And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake

chapter 6



Miss Spooner, I must make a confession. I rarely dance. It is not that I am against dancing, it is just that it all seems so contrived. The asking, the sets, the observation of so many rules and requirements. Haven’t you, my dear girl, ever wanted to dance where you may? To dance under the stars, to even dare to dance in the rain?

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner




“We are most certainly not lost,” Lord Henry insisted.

“We most certainly are,” Daphne corrected. “I have visited this area on more than one occasion and I know for a fact we are going in the wrong direction.” She shook out the map and pointed at it. “Do you see the curve to the river? And there is the bridge marked here.” Her finger stabbed at the map. “We must turn around and go back in the other direction and take this turn . . .” Her finger tapped the paper again. “ . . . the one I pointed out earlier.”

Mr. Muggins, who had, against everyone’s orders, planted himself in the back of the pony cart and remained there still, looked from Lord Henry to Daphne and then back to Lord Henry again.

Lord Henry’s brow furrowed as he studied the map. “This can’t be correct,” he said, turning it this way and that and ignoring both Daphne and the dog.

How had everything turned out like this? One moment she’d been convinced she was going to be spending the afternoon with Lord Astbury—doing her utmost to determine if he was Mr. Dishforth—and the next, that infuriating Miss Nashe had claimed the marquess.

Oh, it was all by chance she knew, but what rotten chance this, especially since Lord Henry had gotten them lost.

“See, there is the river and that is the bridge,” she said again, pointing at the map. “We will never find the treasure at this rate.”

Instead of seeing the sense of what she was saying, he turned the map yet again, as if that would help.

Daphne gave up, scrunching herself into the corner of the narrow seat the pony cart afforded them. Which still left them wedged together, his muscled thigh brushing intimately against her skirt with each jolt of the road.

The wrong road, she wanted to shout.

For turn around they must. By Daphne’s reckoning they were nearly to Langdale. Crispin’s house, to be exact. And most likely already on Dale land.

Oh, wouldn’t that turn all her plans to naught if they ran into Cousin Crispin.

And as if only to thwart her plans further, from up ahead came the sound of horses’ hooves and the whir of wheels from a quickly moving carriage.

Mr. Muggins let out a low growl, a harbinger of the disaster about to whirl into their path.

Round the corner and over the bridge came an expensive phaeton, the sort a gentleman of means and with a penchant for driving owned.

There was no mistaking who it was coming toward them—Crispin, Viscount Dale, in all his handsome glory. The holder of the family title, the golden boy of a handsome family.

There wasn’t a female Dale cousin or close relation—or even those, like Daphne, whose place on the family tree was on the sort of branch that should have been trimmed off generations ago but was left on for the sake of family unity—who didn’t hold a torch for Crispin Dale.

Devilishly handsome and charming, with a rakish demeanor, he left the female half in a state of awe and wonder by simply walking into a room.

Daphne wouldn’t have been surprised if the sun had burst forth from the gathering clouds and shone down on his fair head, if only to illuminate his way.

Crispin barely spared them a glance, for Lord Henry had already guided the old nag and cart over toward the side of the road, but when he came nearly upon them, he took a closer look and immediately pulled his matched set to a stop, the flurry of dogs that had been racing after his carriage all tumbling to a halt in a wild, raucous chorus of barks.

At first, she thought Crispin had noticed her and was stopping to rescue her, but rather her relation had his dark gaze clapped on Lord Henry Seldon.

And he looked none too pleased to find him on Dale land. Even if they were neighbors.

So Daphne kept her chin tucked in and hoped the brim of her bonnet would shelter her face.

Just perhaps, just maybe, Crispin wouldn’t notice her. Might not even remember her.

“Sir, you are lost and should turn around.” The strained comment held all the welcoming tones of a judge about to set down a long sentence.

For Daphne knew exactly what Crispin truly meant. Get off my land, you bounder.

“Hardly lost, sir,” Lord Henry replied with every bit of haughty disdain that only a Seldon could manage. “Merely taking a tour of the surrounding countryside. But you are correct, we should turn around. There is nothing of note ahead. Or so I’ve heard.”

