And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake

chapter 11



Tonight, I will find you, my dearest Miss Spooner. And no longer shall we be separated by pen and paper. Nothing will ever keep us apart again.

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner




In the dining room, where the men were enjoying their port and cigars after dinner, Henry heaved a sigh that he’d survived so far. Now all that was left was to escape without too much undo notice.

Though he wouldn’t be surprised to find Zillah outside the door waiting for him.

The look she’d bored into him in the hallway, a combination of guilt and fury that said, Not her again. It had been enough of a censure to have him on edge all through dinner.

Lost in thought, he hadn’t even noticed that Preston had wandered over until the duke said in an oft-handed fashion, “What the devil is the matter with you?”

“Me? Why, nothing,” Henry told him, drawing himself up into a composed stance.

At least that was how he was supposed to look.

Preston’s brow arched upward. “Henry, I’ve known you all my life. And you’ve never looked so havey-cavey as you do tonight.” His nephew paused and studied him closer. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you have an assignation in the works.”

“Why does everyone think that tonight?” Henry said far too quickly.

“Aha!” Preston snapped his fingers. “So you do!”

“Ridiculous!” Henry said, resorting to a lawyer’s trick of neither confirming nor denying the truth.

“So who else thinks you’ve got a lady love stashed away above stairs?”

“No one—”

Preston gave him the Seldon stare, a glower that could wrench even a king into confessing his most dire secrets. And while Preston hadn’t quite mastered the dark glance, he was—much to Henry’s dismay—acquiring an admirable knack for it.

“Oh, bother,” Henry complained. “First there was Loftus.”

“Rather telling, my good man,” Preston remarked.

“How so?”

“A valet knows these things. If Loftus believes—”

“Loftus knows nothing.”

Preston’s expression remained for the most part entirely bland. Save for the knowing twinkle in his eyes. “Because there is nothing to know?”

“Exactly.”

Preston snorted. “And who else suggested, besides myself, that you might be engaging in some after-hours entertainments?”

Henry cringed.

“Oh, come now, Henry. You know I’ll ferret it out of you eventually. And if I can’t, a casual, inopportune comment in Hen’s hearing will most likely—”

Good God, no! Not Hen. Preston wouldn’t dare.

Slanting a glance at the duke, Henry had his answer. Hadn’t he resorted to much the same tactic to rein in Preston’s antics from time to time?

“Miss Dale,” Henry ground out.

Preston’s eyes widened, as if he wasn’t too sure he’d heard him correctly. “Did you say—”

“Yes, I did.”

“And she thinks—”

“Yes.”

“And she said as much?”

Her words came back in haunting clarity. I would say you have done all this in preparation for an assignation tonight.

Henry nodded.

“Why that saucy, shocking little minx,” Preston said, shaking his head. “These chits from Kempton, egads, they have the most forward manners. Say whatever occurs to them.”

“Who are you to complain? You brought them into this house by agreeing to marry one of them.”

The duke grinned. “So I did.”

Henry hoped that was the end of the matter.

Of course it wasn’t. This was Preston, after all, and he was rather enjoying his new role as a reformed rake.

Rather too much.

“So who is it you are meeting—because I must say, you are going about it in all the wrong way. In over your head, if I were to judge.” Preston leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

Henry took a sip of the brandy, then, remembering its potency, he set down his glass.

If he was going to muddle his way through all this, it wouldn’t help his cause to be, well, muddled.

“Come now, Henry, you’ve been as secretive as a cat of late. Haunting the post, up all night composing letters, hardly commenting when I wagered at White’s the other night—”

“I’ve had an inordinate amount of business to attend to, what with—” Henry paused. “Just a moment, you were wagering at White’s?”

“Never mind that,” Preston demurred. “I want to go back to this ‘business’ of yours. That is what you’re calling it? Business? Really, Henry, if you are going to be a Seldon, then at least you call it what it is.”

“And what is it?”

“An assignation. An affair. A mistress.” Preston grinned. And if Henry didn’t know better, he’d say it was with a bit of familial pride.

“It isn’t that at all,” Henry said, once again resorting to a solicitor’s meandering ways. “Besides, I’ve had mistresses in the past.”

