And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake

chapter 2



Your words, Miss Spooner, dare I say it, your confession, have me captivated. I long to find you—though we have promised not to do so until we both desired it thusly. Instead I spend my nights searching for you in the only way I can, prowling every ball, soirée, even the theater, God help me—hoping for a meeting that would instead be in the hands of the Fates, so that I might take your fingers in my grasp and raise them to my lips and whisper for you and your ears only, “At last, my dearest Miss Spooner, we meet.”

A letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner




“May I have this dance?

Daphne nodded—for how could she speak?

She, Miss Daphne Dale, the most practical spinster to have ever come out of Kempton, found herself stricken with the most formidable ailment a lady could suffer.

Love at first sight.

It isn’t love, she tried telling herself, for she couldn’t even be certain this man was the one she sought.

But no matter, this was the gentleman her heart wanted, her body seemed to recognize without even the most sensible of reasons.

Why, it was a ridiculous notion, and yet . . .

She set her hand on his sleeve, her fingers trembling slightly until they came to rest on the wool of his jacket. There, beneath the smooth fabric and the linen shirt beyond, lay hidden the solid warmth of his muscled arm.

No dandy, no slight fool, this one. The same shiver that had run through her when she’d first read Dishforth’s advertisement in the paper once again stole down her spine, like a harbinger, the coursing notes of a spring robin.

Here I am, it sang.

Falling in step beside him, Daphne moved toward the dance floor in a bit of a daze. Whatever was she to say? However could she ask him if he was Dishforth? Never mind that she was accepting his request for a dance without the benefit of a proper introduction.

And when she slanted a glance up at him, this handsome rake with his stone-cut jaw, a tawny mane of golden brown hair, and deep, dark blue eyes that held a potent light, she just knew he must be the man she’d been destined to discover this spellbound night.

For when Daphne looked again, her errant imagination took over, and all she could envision was this rake tipping his head down to steal a kiss from her lips.

In his arms, she’d be unable to resist. His lips would touch hers, and the very thought left her insides coiled with a longing that she’d never experienced.

He, and he alone, would know how to unravel this knot, with his kiss, with his touch . . . his fingers undoing the laces of her chemise . . .

Daphne nearly stumbled. Whatever was wrong with her?

Then the music struck up, and he took her hand in his, while his other wound possessively around her hip. His touch sent shock waves through her, echoing what she’d suspected moments before. . . . This man could put her in knots of desire and then unravel her tangled senses with his touch.

He held her close, and Daphne should have protested . . . might have . . . but tonight seemed so full of promise and adventure that she allowed herself to forget all that was proper and necessary.

What had Dishforth written?

Have you ever wanted to dance where you may?

Yes, she had. So many times. And now she would.

She tucked up her chin, daring anyone to naysay her, and smiled at her partner as he began to swing her through the first notes.

“You are quite daring, Miss . . .” His words trailed off, as if he was waiting for her to give him the introduction he should have sought before asking her to dance.

“Am I?” She certainly wasn’t going to let this magical moment end with the horrible discovery that this wasn’t her Dishforth. He must be, for whyever else would this particular man have her aquiver?

“Yes, you are quite daring.”

Daphne, who had never had a daring moment in her life—up until a few moments ago—felt her insides light up, as if all the candles in London had been illuminated at once.

The man holding her grinned. “Dancing with a man to whom you have not been formally introduced.” There was no censure in his words, only a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “I could be anyone.”

“Hardly.”

His brows rose, and he made a good effort to appear affronted, yet the light in his eyes said something altogether different. “Hardly? Who am I then?”

“A gentleman,” she replied, for certainly there was something very familiar about his features. As if she knew who he was but couldn’t quite place the face.

“How can you be so certain?” He tugged her a little closer. Closer than was proper, for now she was up against his muscled body, intimately so.

Stilling her pounding heart, Daphne tipped up her chin as if to say he wasn’t going to change her mind. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

“You don’t know the Seldons very well or you wouldn’t say that,” he teased.

She laughed—for here was someone who shared her opinions. “You cannot hide who you are,” she told him. “Besides, I have the distinct feeling we’ve met.”

