up on his usually affable employer, throwing his hands in the air and muttering something about the country air having gone to his lordship’s head.

So he was a bit distracted. Why wouldn’t he be, when tonight his entire life would change?

We must meet. Tonight. In the library. After dinner. ~S

Yet he’d been taken aback as he’d read the sparse lines, sensing an urgency behind them.

On one hand was Miss Spooner, a lady, not just a week ago, he had welcomed meeting.

That is, until he’d crossed paths with Miss Daphne Dale.

Now? Well, he didn’t know what to think. Did he want to be Miss Spooner’s sensible gentleman, a role he’d always found agreeable, or did he want to be the rake he saw reflected in Miss Dale’s engaging glances?

Miss Dale, indeed! What an impossible notion.

No, no, he needed to discover who Miss Spooner might be and move cautiously forward from there. For he had told Zillah the truth: he would not marry just to be married. Not for money, or business, or status.

He’d follow his heart. A rather insensible notion for a man who prided himself on being practical. And he had the very impractical Miss Dale to thank for this change of heart.

That didn’t mean he knew what to do next. He’d spent a good part of the afternoon pacing circles around the fish pond wondering what the devil he was going to say to the chit.

Especially when every time he imagined entering the library and it was none other than Miss Dale who turned around to greet him.

Demmit, whatever would he do then? For he was already half in love with her.

Oh, why try to fool himself. There were no halves about it.

He was in love with Miss Dale.

And he could even pin it down to the exact moment when she’d succeeded in stealing his heart.

When he’d been watching the spectacle this afternoon. Oh, he hadn’t been eyeing Miss Nashe’s epic dash through Owle Park with Mr. Muggins on her heels. No, his gaze had been fixed on Miss Dale.

Miss Dale, with her lips pressed together so it appeared she was as beset and concerned as everyone else. He hadn’t been fooled. She’d had her mouth clenched shut to keep from laughing.

Much as he had.

And when she’d spied him watching her, she’d mouthed two words: Thank you.

In that instant, Lord Henry Seldon fell in love.

Head. Over. Heels.

With a Dale. He’d been so bowled over, so thunderstruck, that he’d barely been able to get out his answer.

You’re welcome.

Then she’d grinned at him and slipped back into the milling crowd, taking his heart with her.

As he’d stood there, utterly blindsided by this accident of fate, he realized he’d been in love with her for far longer. Probably since the first moment he’d clapped eyes on her at Preston’s engagement ball.

Love. What an ass he’d been all these years on the subject. Love, he now realized, was utter chaos. A maelstrom against the sagacious.

No wonder a bewitching minx such as Daphne Dale had inspired his once sensible heart to take flight.

In a panic, Henry had fled to the music room, hunted down a pen and paper and dashed off a response to Miss Spooner.

Tonight. Yes, my dear Miss Spooner. Tonight.

Henry had never fallen in love before, and panic had seemed the most sensible response.

Miss Spooner would restore his equilibrium, bring him back to his senses.

Yet now, as the time drew closer, he wasn’t sure what he would do. However would he know if he was making the right choice. If Miss Spooner was the right lady for him?

And his answer seemed to come as he rounded a corner and collided with another.

A lady, in fact.

“Oh, dear heavens!” she cried out as she slammed into him, his perfectly pressed jacket now creased beyond repair.

Henry caught hold of her, and the moment his arm wound around her waist, his fingers caught hold of her elbow and he steadied her, he knew.

Miss Dale.

He looked down at her, and for a tremulous second, they gazed into each other’s eyes.

One could have dismissed the night at the ball as mere chance. The afternoon in the folly as, well, folly. But Henry couldn’t deny that each time he looked into Miss Daphne Dale’s wide, innocent blue eyes, his heart stopped.

The entire world stilled, at least for him as he took in her silken wisps of blonde hair escaping from her nearly perfect coif, her pretty, full lips that were just made for kissing—no, make that devouring. It wasn’t panic that filled his veins this time but desire.

Hot, hard desire.

Henry wanted nothing more than to sweep her up in some medieval, high-handed manner and carry her off to the highest reaches of Owle Park.

There, he’d seduce her. Make love to her. Find solace for this restless, aching need racing through him that he knew, just damn well knew, she was the only woman capable of easing.