Preston sighed, looking a bit bored. “Yes, but you’ve hardly ever been in a fix over one of them.”

“I am not in ‘a fix.’ ”

“So you keep saying, but let us look at the facts.” Preston held up one hand. “Late nights.” He ticked off one finger. “Haunting the salver.” Another fell. “And composing business letters that should be the domain of your secretary, but for whatever reason you are insisting on composing them yourself so they remain private.” The third finger went down, and it was as if a spark lit inside the duke as he tallied the facts at hand.

Henry watched in horror as the duke silently mouthed that last word again, as if testing it. Private.

Preston shook his head. “No. That advertisement! Oh, you didn’t?! It cannot be.”

Without a ducal glare to call upon or the practiced gambler’s instincts to help him, Henry’s expression must have given Preston every bit of confirmation he needed.

He caught Henry by the elbow and towed him to the other side of the room, well out of earshot. “Tell me you didn’t answer one of those demmed lonely hearts letters.”

Gone was the mocking light in Preston’s eyes, his larkish demeanor having fled. Panic marked his every word.

Because for all their teasing and ribbing back and forth, they were family. And they were all they had.

And Henry knew this, even as he suddenly longed to confide in someone. Because it was exactly as Preston had said: he was in over his head.

Not just with the letters and Miss Spooner. There was Miss Dale as well.

“I had no intention—” he began.

Preston paled. Actually grew a bit white. His mouth opened as if he had something to say, but nothing came out.

Henry couldn’t have shocked his nephew more if he had claimed to have taken up with the Princess Royal.

“But it isn’t like you think,” he continued hastily on. In for a penny, in for a pound . . .

“Hen doesn’t—” Preston began.

“No!” Henry shuddered.

“Yes, of course not. If she knew, she would have wrung your neck by now.” Preston scratched his chin and drew a deep breath. “Tell me everything.”

Knowing this was the best course, Henry spilled the entire story, starting from the moment the letter had fallen from the basket until he’d arrived at his present predicament.

Though he left out everything to do with Miss Dale. There was confession, and then there was finding oneself being carted off to Bedlam.

And Henry knew the difference.

“Do you know which of the ladies it is?”

“That’s just it,” Henry confessed. “I haven’t the slightest notion.” So this wasn’t quite the truth either. He could hardly tell Preston that he suspected it was Daphne Dale.

Rather hoped it was. Then again, it could be Miss Nashe.

His dismay must have shown on his face. But luckily for Henry, if there was anyone who could see a way out of this mire, it was Preston. And it turned out he had just the solution.

“And you say this gel is in the library, right now, waiting for you?”

“Yes. At least that’s the plan.”

“That’s excellent news,” Preston said, his eyes once again alight with mischief.

“Excellent for you, perhaps—you aren’t the one who has to endure the surprise and possible shock of it.”

“Who says you have to go into the room not knowing who your Miss Dishes—”

“Spooner.”

“Yes, yes, Spooner. Who says you have to go in uninformed? You always are going on and on about how one can’t go into a partnership without knowing exactly who you are doing business with—”

“Certainly,” Henry agreed. “But what does that have to do with finding out who Miss Spooner is?”

“Everything,” Preston said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go see who this lady love of yours is.”

Henry caught him by the arm. “You are not going in there with me.”

“I have no intention of doing that. Would make you look like an utter coward, arriving with a second and all. But I would think a man of your business inclinations wouldn’t mind arriving forearmed.”

“Preston, whatever are you going on about?”

And so the duke told him.

Daphne didn’t know whether she was disappointed or relieved when she entered the library and found no one in there.

“If anything, I have a few moments to compose myself,” she said to Mr. Muggins as they both looked about the large, well-appointed room.

It was all as it had been this morning when she’d penned her note to Dishforth. Bookshelves lined three of the walls, interrupted by several large paintings and a grand fireplace. French doors let out into the rose gardens. There was a map desk in the middle of the room, a collection of settees and a grand chair near the fireplace, and a few chairs and stools scattered in the corners, the sort that encouraged settling in for a cozy read. Thick carpets and green velvet curtains gave the large, rambling room a sense of studious decorum.