“I don’t see how.”

“What do you mean?”

“I would remember meeting you.” His brow furrowed. “Still, I am at a loss as to how we haven’t met.”

Daphne brightened. Here was an opening to start her queries. “I’ve been in London most of the Season,” she told him, in complete agreement and a bit puzzled as to how this could be. All this time in Town, and how had she not noticed this man? “And you?”

“Yes, of course,” he said with a nonchalant shrug, as if the answer was obvious. “I live here in London.”

Check number one in the “he-is-Dishforth” column.

“You live here?” she repeated, just to be certain.

“Yes, quite close, in fact.” He smiled as if he’d made a joke. Though one that ran right over Daphne’s head, for she was too busy putting a check in the “lives-in-Mayfair” column.

Quite honestly, if Daphne hadn’t fallen in love with the man in the first moment she’d spied him, he was certainly doing his best to secure her affections.

A house in Mayfair . . . If ever there was a way to a practical girl’s heart.

Daphne couldn’t help herself. She sighed.

“And you?” he prompted.

“Pardon?” she managed. Apparently this sharing of information was going to be quid pro quo. Unfortunately, Daphne had been too busy giving in to the speculation that if he had a house in Mayfair, a country estate was most certainly assured. . . .

Daphne bit her lips together to keep from grinning. Truly, she shouldn’t be too obvious.

“Do you live in London?” he repeated.

She shook her head. “No.” When he appeared rather crestfallen over this, she added quickly, “As I said before, I came for the Season. I’ve been here since May.”

This brightened his countenance. “And now that the Season is over?”

“I’ve found reasons to stay.”

“Reasons? Might those reasons be regarding a certain gentleman?”

“They may,” she said, smiling at him.

The man glanced around the room, making a grand show of searching for someone. “Need I worry he’ll arrive and take grave offense to me holding you so close?” As if to prove his point, he moved her even closer.

Oh, good heavens, if Lady Essex found her lorgnette before she found her vinaigrette . . .

“I do believe he is already close at hand,” Daphne advised him.

“Indeed?”

“Indeed,” she told him.

“Is he a gentleman?”

She nodded.

“Like me?”

She smiled, “Yes, most certainly like you.”

“I don’t think we ever truly established that I am indeed a gentleman,” he reminded her.

“I know you are.”

“How so?”

Daphne leaned back a bit and took a critical glance at his ensemble. “A coat reveals everything about a man.”

“It does? What does mine reveal?”

“The cut is excellent but not overly fussy. The wool is expensive and well dyed. The buttons are silver, and the diamond in your stickpin is old. An heirloom, I would venture. Tasteful, but not overly large or showy.”

“Which means?”

“You are no Dandy whose tastes exceed his income. You prefer sensible and well-made over the latest stare. You have an excellent valet, for your coat is perfectly brushed and your cravat well tied. I have no doubt you’re a man of breeding and refinement. A gentleman.”

His eyes widened in amusement. “Indeed?”

“Indeed,” she replied, her insides quaking. Was she flirting? She’d never flirted before in her life. Coming from a family of extraordinary beauties, the sorts who inspired poetry and duels and heated courtships, Daphne had always considered herself quite ordinary. And far too practical to flirt.

But not when this man looked at her.

“You are a forward minx,” he was saying, shaking his head.

“Not in the least,” she shot back. Daphne had to wonder if he was testing her. . . . She raced through all the lines she’d memorized from Dishforth’s letters.

Which meant nearly every one.

Would Dishforth make such an assessment? More so, would he be inclined to like her being brazen?

She truly didn’t need to worry, for this man, this unknown cavalier, leaned down and whispered into her ear, “I find you perfect in every way.”

He lingered there, ever-so-close, as if he might be about to kiss her. If she dared turn her head, tip up her lips, would he?

Already his warm breath was sending shivers down her spine, as if his hands had traced a dangerous line down her back and freed her from the confines of her red silk, leaving her naked to his touch.

Naked? Daphne tried to breathe. What was wrong with her? Dishforth was expecting a sensible, respectable partner.