Of course, finding his way might be a bit of a bother . . . and might require he put her down to ask directions. But once they got there . . .

“Miss Dale,” he whispered. Daphne.

“I’m late . . . and a bit lost,” she murmured, her gaze never leaving his, her lashes fluttering as she spoke.

He had the sense she wasn’t just talking about finding the dining room—that the two of them were on the same errant course. One that kept tossing them together only to pull them apart.

Never mind that she was a Dale . . . oh, he couldn’t deny that was a rub. Henry could almost hear his forebears rising up to protest such a coupling . . . or how Aunt Zillah would take the news.

Perhaps that was exactly why Miss Dale was so devilishly tempting.

“I’m rather lost as well,” he confessed, looking down at her and resisting the urge to brush an errant strand of her blonde hair out of her eyes.

She shook her head as if she didn’t believe him. “How can you be lost?”

“I’ve never been here,” he told her, not even realizing that he had drawn her closer until he felt the rustle of her gown against his hips, or how his words might have a second, more important, meaning.

“Never?” Again the question was so laden with so many implications.

Layers Henry didn’t dare peel back. Even for a peek. “Yes, well, Preston grew up here. Until . . . until . . .” He paused, but one look at the sudden sad light that flickered in her gaze told him she knew the horrible story as well.

How Owle Park had been Preston’s childhood home until his entire family, save him, had perished from fever, leaving him orphaned and the heir all in one fell swoop.

That cold, haunted memory stopped them both. Sent a chill between them as if the ghosts in this house had better sense than they did.

It was enough to give Miss Dale the impetus to step out of his grasp, wavering still, but this time, he suspected her trembling stance wasn’t from their collision.

“There, see,” she said, glancing down at her feet and smoothing her skirts. “No damage done. So sorry to have . . .” Again, she glanced up at him, this time almost warily.

“No, truly, it was my fault,” he told her.

Then it started all again, that awkward silence, followed by the compelling need to close the gap between them.

Henry sensed that if they dared, if they took that one step to close the chasm, there would be no turning back.

Miss Dale drew a deep breath. “I suppose we should find the dining room,” she suggested, glancing right and left and not at him.

So it was decided. Which was for the best. “Yes, quite,” he agreed. After all, he was to meet Miss Spooner tonight.

Sensible, practical, perfectly acceptable Miss Spooner.

The sooner, the better, he realized as his body continued to thrum with reckless desire. So he started down the hall, Miss Dale at his side.

Right where she belongs.

Henry cringed and decided to take a different tack. “Are you in trouble over—”

“That incident which should not be named?” she asked, her lips twitching into a sly smile.

Oh, how it called to him. Henry shrugged off that notion and continued doing his utmost to maintain an orderly veneer. “Yes. Truly, I should never have suggested it. If I had known your daring side—”

“Daring had nothing to do with it,” she told him. “Nor did I. It was all Miss Nashe. Well, nearly all Miss Nashe.”

“Then you had something to do with it,” he pressed.

She glanced away. “A small part. Hardly worth mentioning.”

“Hardly?”

“So slight,” she demurred. “The lady found the gown all on her own and was most insistent on making it hers.”

“Yet you didn’t warn her?”

“Tabitha might have tried,” she admitted.

“Might have?”

“She might have been able to do so if my hand hadn’t been covering her mouth.”

Henry, despite his better nature, burst out laughing. How could he not? The scene was rife with irony: Miss Nashe in all her haughtiness and dear Tabitha, ever the vicar’s daughter, trying to do the right thing.

And then there was Miss Dale.

“Wicked girl!”

She slanted a glance at him. “You shouldn’t sound so admiring over it.”

He straightened, for he shouldn’t. Admire her, that is. “Whyever not?”

“Lady Essex says there will a grand scandal over it.”

“You can count on it,” he told her. “Benley has been laid low with all the posts leaving Owle Park this afternoon. Not one of these gossipy harpies wants to be the last one to make her report.”

“And you don’t mind?” she asked.

Henry shook his head. “Quite immune to it.”

“I suppose you are.”

“And you?”

“My mother would have horrors over my part in all of it, but thankfully no one will ever know,” she admitted.

“Save me,” he said, waggling his brows at her. He couldn’t help himself.

“Oh, dear heavens, does that mean I’m indebted to you?” she asked in mock horror.

“Your secret is safe with me,” he told her in all solemnity.