But at night, the corners were cast in shadows, and the room held an intimate, cozy appeal, the sort a Seldon could appreciate.

Well, she certainly hadn’t invited Mr. Dishforth here for that.

Smoothing out her skirt and doing her utmost to compose her nerves, Daphne tried to gauge the best place to sit and wait—a spot from which she would be seen at best advantage. But no matter where she tried—lolling on the settee, modestly composed on a straight-backed chair or feigning a bluestocking’s interest in some old, dusty tome—she felt only one thing: utterly foolish.

Mr. Muggins suffered from no such nerves. He plopped down on the rug before the hearth and let out a contented sigh.

Since she couldn’t very well follow his example, Daphne decided a dignified pose might be the best. Until, that is, she looked up at the portrait she’d found herself standing beneath.

“You!” she gasped, gaping accusatorially at the face looking down at her.

Lord Henry. Well, not her Lord Henry.

Not that he was hers, per se. But . . .

Oh, bother, just stop, Daphne, she chided herself. How was it that scoundrel always left her so tangled up?

“I don’t care what he says,” she told the painting of Henry Seldon, the seventh Duke of Preston, “the resemblance between the two of you is uncanny.”

The seventh duke had no reply other than that mischievous smile that could not be contained in oil and paint, or dimmed with age. As she gazed up at the rogue, she had the feeling that even now, His Grace was looking down at her from his gilt-framed prison and taking a lascivious delight in imagining her clad only in her chemise.

Daphne whirled around and put her back to the painting. “You devil!” she scolded over her shoulder.

Oh, good heavens, what was wrong with her? She was going mad if she was talking to paintings.

Stealing a glance over her shoulder, she found the duke still grinning at her, but all she saw was Lord Henry’s face—as he’d held her tonight in the shadowed hallway and looked to be about to tell her something.

No, rather, show her something.

Well, the seventh duke would know.

“Your grandson hasn’t fallen so far from the tree,” she told the old duke. “He nearly ravished me in the hallway earlier.”

Nearly.

But he hadn’t. And what the devil had she been doing letting herself fall into his arms?

If she’d had any sense, she would have found her footing far more quickly and extracted herself from his grasp without a moment’s delay.

But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d lingered.

Yes, lingered. Just as he’d accused her before.

Dangerously waiting to see if Lord Henry would prove his heritage and make good his Seldon name.

By kissing her.

Daphne’s insides quaked just thinking about that moment. His lips so close to hers, her breasts pressed to his solid chest, his arms coiled around her—holding her fast.

Lord Henry had left her feeling completely undone. As if her hairpins had all fallen out, her gown had been stripped away and she’d been his for the ravishing.

“He may argue to the contrary, but he is no different than you,” she accused. “Well, I suppose you would have finished the task.” Daphne paced before the painting, stealing glances up at the old duke, infamous for his affairs.

Which had been left out of his lengthy description in Debrett’s.

Of course they didn’t put such things in Debrett’s. If they started including all the noblemen’s mistresses and affairs, well, there wouldn’t be enough paper in England to chronicle all that.

Was that why Lord Henry hadn’t kissed her? He was saving himself for another?

“Well, he was rather done up tonight,” she told the duke. “Handsomely so.” She paused. “As if he had an assignation.”

Daphne, well used to filling in lines for others, could well imagine what the duke might say.

Ah, you are correct, my lovely little delight. The perfect cravat. The shine to the boots. The light in his eye. No, our Henry hasn’t fallen too far from the Seldon tree. When he didn’t kiss you, I’d quite feared—

Daphne’s insides turned from that melting sort of memory of being held by Lord Henry into something more like boiling oil.

“And whyever didn’t he?” she demanded of the duke. “Kiss me, that is?”

The rogue had no reply, but the glint in his eye suggested that he would not have failed in such an endeavor.

“I wonder who she is?”

Jealous?

“Not in the least.” Daphne’s brow furrowed. “I suppose I should be thankful. He would have ruined everything.”

If he hasn’t already . . .

“You see,” she continued, for apparently it was quite helpful to have an understanding, yet completely impotent, rogue to confide in, “he’s got me questioning everything about—well, about someone else. Someone I thought would be the perfect choice.”

