And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake

chapter 15



In the light of day, will you come to regret this?

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner




Lord Henry’s statement, nay, confession, took Daphne’s breath away.

Had he truly just said that? Did he mean it?

Apparently he did, for he pushed off the trunk of the oak, against which he’d been leaning, and crossed the seemingly impossible valley that had sprung up between them.

His hand reached out and cupped her chin, and he drew her closer until his lips captured hers.

Protest, remind him of Dishforth, make him tell the truth first. . . .

Objections fluttered through her thoughts before they were caught on a wayward breeze and lofted far from reach.

His kiss, his touch left her without any reason. Just desire. Heart-pounding, inescapable desires.

He’d claimed her with his kiss before; now his hands, his body captured her. He edged up the blanket, covering her, one hand still cupping her chin, the other on her hip—pulling her ever closer—until she found herself on her back, his body covering hers.

All the while, he kissed her, deeply, insistently. The demanding sort of kisses that claimed not just the woman but her soul as well.

And Daphne inhaled, drew him in, her fingers clinging to his shoulders, her mouth open to him. Everything about him seemed to touch her—his tongue teasing over hers, his hands as they roamed over her, his hips pinning her to the blanket beneath them.

He’d gone from the tentative rogue in the folly, to the seducer in the library, to a man determined.

His touch wasn’t teasing and light, it was insistent, as if his desires had been bottled up and were now bursting forth like champagne.

That one kiss, that one moment where he’d made that fateful decision to cross the blanket, to breach the divide between them, now saw his every desire unleashed.

Having started with a kiss, his lips continued their assault over her neck, behind her ear, leaving Daphne breathless, her insides quaking.

She tried to gasp, to speak, but her mouth could only open, and what came out was a mew of pleasure. “Ahhh.”

He continued to tease her with his trail of kisses, his lips nibbling at her neck, and down along the edge of her bodice, as his fingers slipped beneath her gown and freed first one breast and then the other, leaving them bare to his touch.

Now it was his turn to moan as he sucked one of her nipples deep into his mouth, leaving it puckered tight and Daphne’s hips dancing upwards, strafing against the hard ridge beneath his breeches, as if seeking relief from the anxious, dangerous passions building inside her.

And then that wayward breeze ran over her legs—for she hadn’t even noticed that he’d brought her skirt up, and he had lost no time finding that nub between her legs, beginning to work his magic yet again.

Her legs opened to him, her body already wet and ready for him.

And then his kiss delved lower, his lips against her thighs, his breath hot against the curls at her apex, and when his fingers parted the way, his kiss at her very core, his tongue curling around her, washing over her, Daphne’s hips bucked, her heels digging into the earth beneath them, seeking something solid to hitch her to the earth, for she was truly rising again, but this time ever-so-fast and furiously.

Panting and anxious, she could only cling to the blanket, his tongue insistent over her, lapping at her, urging her to let go, to find her release.

“Ah, ah, yes, ah,” she gasped.

He caught hold of her hips and drew her closer, as if he knew exactly what her soft cries meant, knew the translation.

And the cure.

He trapped her close and sucked deeply, leaving Daphne rife with desires. With need.

There was nothing left for her to do but let go.

When she did, those anxious, dangerous spirals he’d coiled inside her burst open, tendrils flung out in all directions, wayward branches whipping this way and that as if tossed by this tempest of pleasure he’d unleashed. Above her, the dappled sunshine blinked and winked through the oak leaves like a thousand points of fireworks, fluttering and flashing even as her body danced and tossed with wave after wave of passion.

Lord Henry didn’t stop there, he continued to kiss her, continued to tease her until she was spent and shaken. And only then did he let go. He cradled her, soothed her with kisses to her lips, to her shoulders, with whispered promises of the delights to come.

Daphne could hardly believe him. More? Was that possible?

But when she looked into his deep, passionate gaze, she knew Lord Henry was a man of his word.

And deed.

Henry wanted nothing more than to bury himself between her legs and slake this desperate need that had burned in his veins since the night of the engagement ball.