“I believe you. I even trust you. Which I never thought I’d say about a Seldon.” She needn’t sound so shocked.

“No? And how many have you met?” he asked.

Miss Dale laughed. “Only you and Preston. Oh, and Lady Juniper and Lady Zillah.”

“I do believe, then, you have met all of us.”

She turned and gaped at him. “That’s all there is? Just you four?”

He nodded. “Well, we’ve never been a prolific lot, like you Dales.”

“Which is rather ironic,” she pointed out.

“How so?”

“You Seldons are considered quite licentious, and yet there are so few of you left.”

“Perhaps we are not as licentious as we seem,” he said with a rakish wink that made her blush. He rather liked it when she did—it wasn’t so much because she was embarrassed but because she thought him a rake.

“Please do not tell Zillah I admitted as much,” he added hastily. “She takes great pride in our scandalous reputation.”

“She must be ever so disappointed in Preston, now that he’s reformed.” Then she slowed slightly and lowered her voice. “Was he as scandalous as they say?”

“I do believe Preston was under the impression that was how he ought to behave—not how he truly is.”

“So I am beginning to see,” she admitted.

“Still, you don’t approve.”

“Tabitha’s engagement to Preston took us all by surprise,” she said. “It was just so sudden, so . . .”

“You are being diplomatic,” he said, folding his hands behind his back.

“Yes, well, as a Dale—”

“Yes, yes, say no more—”

“No, I must. You mistake me,” she said. “While of course I can hardly approve of the match—for he is—”

Henry arched a brow and waited for her answer, if only to see how far her diplomacy could take them.

“He is Preston,” she finally said.

True enough. That had been enough this past Season to have even the most upstart mushrooms giving the entire Seldon family the cut direct.

Then Miss Dale surprised him. “Yet he does love Tabitha.”

“Passionately,” Henry added.

“Yes, that he does.” And it was that—the very envy in her voice—that cut him to the quick.

And now it seemed it was a sentiment he shared with Miss Dale.

Yet she wasn’t done. “Tabitha would never choose any man who wasn’t deserving, and it is as you say, that the duke loves her passionately, but I fear . . .”

They had come to a stop.

“Well, what I mean to say is . . . that is . . . do you think—” she began, then she looked up at him and finished, “is passion enough?”

Oh, very much so, he wanted to tell her.

That thought, that conviction made without even blinking, came straight from his heart.

For all he could see was Miss Dale undone, in his bed, beneath him. Passion? She left him in its throes by walking into a room. To spend the rest of his life that way?

Henry would never have believed how alive passion, desire, could make one feel.

Until now.

Good God, he hoped when he walked into the library it was Miss Dale there. Never mind the dustup such an affair would result in. He wanted to be her rake. To be the passion in her life. To have her always.

Damn tradition. Damn the lines.

Yet she took his silence all wrong and started walking again. “Everyone speaks of love as if it was so easy to understand, as if it makes sense,” she was saying when he caught up.

“It doesn’t?” he asked as he joined her.

She shook her head. “Preston is . . . well, he’s Preston. And Tabitha is . . . goodness, she’s a vicar’s daughter. Yet they fit. They make the other whole. How can that be?”

Henry spoke without thinking, his restraint and sensibilities having fled in the face of Miss Daphne Dale, and without those confining boundaries, he said, “That would rather be like you and me falling in love.”

What had Lord Henry just said? The words rang through Daphne with such a deafening clang that it took her a moment or two to make sense of them.

That would rather be like you and me falling in love.

Them? In love? It wouldn’t be the oddity that was Tabitha and Preston’s impending marriage; rather, if they—she and Lord Henry—were to fall in love, it would be . . . why, it would be . . .

Heavenly. The word came unbidden into her thoughts, carried by the memory of his kiss.

If Daphne didn’t know better, she suspected she was already in love with Lord Henry Seldon.

No, not suspected. Knew.

Oh, it was too impossible to believe. Her. In love. With a Seldon. If a postal engagement was scandalous, this was . . . beyond ruinous.

“What an unmitigated disaster that would turn out to be,” she told him with a shaky laugh, starting down the hall again.

Fleeing was more like it.

He laughed a bit as well. Was it her, or did his amusement sound as forced as hers? She glanced back at him. “Yes, wouldn’t it be?” he said. “Can you imagine Zillah’s reaction?”