But there was the rub. What if Dishforth wasn’t like Lord Henry? Didn’t leave her so unsettled, so filled with this restless passion that seemed to have a voice of its own, constantly demanding to be let out?

“Well, that wouldn’t do,” Daphne muttered. She couldn’t discard her reputation, her virtue just to discover what might be possible with a rogue like Lord Henry Seldon.

You might be surprised how perfect it is to be kissed by a rogue. . . . To let your passions run away unfettered . . .

She glanced back up at the portrait, for she could have sworn the old duke had just nudged her with such a scandalous thought.

Let him run away with you. . . .

“Oh, do be still,” she scolded the duke. “You are only complicating matters.”

For weren’t things complicated enough? Any moment now, the door to the library would open and in would come Mr. Dishforth.

Dishforth no longer, she corrected. She’d know exactly who her sensible gentleman was.

And what if it is Fieldgate?

Daphne slanted a glance at the painting. “That is hardly helpful, and I doubt it is him.”

No, she couldn’t imagine Viscount Fielding ever using the world sensible, let alone knowing how to spell it.

Then what about that earl? The one with that awful shock of ginger hair? Oh, he’s spilled a bit of his wild oats and gotten himself into a bit of financial trouble, but what young man hasn’t? He could be a sensible sort, with the right woman.

Daphne nodded in agreement. Kipps was an earl. And he did have his heart in the right place trying to find a bride to save his family.

“Why would a money-strapped earl use an advertisement to find a bride?” she posed, and when the seventh duke had no answer, she crossed the earl off her list. Yet again.

Astbury?

Daphne shook her head.

Bramston?

She laughed. The captain was quite dashing, but hardly the sort to sit down and compose such heartfelt missives.

Cowley?

Daphne bit her lower lip. He was rather the most likely choice. But oh, dear, whatever would she do if it was him?

Indeed. Can’t imagine him giving you a good thorough tumble.

“That would hardly be a proper consideration for choosing a mate.” Daphne stole a glance at the woman hanging in the portrait next to the duke. The seventh Duchess of Preston.

Little do you know, her satisfied expression seemed to say.

Daphne ignored her. Hadn’t that particular Preston duchess been an opera dancer?

The duke continued to grin. Rawcliffe? Could be him. All that scandal around his first wife’s death has left him a bit of a pariah in Society. Certainly a passionate fellow when riled—they say he finished off Lady Rawcliffe in a fit of rage by . . .

“That is hardly helpful,” Daphne pointed out. “Now, however am I to get that image out of my head if it is indeed Lord Rawcliffe who comes through that door?”

The duke hardly appeared penitent, lounging in his frame and smiling at her with that look of scandalous delight.

There’s always my grandson, he offered. Could be him.

Daphne snorted. “I doubt he would know what a ‘rational meeting of minds’ entails. Lord Henry, my Dishforth? I’d rather eat my gloves.”

Before or after he kissed you?

Preston led Henry down a passageway that wound behind the walls of Owle Park, holding a single candle aloft to gauge where they were.

As if one could tell in such a narrow, dark space, Henry thought.

“I had forgotten these were here,” Preston was saying, almost as if he was reminding himself, “until you started on about meeting this chit in the library. These tunnels run right alongside the wall where the seventh duke is hanging on the wall. Freddie and Felix used to take great delight in scaring the living daylights out of me from inside here. Had me utterly convinced the house was haunted until Dove showed me how to get in here. Then I had my revenge. Oh, how they howled.” He chuckled at the memory.

Henry’s gaze flew up to Preston’s back. It was the first time he could ever remember the duke speaking of his long-lost brothers and sister.

Then again, it was miracle enough that Preston had reopened Owle Park, and now here he was happily reminiscing about the family he’d lost nearly overnight.

It was as Hen claimed; they owed a great debt for the healing touch Miss Timmons had brought to his life. Their lives as well, for Preston was now happily settling into his role as the duke and the head of the family.

Perhaps too much so.

“Henry, I still can’t believe you answered one of those letters,” Preston whispered, swiping his other arm in front of him to clear out the cobwebs.

“I’m rather at a loss to explain it myself,” he admitted, hoping the spiders had long since fled. Henry really loathed spiders.