I opened my window tonight and called to you, softly and quietly, certain the breeze would carry my plea to you. And then I waited. For you to come and stand beneath my sill and implore me to follow you. I would, you know. Follow you. Into the night.

Well, mostly sensible and respectable, she conceded. In her own defense, she’d written those lines far too late into a sleepless night, and after one too many comfits.

They swirled and turned about the dance floor. Near the edge of the crowd, beside that invisible line which divided the dancers from the rest of the crush, stood Tabitha and her beloved Preston.

Daphne and her partner whirled past, and in a blur, she watched first Tabitha’s mouth fall open, then Preston’s.

There wasn’t even time to mouth the words, I think this is him. But if the expression on Tabitha’s face, a mixture of amazement and shock, said anything, Daphne felt assured she’d uncovered the man she’d risked so much to find.

Then her partner echoed her very thoughts. “I have been searching for you, my little Miss Conundrum.”

He had?

“You have?” she gasped, then tried desperately to rein in her hammering heart, all the while adding another check to her list.

He’d been looking for her. If that wasn’t enough evidence . . .

Daphne, don’t get ahead of yourself, that ever-present voice of reason warned.

“Of course,” he told her. “That is why we needed no introductions.”

None whatsoever, she mused as she looked into his deep blue eyes, which shone with a rich, dangerous desire for her and her alone.

He was all but telling her who he was.

But not quite.

Straightening, she returned his sally. “I rather thought you had avoided propriety in an attempt to circumvent my chaperone.”

He peered at the edges of the ballroom. “A regular old dragon, is she? I had rather thought the invitation list a tad more exclusive.”

She laughed. “She is well disguised, but don’t say I didn’t advise you. She’s ever so fearsome.”

“I stand warned,” he said, again scanning the room as if he thought to catch sight of this fierce creature.

“Would she have stopped you from asking me to dance?”

His brow furrowed. “How fearsome are we talking? Is she the fire-breathing sort, or just the more common menacing type, all scales and teeth?”

Daphne giggled. “Oh, most decidedly fire-breathing.”

He nodded. “I’ll make a note to fetch my suit of armor before you introduce me.”

She saw her opportunity and leapt in. “And to whom would I be introducing her?”

Yet her partner was just as wily. He shook his head and refused her even a tidbit. “That is up to you to discover, that is if you haven’t guessed.”

“That won’t do,” she told him.

“It won’t? You don’t want to discover who I am?”

“Oh, yes, I would love to know who you are, but it will be ever so difficult to identify you once my chaperone has burnt you to a crisp.”

This made the rogue grin widely. “Then you must endeavor to discover who I am before that unfortunate occurrence, if only to let my family and friends know of my brave demise.”

“And again, whom should I inform?”

“I doubt very much I need to tell you,” he replied. “I daresay you already know who I am.”

“I might,” she admitted.

He leaned down and again his lips were right above the curl of her earlobe. “I knew you in an instant.”

The Earl of Roxley edged over and filled the space vacated by Daphne.

Harriet glanced over her shoulder. “My lord.”

“Miss Hathaway.” He smiled at her. “Enjoying your evening?”

Harriet nodded and tamped down the retort that was even now fighting for an airing.

I’d enjoy it far more if you’d ask me to dance, you lowly cur.

Yes, well, unfortunately ladies were not allowed to be honest in their interactions with gentlemen.

Of course that implied she was a lady and Roxley was . . . Well, Roxley was what he was.

He leaned closer. “Twice, Harry?”

She tucked her chin up and ignored the way his words ruffled her spine.

“I’m surprised you noticed, considering you’ve been absent most of the evening. What is it, my lord, a lack of willing widows to hold your interest?”

Roxley ignored her barb and continued on. “I’ll not say it again; he is not fit company.”

Of course he was speaking of Fieldgate.

She slanted a glance up at the earl, a look that she hoped did to him what his whispered words did for her. “What a relief.”

“How is that?”

“If you are not going to speak of it again, then I shall no longer have to listen to your tiresome lectures.” She smiled and turned her attention back to Daphne, who was dancing with a handsome fellow. And given the bright smile and warm light in her eyes, Harriet suspected she had found her Mr. Dishforth.