Daphne made a great show of shuddering—though a good part of it wasn’t all acting. “Yes, imagine that. And my Great-Aunt Damaris.”

Lord Henry paled. “Yes, I would think it would be prudent to write to her.”

“Wouldn’t save us,” Daphne confided. “We have a saying that if you sneeze in Scotland, Aunt Damaris will hear it in London.”

He laughed. “Zillah has much the same uncanny sense of disaster.”

“Yes, our falling in love would be a disaster,” she said, slanting a glance at him.

But oh, so heavenly . . .

Daphne drew a deep breath. She had to stop thinking like that. Tonight she would find Mr. Dishforth, and she would fall in love all over again.

Not all over again, she told herself. For the first time. The very first time. Because with Mr. Dishforth it would all make sense. They already fit.

Just like Tabitha and Preston.

At least she thought they did. Hoped they would.

Then she would have to stop finding herself in these impossibly perilous interludes with Lord Henry.

No more chance encounters. No more shared jests.

No more kisses.

She looked again at him. Would it be so wrong to kiss him one more time?

Yes, decidedly.

Bother! Her conscience was starting to sound like one of Tabitha’s uncle’s sermons.

“Miss Dale, is something amiss?”

Daphne found that she’d come to a stop without even realizing it. Lord Henry stood a few paces further down the hall, staring at her.

What had he asked? If something was amiss?

Well, yes, everything! she wanted to tell him.

“No, nothing,” she said, hurrying to catch up and continuing toward the dining room. To get through dinner and then slip away to the library.

Where she was destined to find true love. Yes, that was it. True love.

Still, whatever had Lord Henry meant when he’d said, “That would rather be like you and me falling in love”?

Did he think it possible? Was he merely joking? Daphne needed to know before she set foot in that library, but however did one ask such a thing?

“Miss Dale?”

Daphne looked up and realized that yet again, in her woolgathering, she’d come to a stop. And here was Lord Henry looking her up and down as if she were standing about in her shift.

“Yes? Is there something wrong?” She feigned innocence and glanced down to make sure her gown was in order—and that she hadn’t gone out only in her chemise, as she’d dreamt the night before the Seldon ball.

“No, no,” he said. Then he made a sweeping examination of her ensemble. “But you’ve done something different tonight.”

This was promising.

“My hair,” she said, hoping Pansy’s arrangement of Grecian curls was still as orderly as it had been when she’d left her room. And yet, here was Lord Henry with his brow furrowed and looking at her with his lips in a sour purse. “Don’t you approve?”

“Approve?” Henry glanced at it again. “Uh, well. It isn’t for me to say.”

Whyever did he look so uncomfortable? She glanced down again, for she had the feeling her petticoat was showing.

But her search showed nothing but her pale green muslin laying perfectly smooth down to her hemline. So if it wasn’t her petticoat . . . perhaps . . .

She tipped her head just so, letting the collection of curls fall over one bare shoulder. “I would so love a man’s opinion. Does this arrangement suit me?”

“Yes,” he ground out. “Perfectly so.”

He hardly sounded inclined to kiss her. More as if he was in some state of discomfort. Oh, this would never do.

“And this gown?” she asked, holding out her skirt just so.

“Yes,” he replied. “Miss Dale, believe me when I say you would look perfectly amiable in sackcloth and ashes.”

Amiable? That was hardly the description she’d been hoping for.

“I am so pleased that you approve,” she said, knowing all too well that she didn’t sound pleased. And before she had to explain her pique, she started back down the hall.

Perfectly amiable, indeed! Oh, she’d never felt so foolish in her life.

“Whatever is wrong?” Lord Henry said, his stride leaving him capable of catching up with her all too quickly.

“I took great pains to appear to advantage tonight, and you find me just amiable?” she complained.

Having Hen for a twin, Henry knew an argument that could not be won from twenty paces.

And this was just such a mire.

“What I meant was—” he tried.

She waved her hand in dismissal. “Never mind.”

Ah, yes. Unwinnable. But that didn’t mean . . .

“What is so special about tonight?” he asked.

Her steps faltered slightly. “No reason.”

Henry took a glance at her. He hadn’t done business in London all these years not to know when someone was bluffing.

Or had something to hide.