Daphne tucked her head down further. Oh, good heavens. She didn’t know what was worse—the Seldon pride or the Dale vanity, because one surreptitious glance revealed that Cousin Crispin appeared ready to toss down the gauntlet.

“Oh, my good God!” Cousin Crispin sputtered. “What the devil is—”

Daphne cringed, for certainly her masquerade was up. He’d spied her and was even now—

“What the hell is that mongrel doing to my best hunting bitch?!” he exclaimed.

She stilled. And then glanced over her shoulder where Mr. Muggins had been sitting in the back of the cart.

Save now the cart was empty.

Beside her, Lord Henry chuckled. “My lord, if I have to explain that to you, I can’t see how the Dales have been so prolific over the years.”

“Sir, get that beast off my dog!”

No! No! No! Daphne didn’t even want to look. But she did anyway.

Oh, Mr. Muggins! How could you?

“Not my beast,” Lord Henry was saying, leaning back and tipping his head as he glanced at the oversized terrier, who was happily repeating the original scandal that had brought the Dales and Seldons to blows. “Hers,” he offered, jerking his thumb at Daphne, for which she covered her face with her hands.

“You think this is amusing?” Crispin asked, straightening up into a position so starched that Daphne thought he might snap.

“It does have a certain irony,” Lord Henry said. “Don’t you agree, Miss Dale?”

A stillness descended around them. Daphne thought quite possibly the world was about to be ripped asunder as she looked up and met the gaze of Crispin, Viscount Dale.

He rose up slowly in his seat until he was towering over the occupants of the pony cart, lending him an almost unearthly air. “Daphne Dale?”

“Yes, ah, a good day to you, my lord,” she offered.

Crispin couldn’t have looked more shocked. Well, save the expression he’d worn while Mr. Muggins had been ruining what might have been a profitable litter of pups. “Daphne, what are you doing—”

Henry intervened. “She’s with me. Fine day for a drive, isn’t it?”

Both the Dales ignored him.

“Cousin, get down out of that . . . that . . .” Crispin shuddered as he looked over at the poor conveyance that was barely able to amble along. “ . . . contraption,” he finally managed, “and come with me. Immediately.” He moved slightly to show her the space where he expected her to join him.

Daphne glanced from one man to another. And much to her chagrin, she caught a wry light in Lord Henry’s eyes. A most defiant shimmer that called to her.

Oh, she was a Dale through and through, but she hadn’t come this far to be ordered about like an errant child.

Even if she was behaving like one.

“I will not,” she told him, folding her hands in her lap and facing her cousin, the very head of her family, with all the defiance of, say, a Seldon.

Heaven help her.

“Perhaps you did not understand me, Daphne,” Crispin said. “You are not keeping respectable company.” The viscount’s gaze swept first over Mr. Muggins, who had finished his business and hopped back into the pony cart, and then continued to Lord Henry.

The arch of his brow said all too clearly he considered them both mongrels.

“I don’t like your implication,” Lord Henry leveled.

“I do not like your intentions,” Cousin Crispin countered. “Whatever could it be that you are doing so far from Owle Park with a young lady of good name and character—”

Thankfully, Lord Henry had the good sense not to snort over this, as he had at the engagement ball.

“—I don’t care to know, but understand this, my cousin is coming home with me now so she can be returned to the sanctity and safety of her parents’ keeping.” He paused and glanced over at Daphne. “Who, I suspect, have no idea their daughter is here.”

Lord Henry shot a quick glance at her, as if to watch her deny this statement. Almost immediately his eyes widened as he spied the panic she couldn’t hide.

There it was. The cat was now out of the bag.

He knew she’d lied. To him and to her family. Thankfully though, he didn’t know why she’d gone to such great lengths.

Oh, bother! It wouldn’t be long before he went digging for the truth. Lord Henry just seemed the sort who would want to know the very why of something.

Including her secrets.