He’d wanted her then. He wanted her now, but with such a different longing. To have her always. To tell her everything and for her to understand.

But right now, all he could do was make love to her.

The starry light in her eyes called for him to give in to his pent-up desires. Unleash the fires she stoked within him.

But he wasn’t about to rush this afternoon.

Entwined as they were, he knew instantly the moment her body stirred back to life, for her hips were once again brushing up to explore against him, her fingers trailing down his back, her fingernails taut against his skin.

He loved the way she teased him, like a cat on points, all nails and arched, ready to be tamed.

And then she surprised him, her hands moving to the top of his breeches, opening them, and as he had before with her bodice, she reached inside and let her fingers curl around his rock-hard manhood.

Where it had been straining against his breeches, now it pulsed to life in her grasp. He rolled off her and they lay face-to-face so she had room for her explorations and the leisure to tease him.

Henry tried to breathe as hot sensations of desire shot through him.

Her touch, at first tentative, became stronger, running up and down his length, her mouth coming to join again with his as her touch became more hurried, her tongue teasing at his.

Now it was Henry’s turn to groan, for with each stroke, he grew harder, his body tightened. Her fingers toyed with a glossy bead that had formed on the head, and she used it to torture him as she slid her hand back and forth, his length now slick.

“I want you, Daphne,” he gasped. “I want to be inside of you. I need to be inside you.”

He reached down and began to tease her back to life, until she was once again panting with need, then he rolled her on her back and shifted himself until he was right at her cleft.

“I want you as well,” she whispered.

“Who do you want, Daphne?” he asked as he began to enter her, slowly, opening her and then moving out.

Her mouth opened. “You, Lord Henry. I want you. And only you.”

And then he entered her, breaching her virgin’s barrier and filling her.

She gasped, her eyes fluttering open wide at this invasion.

“It is only like that once,” he told her. “Now remember how it was when I touched you, when I kissed you.” Then he began to stroke her, slowly, until her once soft mews of pleasure became more urgent cries.

As she reached her peak for the second time, Henry’s own climax shot through him emptying him into an abyss of pleasure.

They spent the remainder of the day in each other’s arms, making love again, and eventually, hand in hand, they wandered from their blanket haven and explored the meadows beyond, gamboling through the waist-high grasses and wildflowers like children.

As they strolled back to the tree, Daphne said, “Tell me about this house of yours. This Stowting Mote.”

He grinned at her, reaching over and brushing an errant strand of her hair away from her face. “It has a moat.”

“A moat? Truly?”

“Indeed. The water surrounds the entire house, and you can fish from any window.”

She laughed at him. “Now you are teasing.”

“I’m not. The house is truly surrounded by a moat—it is centuries old, with the last real renovations done about the time Old Bess was queen. But the gardens are good, and it has a lovely orchard that spreads up along a wide lawn in the front.”

“It sounds romantic,” she told him.

“Hardly,” he admitted. “The moat needs to be drained and cleaned, and I imagine once I start mucking around, I’ll find all sorts of places that need shoring up.”

“Whyever did you buy such a place?”

Lord Henry shrugged and glanced off in the direction of the lovely house in the distance. “Stowting Mote has always been a family home. A unique one, granted. Families have lived there for generations, and then come and gone. And yet the house still stands. I suppose I just wanted to be part of that, that legacy of generations, to belong to that history.”

She nudged him. “You are an incurable romantic, Lord Henry Seldon.”

He dropped her hand and struck a horrified pose. “Insults will land you in the moat, Miss Dale.”

She reached over and took his hand. “Then I expect you will fish me out.”

“I might.”

“Wretched, awful man,” she taunted him back as they resumed their walk to the spot under the tree.

They gathered up the blanket and the remains of the basket and strolled down the hillside toward their carriage. About the time they got to the rock wall, the sound of hooves echoed down the long lane.

Their postilion, their driver and fresh horses came round the bend.