“I wager we find Miss Walding in the library,” Preston said over his shoulder.

“Miss Walding?” Henry shook his head. “Unlikely.”

“Better than Miss Nashe.” Preston shuddered. “Last time I leave the guest list up to Hen.”

Henry didn’t bother to point out that the next guest list Preston had to review would have been compiled by his bride. Nor did he have time to, for Preston stopped and turned, put a warning finger to his lips, then pointed at a small slat in the wall. Shielding the candle with his hand to hide the light, Preston nodded at Henry to slide it open.

Taking a deep breath, and steeling himself against a major disappointment, Henry stepped up to the hole that had been hidden there.

In that moment, the entire guest list ran through his thoughts.

Lady Alicia, Lady Clare, Miss Nashe, Miss Walding, the Tempest twins, Miss Hathaway . . . right there, Henry stopped himself.

For in his mind’s eye, he imagined only one woman in the library.

No, not imagined. Desired. With a thunderous, loud rumble of desire that rushed through his veins like an avalanche.

Daphne Dale. With her willowy ways and impertinent manners. With her rosy, delectable lips, a mouth made for kissing, and a body that left a man with nothing but the most lascivious notions.

Why, that damned gown she was wearing tonight fit her like a glove and left him speechless. Yes, that was all he needed—a bride who would leave him in a perpetual state of dismay and desire.

No, his Miss Spooner was on the other side of this wall, and she would be a sensible, proper lady who would make an excellent partner with whom to live a perfectly prudent life.

That was what he wanted.

Until, that is, he peered through the opening.

And immediately reared back. “Good God, I’m ruined!” he gasped, albeit as quietly as he could.

He found himself with his back to the opposite wall, his chest pounding.

“I’m done for,” he whispered, his frantic gaze fluttering up to meet Preston’s.

Because he knew in his heart that this was exactly what he wanted. Wasn’t it?

“Who is it?” Preston asked in the same hushed tone.

Henry couldn’t say the name. Honestly, didn’t know if he could even speak.

He merely nodded toward the opening. Be my guest.

Preston slanted a quizzical glance at him and then took a look. He had much the same reaction and reeled back from the hole as if it were on fire. “We’re all done for!”

The duke reached over and closed the slat. Then he pointed that they should beat a hasty retreat, handing Henry the candle so he could lead the way.

If only it was that easy.

“Better you found out now,” the duke whispered. “At least you are braced for the meeting ahead.”

Meeting?

“What the devil do you mean?” Henry asked.

“When you go in there,” Preston nudged him forward.

“I’m not going in there.” Was Preston mad? That room was no longer the library. It was the Coliseum, and he was about to be cast into the ring for lions to devour.

No, he wasn’t going. Not willingly. Not unless Preston had a Roman legion to prod his every step.

He wasn’t about to go in there and make a bloody fool of himself. She loved another, not him.

She was expecting her most excellent gentleman . . . not him.

Then the totality of all of it tumbled into place.

Oh, good God, she was expecting Dishforth. Her most excellent gentleman was . . . him.

Henry felt one of Hen’s megrims coming on. Hen never suffered from the complaint, but she demmed well knew how to give them.

“You have to go in there and tell her,” Preston whispered. No, more like commanded.

Henry took back his sentiment that Miss Timmons was to be commended for her reform of the duke.

A reformed duke was a pain in the ass.

Namely, his. Henry shook his head, as recalcitrant as a child.

Go in and face Miss Dale? Alone? In the library? With that grinning portrait of the seventh duke looking down at him in disappointment that he didn’t have the lady’s gown up over her hips and her crying out in delight?

No. He wasn’t going to do that.

But Preston had another notion. “You owe the lady the truth. Honor demands it. Anything less would be cowardly.”

Henry flinched. Damn Preston. Any moment now he was going to be dredging up the family code of honor, like Zillah would.

They’d gotten to the panel where they’d entered the tunnel and Preston reached over him, feeling around the wall for the latch.

“You never know,” he was saying. “Miss Dale might find the entire situation amusing.”

Hope sprang up in Henry’s chest. “You think so?”

Preston shook his head. “No. Not in the least.”