To add to the already ominous air around them, the dark clouds that had been threatening all afternoon were drawing ever closer.

Crispin glanced over his shoulder as the wind freshened, bringing a brisk change to the air and the hint of the rains to come.

“Now, now, Daphne,” her cousin said in the smooth, polite tones one used with an unruly child. “I’ll see to it that you are inside before the weather turns. It would be a dreadful shame for that lovely gown to be ruined.” Then he did exactly what she feared he might.

Gave her the Dale smolder.

That tip of the head, the half-lidded smoky glance that could lure a dedicated and lifelong spinster out of her corset.

It was a snare no woman could resist. Except, so it seemed, Daphne.

You are not like other ladies, are you, Miss Spooner? For that I am most relieved. Most ladies bore me to distraction.

Mr. Dishforth’s words came forth from who knew where. Perhaps the Fates had brought them along with this unseasonable bout of rain. But they gave Daphne the wherewithal she needed to do the last thing Crispin Dale expected.

Defy him yet again.

“No, my lord. I think not,” she told him, settling into the narrow seat of the pony cart as if it were Lady Essex’s well-appointed barouche. “I am most comfortable here.”

“Cousin, I order you to get out of that cart,” Crispin said, smolder replaced by a furious glare.

“And I, Cousin, politely refuse.” She managed a firm smile that belied her quaking insides.

“Daphne Dale!” he commanded. “You cannot be left alone with this . . . this . . .”

“I am of age, my lord,” she pointed out, “and can therefore make my own choices. I will not be bullied by you”—she glanced over at Lord Henry as well—“or any man.” Daphne looked up at the gathering clouds framing Crispin’s towering figure. “You have my answer, my lord. You’d best hurry to Langdale without me, or you’ll find your jacket ruined.”

“We shall see about that!” he said, plunking down in his seat and gathering up the reins. “Consider this choice carefully, Daphne, for once made it cannot be undone—just as many other things cannot be salvaged. You must see how you have no other choice but to return with me.”

Daphne shook at his implication that she was as good as ruined. “I disagree.”

“You cannot refuse me,” he shot back.

“I think she has,” Lord Henry told him, taking up the reins to the cart and clucking a bit at the tired nag. The poor horse was hardly a matched set of bays chafing in their traces, but you couldn’t tell that by Lord Henry’s demeanor. “Now, it is time you ceased badgering the lady and let us get on our way before the rain catches us.”

Crispin’s brow furrowed. “If that is your choice, Daphne.”

“It is.”

“So be it,” he said. “But hear me well, Seldon,” he added, turning his stormy gaze toward Lord Henry. “This lady’s welfare is in your hands. See her safely back to Owle Park. Immediately.”

“I have no desire to be drenched,” Lord Henry replied, neglecting to mention Daphne’s welfare, much to Crispin’s chagrin.

He straightened. “I shall hold you to your word, sir, that Miss Dale is returned without any hint of dishonor.”

Lord Henry bowed slightly in agreement.

Crispin turned to her, his gaze flitting for a second to Mr. Muggins, who hovered close to her shoulder. “Do not think this is the end of this, Daphne.” With that said, he wheeled his carriage around in a tight circle and drove off as if the hounds of hell were nipping his heels.

Or rather, Mr. Muggins after another of his prized hunting dogs.

“Yes, well,” Lord Henry said as the dust of Crispin’s carriage began to settle, “best get you back before he has time to fetch a halberd and settle this in some medieval fashion.” He glanced at her. “I’ve never fancied a pike through the chest.”

“I hardly think he’d choose halberds when he is an excellent shot,” she said, settling her hands primly into her lap. Then, after Lord Henry had turned the cart around—certainly not with Crispin’s skill, but well enough—she turned to him. “He has a right to be concerned.”

Lord Henry snorted.

“You are a Seldon.”

“And you are a Dale.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

One of his brows tipped into a high arch.

“Yes, right,” she agreed, recalling how this very same disagreement had gotten them into trouble at the ball—a path neither of them wished to travel down again . . . or so she thought.