“So soon?” Daphne mused, rather saddened that their perfect afternoon was ending. She knew all too soon that she and Lord Henry would have to have a coming to the truth, a full confession of sorts. She only hoped he would forgive her as much as she was willing to look past his stubborn pride.

He had been right earlier: they were alike. Too much so.

“I thought you were in a hell-fire hurry to get to the border?” Henry posed. For he was no longer Lord Henry, he was her Henry, and she his Daphne.

Daphne tucked up her chin defiantly. “I’ve been known to change my mind,” she told him as he helped her over the low stone wall.

“Truly?” he replied as he climbed over, basket in hand.

“Yes.”

He paused. “Name one occasion.”

She laughed. “I don’t despise you as much as I first did.”

Henry barked a laugh and caught her by the hand, bringing it to his lips. “That’s good, for you are rather stuck with me now.”

“Am I?” she shot back, turning her attentions to the driver and lad, who were even now guiding the horses into their traces.

Henry didn’t press the matter and, following her lead, turned his attention to their long-awaited driver. “Almost thought you’d forgotten us.”

“Terrible time getting new horses, my lord,” the man explained. “Everyone seems to be headed north today.”

“How odd,” Daphne remarked as she climbed into the carriage. “We haven’t seen a soul all afternoon.”

As the carriage rolled down the road, Daphne laid her head against Henry’s shoulder, suddenly finding herself exhausted. The gentle swaying of the carriage and Henry’s steady, solid presence beside her left her ready to slip into dreams.

Besides, it was growing dark, and the shadows made it easy to close one’s eyes.

“Minx, whatever are you going to do?”

“Hmm?” she replied, half awake.

“When we catch up with your Mr. Dishforth?”

Daphne raised her sleepy gaze to his. Still? He wanted to continue this charade? She sighed. “I’ll tell him quite simply that I forgive him his foolish pride.”

“His what?”

“You heard me,” she murmured and snuggled closer.

“Whatever do you see in this bungler?” Henry pressed, sounding a little more than vexed by her continued allegiance to her other lover.

“Many things,” she said. And when he nudged her a bit, she knew he wanted to hear more. “His loyalty to his family. His kindness. His words—they encouraged me to break with the past and dare to dream that I might dance where I may.”

She could hear the soft groan of frustration rumble through his chest. Well, he’d asked.

“And you discovered all this through his letters?”

She shook her head. “No, Henry. A lady reads between the lines.”

“What will you tell him about me? About us?”

“The truth. He’ll understand.” She sighed and sunk closer to a soft refuge of dreams. “I imagine he’ll thank you for bringing me.”

Henry sputtered. “Thank me? How can you be so sure?”

Sleep started to steal at her senses, but she opened one eye. “Because he loves me.”

“Are you certain?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

And she was, as she drifted off to sleep in his arms.

They arrived at the inn just after dark, and Henry hated to wake her up. Then again, everything Daphne had said as she’d drifted off to sleep had left at him at a loss.

What the devil did she mean that Dishforth would love her still?

He would have thought, well, he’d just assumed that once they’d . . . they’d . . . made love, she would have made her choice.

Apparently not.

“Are we there?” Daphne said, her eyes opening. “Are we in Scotland?”

“Hmm,” Henry mused. “No. Just a few miles from the border. Seems we will need to stop here for the night.”

She sat up and stretched. “Just as well. It has been a busy day. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”

Henry got out and helped her down, and once again, to his amazement, rooms were at the ready and Daphne was whisked off in the efficient hands of a sturdy-looking maid.

It had been like that all the way up the road—as if their every stop had been anticipated. But then again, he’d never dashed off to Scotland before, and mayhap that was how things were done on the Manchester Road.

Then again, the cheeky innkeeper two nights before had handed Henry a second bill.

“For Mr. Dishforth’s expenses, if you please, my lord.” And then the fellow had slanted a glance at Daphne and made a greedy waggle of his brows, as if to say, Best pay up, for it would be a shame if the lady was to discover the truth.

Still, having rooms at the ready and a hot supper on the table was worth a few inconveniences.