“Harry, I’m warning you—”

Harriet lost her patience, wrenching her gaze away from Daphne and her mysterious partner and glaring up at the Earl of Roxley. “Then do something about it, my lord.”

Shoot the fellow. Tell my brothers. Declare yourself.

All the things she wanted him to do.

But what she got was his silence.

His lips pressed shut, his glance flitted away and then he leaned against the wall and pretended he hadn’t heard her.

Yes, there it was. If he wanted to have a say in her life, he would have to do something.

But he wouldn’t.

And for the last three months they had met over and over again and danced on the edge of this very precipice time and time again.

So Harriet danced with Fieldgate and ignored Roxley’s complaints.

Daphne whirled past them, and Roxley straightened up.

“Is that Miss Dale?” he asked.

“Yes,” Harriet said, turning her gaze back to Daphne to see what had alarmed Roxley so.

“With Lord Henry?” Roxley continued.

“Lord Henry?” Harriet rose up on her tiptoes. “Is that who that is?”

“Yes.” Roxley shook his head.

“Lord Henry who?”

Roxley turned his wide-eyed gaze to Harriet. “Lord Henry Seldon. As in Preston’s uncle.” He let out a low whistle and went back to watching the couple sail about the dance floor.

“Seldon?” Harriet whispered. “Oh, no!”

“Whatever are they doing together?”

“I don’t think they know who the other is,” Harriet told him, rising again on her tiptoes and looking around for Tabitha.

This was going to be a disaster.

“Their ignorance won’t last long.” The earl nodded over at his aunt, Lady Essex, who was watching the couple dance with a light of impending doom in her eyes. Then he tipped his head in the other direction at a woman in half-mourning, who appeared in the same state of rare horror. “Lord Henry’s sister, Lady Juniper. She looks ready to roast him alive.”

“If only they didn’t have to discover the truth,” Harriet mused. “They look quite enamored.”

“Enamored? You can see that from here?” Roxley rose up to his full height to get a better look at the pair.

“Yes, of course I can,” Harriet told him. “See how he looks at her.”

The earl shrugged. “Might be merely the cut of her gown that has him in such straits.” Then he glanced over at Harriet. “Besides, what do you know about a man’s regard?”

“If you haven’t noticed, I am no longer the little girl you liked to tease. And I am not so young as to not see when a man is looking at a woman just as Lord Henry is looking at Daphne. He is enamored.”

Roxley shook his head. “Harry, you made more sense when you asked me to marry you all those years ago.”

“I never asked—”

He grinned. “No, I suppose you didn’t ask . . . ordered is more like it. You were rather a bossy minx as a child. Still are, all these years later.”

“Roxley—” she began, the warning clear.

“You aren’t going to lay me low like you did the last time I refused you?”

Harriet crossed her arms over her chest and willed herself not to do just that.

Lay him low.

But that didn’t stop her from smiling. “Did I?” she asked, all bright and innocent.

“Yes, you did,” he shot back.

“Ah, I remember it now.” She tipped her head and smiled again. “But it seems you have a better recall of the events, since you persist in reminding me of it every time we meet.”

“Of course I remember it. A most humbling moment, if I must say.”

“Oh, isn’t that doing it up a bit?” Harriet said. “You were twelve. I daresay you’ve been made a worse fool of since then—and all on your own, I might add.”

“You would. Still, it’s demmed embarrassing to be flattened by a little girl.”

“Then you shouldn’t have refused my offer.” Harriet smirked, for that thrust was almost as satisfying as her original facer had been.

But the thing about boxing is that one’s opponent can always surprise you.

Roxley leaned closer. “Then ask again, Harry.”

“I shall not,” she vowed, though much to her chagrin she shivered as she held fast to the words that nearly sprang from her lips.

Oh, Roxley, please marry me.

“You know you want to,” he said, all smug and all-knowing. Of course it had been that same condescending air that had gotten him into trouble as a twelve-year-old.

“I’d rather flatten you,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest and holding the words inside her heart with a will that matched his.

“I daresay you would.”

Oh, yes, she would.

Roxley straightened, tugging at the edges of his immaculate coat.