“I might add though—” Lord Henry began.

Daphne set her jaw. Of course he couldn’t leave well enough alone.

But what Lord Henry said next shocked her. Utterly.

“If you were my cousin, I would not have left you in my care but followed you back to Owle Park to make sure you were well chaperoned. Your cousin is an overly proud fool.” He gave a disapproving shake of his head and said no more. Not that he needed to.

He was right, of course. And she glanced over her shoulder, where there was no sign of Crispin racing to her rescue.

Daphne drew her shawl around her shoulders a bit tighter, hoping to stave off the shivers. And this time it had nothing to do with the impending rain.

“You did give your word, as a gentleman,” she reminded him.

“Do you trust my word?” he asked, not looking at her. “Because I hardly trust yours.”

She flinched. As well she should.

“Yes, of course my family approves,” he mimicked from earlier. “My family doesn’t mind in the least.” He glanced over at her. “Is that still your story?”

She pressed her lips together and refused to speak. She certainly wasn’t going to tell Lord Henry why she had dared to come to a Seldon wedding.

Why she had defied her entire family.

“Yes, well, when the Dale clan arrives, armed to the teeth and looking for blood, I for one am not going to stand firm over your folly,” he declared. “If I have any say in the matter, they will find you at the front gate, with your bags packed and a note pinned to your pelisse with directions to the nearest madhouse.”

After a few moments of driving in silence, Daphne let out a long sigh. “Are you finished?”

“Yes, quite,” he admitted.

“Then you should know that you missed the turn back there.” She nodded toward the narrow track that ran off the road. “If you continue on this course, we shall be lost. Again.”

“Not in the least. This is a shortcut,” he told her. “I promised to see you safely back to Owle Park, and I shall. No matter what you opine, I am a gentleman and a man of honor.”

Now it was Daphne’s turn to let out a snort.

Pompous, arrogant know-it-all. He was going to get them lost.

And just for those reasons, she didn’t argue the fact. She rather liked the idea of proving him wrong.

Utterly.

At least she did until the clouds opened up and emptied their bounty all over her lovely new gown.

The folly appeared on the rise before them just at the point when Henry was about to have to concede to Miss Dale that she’d been correct.

He’d gotten them lost.

Utterly.

But then they had turned a corner, and as he’d dashed the rain out of his eyes, there it had appeared—the stone rotunda his grandfather, the seventh duke, had built after his Grand Tour.

“Come now, let’s get out of this,” he said, pulling the horse to a stop and catching hold of her hand.

Her fingers were like ice, and he glanced over at her.

Just as her cousin, Lord Dale, had predicted, her gown was drenched, ruined. Ignoring the twinge of guilt—for no gentleman should let a lady end up in such a state—they dashed toward the covered pavilion, hand in hand, dancing over puddles and around the larger rivulets of water rushing over the path.

Mr. Muggins had needed no urging and was already ahead of them, shaking the rain out of his fur in a wild flurry of droplets.

By the time Henry and Miss Dale had climbed the wide steps and gotten out from the drenching downpour, the dog had already found a dry spot beneath one of the benches and lain down, head on his paws.

As for the two of them, they came to a halt in the middle, and save for the heavy pattering of rain all around them, it was as if the countryside had stilled.

Henry didn’t know quite what to say or do—but when he glanced over at Miss Dale, he realized two things.

He hadn’t let go of her hand.

Nor did he want to.

How could he? She looked utterly divine. Like one of the goddesses a temple like this might have been dedicated to—a nymph who currently stood before him in a pique of rage.

Not that she left the decision up to him. She wrenched her fingers free of his grasp and stalked over to Mr. Muggins.

Apparently a wet hound was preferable company.

Well, he would tell her that he’d had other plans for this afternoon. His sights set on finding another lady.

A proper lady. A sensible one.

Might have found her by now if it hadn’t been for Preston and his cork-brained treasure hunt.

Which had left him with the ungodly luck of being paired with Miss Dale.