And a bit of blackmail, he mused, wondering what Mr. Dishforth had needed with a hot shave, two bottles of Madeira and laundry.

No, this had to end. Now. This very night.

“How would you like your supper, my lord?” the innkeeper asked as he came forward.

Supper? Yes, that would be perfect. He’d tell her over an excellent meal. He glanced up at the inn. At least he hoped it would be decent.

“Quickly,” Henry told him. “And in a private dining room, if you will?”

He’d tell her everything. Beg her to marry him, carry her over the border in the morning, make her his wife and then they could go into hiding until the worst of it blew over.

Not a very noble stance, but utterly sensible, given the Dale and Seldon tendencies to overreact when one of their own defied that line that kept them apart.

Well, it was a line no more for him.

“A private room? Of course, my lord! And a fine supper for you and the lady. Quite in order. Why, Mr. Dishforth ordered up that exactly, just last night,” the innkeeper said. Then the man leaned closer. “And Mr. Dishforth also said your lordship would have no complaints in covering his expenses.”

Henry tried to muster his most withering glare, but it was of no use on such a weathered innkeeper, who rubbed his hands together in glee as he hurried off to get everything prepared.

Following him into the inn, his boots tramping along, Henry knew one thing was for certain. After tonight, he would lay the past to rest and there would be no more of that unreliable, horribly unfeeling creature, Abernathy Dishforth, ever again.

Daphne was halfway down the narrow staircase when a voice in the common room below halted her steps.

“I am seeking word of my cousin—she is traveling toward Gretna Green in a disastrous match. It is imperative I find her.”

Crispin!

Daphne whirled around, scrambling to flee up the stairs, but her path was blocked by the maid who had dressed her hair with such care.

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed.

“Gar! What is it, miss?” the maid said in her thick northern accent.

“My cousin! He’s come to find me, stop me,” Daphne whispered, even as she pushed her way past the girl and ducked higher up the stairs and out of sight.

“No! He can’t,” the girl exclaimed just as vehemently. “Not when you’ve come so far.”

“Exactly,” Daphne agreed. “I just need one more night.”

“Leave it to me,” the girl said, rushing down the stairs.

Daphne peered down the stairwell, just enough to listen.

“Not one of you has seen her? This is quite possibly the only posting inn that hasn’t,” Crispin was saying with that edge of suspicion that sounded very much like Great-Aunt Damaris’s probing, skeptical tones when she sensed a scandal.

“You there, miss,” Crispin called out as the maid came down the stairs. “Have you seen my cousin, Miss Dale? She’s about your height and has fair features. I think she would have come through here not but an hour or so ago.”

“Oh aye, sir, I’ve seen her,” the girl declared.

There was a stirring in the room, not unlike the tremble in Daphne’s heart. Perhaps the maid had landed at the end of the stairs, seen Crispin’s fine presence and sensed a reward that would compensate for her duplicity.

But how wrong Daphne was.

For hadn’t this been the same girl who’d said every lady deserved their happy ever after?

“Yes, sir, I saw her. We all did. She and the gentleman—they came through here about an hour ago. So in love, it about left me in tears.”

“Love! Bah! That scurrilous Seldon has her deceived.”

“Then whyever was he looking for another way across the border—so as to keep the likes of you from finding them?” Then the girl gasped and flung her hand over her mouth as if she wished she could have stoppered the words.

But it was too late. Crispin leapt upon her lie like a bird after bread crumbs.

“Another route into Scotland?” Daphne could almost hear the starch in Crispin’s neckcloth creak as he straightened to his full height. “What other route?”

“Oh, now you’ve done it, lass,” one of the patrons complained. “Done and given those poor lovers away.”

The girl sniffed loudly. “I didn’t mean to!”

“Too late now,” another complained. “Aye, sir, there’s another route. But it will cost you.”

“Cost me?” Crispin’s outrage was palpable.

“Aye, cost ye. The other lord, he was willing to pay for someone to guide him, if only not to get caught, so if it was worth it to him . . .” The man left off, the room growing still with anticipation to see what would happen next.