He nodded out at Daphne and Lord Henry. “Care to make a wager as to whether or not Miss Dale and Lord Henry’s dance comes to something?”

“I hope it does,” Harriet said, wishing her words hadn’t come out with that wistful note. A leftover result of having had Roxley so close at hand.

He always did this to her—left her insides a tumbled pile of knots. Of desires unfulfilled . . .

Roxley, damn his hide, edged closer to her, as if he knew exactly how he made her feel. “You have a romantic nature, Harry. Who would have suspected as much?”

“Someone should have a chance at happiness.”

And she wasn’t talking about Daphne and Lord Henry.

He knew her? He claimed to know who she was. . . .

“Indeed?” Daphne managed, breathless and teetering on the edge of something she’d never imagined before. Feeling a bit off kilter to be at this disadvantage.

“Indeed.” It wasn’t just a word but a pronouncement. A possession. He knew her, and he wanted her.

“How so?” she asked.

“You sparkle, where the rest of the ladies in the room merely shine.”

Daphne, who’d never been flirted with in her life, drew back a little. “I do not sparkle.”

“Your eyes do,” he whispered into her ear.

Did he know what the heat of his breath did to her senses as it teased across her ear, her neck? The way it sent coils of desire through her limbs?

He continued on, “I always knew one day my heart would be stolen by a lady with eyes in just your very shade.”

“You mean blue?”

He shook his head, grinning at her practical response.

“Like larkspur or bluebells?” she offered. Truly, she’d always thought the poets and their flowery comparisons were naught but a pile of foolish flummery, but right now, the notion of being compared to anything romantic, like the attributions regularly laid at the feet of her Dale cousins, was just too tempting a notion.

“Not in the least,” he said, putting a damper down on her moment of wonder. But not for long. “Your eyes are the shade of intelligence, able to pierce a man’s heart with merely a glance. As they have done so to mine.”

He thought her intelligent? Daphne would have found the words to say something, blurt out her name, beg to know if he was indeed her Dishforth, but in that starry moment she spied Lady Essex out of the corner of her eye.

And the old girl didn’t look amused.

“Oh, dear,” she muttered.

“What is it?” he asked, turning his head in that direction.

“No, don’t,” she said, tugging him in the opposite way and nearly running them into another couple. “Don’t look!”

“Whyever not?”

“My chaperone. She doesn’t look pleased,” Daphne whispered, stealing a cautious glance over his shoulder, then back up at the man holding her. “Who are you?”

“I can assure you, she has nothing to fear from me. Besides, she had best get used to seeing me holding you thusly.” And with that he tugged her scandalously close.

“Oh, you mustn’t,” she told him, even as her body nestled closer to his. To the sturdy wall of his chest, to the steady confines of his arms, against the lean, long muscled length of his thighs.

Oh, yes, you must.

But even as Daphne tried to will herself to maintain a position of decorum, the man holding her suddenly straightened, his gaze locked on the opposite corner of the room.

“Good God, what now?” he muttered.

“Is it my guardian?” she asked, turning to glance in that direction.

He whirled her around, making it impossible to pinpoint the source of his dismay. “No, worse. My sister appears to be in a fettle over something.”

“Your sister?” Daphne brightened. For here was another check in the “Yes-I-Am-Dishforth” column. For on more than one occasion, Mr. Dishforth had mentioned his sister.

“Yes, my sister. But don’t ask for an introduction. I daresay she could out-dragon your chaperone.”

“She could try,” Daphne told him, knowing all too well what sort of adversary Lady Essex made.

“Whatever has her in such a stew?” he mused.

Daphne couldn’t offer an answer, for Lady Essex and Tabitha were bearing down on them through the crowd.

It was then that Daphne realized the set was finishing. The last notes wheezed out, so quickly ending their dance—their first dance, she corrected—that Daphne came to a tumbled stop. Instead of a graceful pause, she slammed into his chest, hands splayed out over his waistcoat, leaving her fully and completely aware of every bit of the man who’d claimed her.

Stolen her heart.

No wonder poor Agnes Perts had been willing to risk madness and marry John Stakes all those years ago. Even if they’d only had one night together.