And given the distracted flutter of Miss Dale’s long lashes, he would guess the latter.

But before he could press forward with an inquisition, she turned the tables on him.

“You’ve taken pains tonight as well,” she said, giving him a thorough once-over.

“H-h-hardly,” he faltered.

Miss Dale smirked. “Your cravat is tied in a waterfall, is it not?”

He glanced down at himself. “I suppose it is. Loftus, my valet, rather insisted I—”

“Yes, I suppose so. He must have grown tired of your usual Mailcoach.”

“I allowed it because I truly didn’t think anyone would notice,” he demurred, trying to fob her off. How the devil had she pulled the rug out from beneath him?

But Miss Dale wasn’t done with her perusal. “And your boots. They have extra polish. Perhaps His Grace’s valet did them—for that gloss makes you look quite the Corinthian.”

Henry looked down at his boots as if this was the first he’d noticed them. He’d actually asked Loftus to redo them, which had nearly put his proud valet to tears. “He must have convinced Preston’s valet to share his infamous concoction for boot black.”

“Or he pinched it,” she teased.

“Loftus? He’d quit in shame first!” Henry avowed.

She laughed merrily, and after a few moments, so did Henry.

“If I were a wagering sort,” she mused, “I would say you have done all this in preparation for an assignation tonight.”

Henry came to a blinding halt. “That is utterly ridiculous,” he told her. “Whatever do they teach young ladies in these Bath schools?”

“I wouldn’t know. You will have to ask Miss Nashe—if that is who you are meeting.”

“I’d never—” At least he hoped it wasn’t Miss Nashe. Good God, if it was, he’d be on the first ship out of the London pool.

No matter its destination.

Miss Dale eyed him up and down again. “Yes, there is no doubt in my mind, you are angling to catch some lady’s eye tonight.”

Angling? If anyone was angling . . . “One could say the same of you.” His hands waved at her hair and her gown. “What with all this. Whomever are you fishing for, Miss Dale? Are we all to discover the identity of your most excellent gentleman tonight?”

Touché. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open to protest, but just as quickly snapped shut.

However, Henry’s triumph—and his resolve—were short-lived, for as they continued on down the gallery, Miss Dale came to a blinding halt. “Who is that?” She pointed up at the painting towering on the wall.

“My grandfather,” he told her after taking a closer look. “Actually, I was named after him.”

She drew closer and read the plate on the bottom of the frame. “Henry George Seldon, the seventh Duke of Preston. Hmmm. You favor him,” she said, looking at his grandsire and then at him.

Henry took a step back and shuddered. “I should hope not.”

“What do you mean?”

“If family rumors are to be believed, he was a terrible scoundrel. Wild Hal, he was known as,” Henry said, turning from the portrait and the mocking, rakish gaze of the seventh duke.

“Truly? A Seldon who was a scoundrel? Why, I never,” she teased, that light in her eyes glowing with impish delight. As she stepped back to get a better look at the imposing portrait, her skirt brushed against his thigh, reminding him how much she enticed him.

Suggesting that he had more in common with his forebear than he’d ever realized. That was all it took, that ever-so-brief moment, a glance at her, and he was lost.

For there was in her smile and nod of approval evidence that she saw in him that same enticing light that had made the previous Henry Seldon the most notorious courtier of Queen Anne’s court.

Some even said he’d dallied with the old queen herself. Then again, hadn’t Owle Park come into the family about then? And wasn’t Lady Essex encamped in the room known as “The Queen’s Chamber”?

“I am hardly in the same league,” he protested aloud.

Miss Dale shot him a wide-eyed glance, a bit startled by his outburst. After another glance at the seventh duke, she grinned. “In my opinion, the resemblance is uncanny.”

Her words held all the notes of a suggestion. Admiration, even.

But mostly, they held the one thing Henry couldn’t resist. Not from her.

A dare.

Henry turned to her and closed the gap between them. He had every intention of gathering her up in his arms and running away with this tempting miss, but Lord Henry Seldon had yet to master one very important part of being a rake: timing.

“Finally! Someone to help me find the dining room,” came Zillah’s booming voice from behind him. “Confounded place gets me lost every time.”

Then out from behind Henry stepped Miss Dale.

And from the look on his great-aunt’s face, Henry sent up a prayer that the lady didn’t know the way to the armory any better than she did the dining room.