“I shan’t be blackmailed,” Crispin declared. “This match is ruinous for the lady, and as gentlemen all, you should be stepping forward to aid me, as you would ask for aid if she were your kinswoman.”

“Mine don’t run off,” another fellow joked. “Wish they would. Should count yerself lucky, milord.”

There was a rough volley of laughter at Crispin’s expense.

“The route!” he demanded.

“Pay up,” the man said, “or spend the night and find it in the daylight yerself. Personally I think you ought to try—but I don’t fancy finding you and your excellent carriage at the bottom of the ravine.”

There were nods all around.

“Yes, well, then, name your price,” Crispin said in a of huff. “But whoever takes me had best know what he is doing, for I must catch them before they are married. Or worse.”

Daphne stilled as a price was arranged and a fellow came forward to ride along with Crispin’s driver.

What followed was a whirlwind of activity and shouted orders, then the creak of the door and the sound of it slamming shut. Not until there was a neigh from the horses and the carriage rumbled out of the yard did Daphne come down the stairwell, only to find the grinning maid waiting at the edge of the steps.

“Oh, thank you,” she said to the girl who had brazened such a scheme. “I just need tonight to tell him everything. To explain everything. To get him to forgive me all of this.”

“Exactly what do you need to explain, Miss Dale?” came a familiar voice. “And what do I need to forgive?”

Henry didn’t wait for Daphne to answer; he caught her by the arm and hauled her toward the room the innkeeper had set aside for their supper.

He towed her quickly, afraid his temper would boil over before they reached the privacy of the dining room, well away from prying ears and eyes.

But he didn’t make it. For the moment Daphne had expressed her relief, “to get him to forgive me all this,” the truth hit him squarely between the eyes.

She knew. She knew the truth.

He’d never felt such a fool!

“All this . . . the carriage, the chase, your worries and your countless concerns over Mr. Dishforth—you knew!” he burst out just as they gained the room but before the door could be shut.

Daphne reared to a stop. “Which you could have ended at any moment.”

Yes, she did have to point that out.

“How could I? You called that idiot—”

“You mean I called you,” she corrected, hands fisted to her hips.

“Yes, yes. You called Mr. Dishforth a simpleton. You claimed you loved him.”

At least she had enough decency left to look slightly guilty. Not for long, though. “The point being? My lord, you could have stopped all this with one single confession.”

“My confession? What about yours?” He threw up his hands. “I should point out that this folly has left you ruined.”

She huffed a sigh. “As well I know.”

“ ‘I know’?! That is all you have to say? This coming from ‘Reputation is everything, sir. A man’s reputation is his shining grace.’ ”

She pinked around the edges as he quoted from one of her letters. As well she should. And as if she could feel the heat in her cheeks and what it revealed, she turned her back to him.

“Ruined!” he continued to rail. “Further, you have left me with no alternative but to marry you—if only to save your reputation and mine.”

Oh, that spun her around, her eyes alight with fury. “Why would you bother? As a Seldon, don’t you think that goes against Society’s expectations?”

“Don’t tempt me, Miss Dale.” But honestly, all she did was tempt him. Just by breathing, she had him tangled in the crosshairs.

“Oh, am I ‘Miss Dale’ again? What happened to ‘my dearest Daphne’?”

“That rather leapt out the window when you fell asleep in my arms murmuring love notes to that looby Dishforth instead of to me. The man, I will point out, that you love.”

She waved a hand at him as if he spoke utter nonsense.

Henry was past caring who heard him or how his voice carried. “Haven’t you a thought as to how all this reflects on me? Until I met you, I was a gentleman. Now your family most likely thinks I’ve kidnapped you—stolen you away for nefarious reasons.”

“There is no arguing that,” came a voice that stopped them both.

Crispin, Viscount Dale. Hell and damnation, he’d returned.

Daphne turned first, and then Henry.

Being first, Daphne had the privilege of seeing her cousin send a bruising fist into Lord Henry’s face.

Henry, on the other hand, never saw it coming.