Well, half a wedding night.

For to be held like this, Daphne discovered, was the most perfect madness. Her fingers curling over the muscles beneath her hand, her hips swaying slightly, seeking desires as yet unknown.

But oh, the promise . . . it left her breathless. She looked up and into his deep, dark blue eyes and found herself trapped with no wish to ever break this spell.

And whoever he was, Dishforth or no, it mattered naught. He could be anyone for all she cared.

Or so she thought as she glanced up at him, ready for this man who had so quickly stolen her heart to steal so much more.

Henry caught the delightful armful of muslin that came tumbling up against him. She’d been as caught unaware that the music was ending as he’d been.

But not so insensible of the woman in his arms.

From the moment he’d spied her across the ballroom, he’d suspected she was Miss Spooner. Who else could she be?

Now, in the course of a dance, she’d given him all the evidence he needed.

She had been in London for the Season. Demonstrated Miss Spooner’s sharp wit and keen intelligence, both in her words and the bright, sharp light in her eyes.

Though definitely a spinster—he gauged her to be nearly, if not so, at her majority—she wasn’t so far up on the shelf to make one wonder why it was a beauty like her wasn’t married.

He drew a deep breath and thought about her letters, her words. Tart, opinionated, strong-willed.

Those traits in a lady were enough to scare off most gentlemen.

Not him.

Gathering her closer, Henry glanced up to gauge which of the matrons coming closer might be her fire-breathing chaperone.

And how much time he had left to risk.

“There is much that needs to be said between us,” he told her, gazing down into those bright blue eyes. He’d always imagined her thusly—fair and lithe.

“Is there?” she asked, smiling slightly. “I rather thought we’d said all that was necessary.”

“True enough,” he agreed, his blood running thick and hot with her pressed up against him.

Good God, whoever was this minx? Not that it mattered, for whoever she was, she left him insensible with desire. For a thousand utterly irrational reasons, he wanted her, would have her.

Henry could sense the others closing in around them—Hen coming up from behind, Preston and Tabitha moving toward them.

And somewhere, her scaly, fearsome chaperone was beating a path to them.

To make matters worse, here they were, still in the middle of the dance floor. The music had ended, the other couples had scattered throughout the room, and while the crowd had exhaled and moved in to fill up some of the empty space, there was still a wide circle around them.

Leaving a daunting number of curious gazes fixed on them. Enough to give the London gossips a full dish of cat lap on the morrow.

Suddenly the fact that half the ton was watching him—Lord Henry Seldon—and not his errant nephew was a bit unnerving.

That is, until he looked into her starry gaze.

And the light there said she thought him the most rakish, perfectly ruinous gentleman alive.

“I should find your chaperone,” he managed. Not that he meant it.

“Must you?” she whispered, even as she nestled a bit closer. “What if—”

Her question hung there for a moment, sending this tremor of warning through him.

It isn’t going to be this easy . . .

Yet here she was, in his arms, and everything about her perfect . . . and perfectly willing.

I am yours, her lips, parted, moist and pert, seemed to whisper.

Never in Henry’s life had he ever been the rake, never been Seldon enough to manage even a trifler’s reputation. Having lived all his life in Preston’s shadow—as the spare heir, as the sensible Seldon (for in his family that was a worse crime than a scandalous reputation)—he’d never fit in.

Even Hen had all her notorious marriages to maintain her stake in the family tree.

Not that Henry had ever truly minded. He’d never wanted to be the duke, had thought all the scandals more bothersome than essential, and Hen’s penchant for dashing off to the altar? He nearly shuddered.

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

Boring, even.

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

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

To kiss her.

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

Fire-breathing dragon of a chaperone notwithstanding.

Then it happened all at once.

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

Or rather, Who you desire.

“Daphne!”

“Henry!”

“My goodness, unhand her, you bounder!”

That remark, he assumed, came from the chaperone.

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

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

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

“Daphne, whatever are you about?”

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

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

Her name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if she had the right to be angry.

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

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

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

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

Ruinous. Yes, he knew.

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

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

Gain that kiss . . .

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

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

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

He only wished she hadn’t that one.