Miss Dale! The most insensible woman in all of England. Or at the very least, the one who drove him to the edge of madness. Why, he’d nearly kissed her at Preston’s engagement ball, and now he was lost with her in his company.

The woman was determined to lure him into some scandalous mire.

He glanced over at her to see what sort of mischief she was making now—only to find her unpinning her sodden bonnet, which, once freed, she tossed down on the stone bench. Her shawl followed, as did her gloves. Thus divested of her wet outer garments, she paced around the edge of the columns, circling him like a vengeful griffin.

He suspected he was about to be flayed alive. Nor could Tabitha’s mangy beast of a dog be counted on to save him.

“Go ahead,” he told her, bracing himself.

She paused and glanced over at him. “Pardon?”

“Go ahead,” he said, holding out his hands, as if to be locked away.

Miss Dale shook her head. “Whatever do you mean?”

He wasn’t fooled. Hen did this all the time. Lured him into confessing his wrongdoings so she didn’t have to lay them out for him and waste her time listening to him deny them. “Just say it.”

“Say what?” she asked, then resumed her pacing.

Truly, this was becoming more difficult than it needed to be. Besides, her circling was making him dizzy.

“ ‘I told you so.’ ” Whyever couldn’t a woman just come out and say a thing? Rather they had to drag out an accusation, like a painful thorn.

She blinked and gaped at him, as if the realization of what he was getting at finally hit her. Huffing a sigh, she went back to her pacing. “Lord Henry, I have far more important troubles at hand than to waste my time crowing over your wretched sense of direction.”

And with that said, the pacing began anew. This time with a more determined click to her steps.

“Whatever has you in this state?”

She came to a blinding halt. “Crispin, of course!”

What she left out, but truly had no need to say, was, The one we would not have crossed paths with if you had listened to me and taken the correct road.

“Oh, yes, him,” he managed, shuffling his boots a bit. He’d been doing his best to forget their encounter with Lord Dale.

“Yes, him.”

The sarcasm stung, but then he’d lived with Hen all these years not to be a bit immune.

It was what she said next that left him flummoxed.

“He’ll ruin everything!”

Then, much to Henry’s chagrin, she resumed pacing. Did she have to go in a circle? He was going to get nauseous.

But something else struck him. “He’ll ruin everything”?

Henry perked up, feeling the scales of justice tipping back into his favor.

As he’d suspected, the lady had a secret.

He strolled out of her path and sat down on the bench beside her ruined hat, though not too close. The muddled mess of silk was letting off a regular brook of rainwater.

“What will he ruin, Miss Dale?”

She stumbled to a stop and cast a glance over her shoulder at him. No longer the vengeful valkyrie, her eyes widened, then just as quickly narrowed to hide her alarm.

Ah, yes, the lady had a big secret.

“Nothing.”

Yes, he knew that tone as well. When a woman said “nothing,” it usually meant “everything.”

Henry glanced down at the state of his boots and said nonchalantly, “I thought you said this morning that your family approved of your attendance.”

She flinched and put her back to him.

“So they don’t?”

Her shoulders hunched up as if to shield her from his prodding.

He got to his feet. “Does anyone know you’re here?”

She whirled around. “Everyone will now.”

Henry had to admit, he rather admired her plucky defiance—save when it was aimed at him. But her defiance was also entangling him in a mess of epic proportions.

Whyever had she gone to such great lengths to come to Owle Park to begin with?

Meanwhile, Miss Dale took one of his sister’s favorite tacks: turning the tables. “This is all your fault.”

If he’d had a sovereign for every time Hen had used that phrase . . . “My fault?” he ventured.

“Yes, yours.” The lady crossed the space between them and stopped right in front of him. “If you had but followed the map—”

So much for that accusation remaining unsaid . . .

“—we would not have run into Crispin. And now . . .” Her words failed her as she gave into a bout of shivers.

He looked at her again, and this time, noting more than just the state of her ruined gown and the shape of her comely figure, he also realized she was chilled to the bone.

Some gentleman he was!

Shrugging off his driving coat, he wrapped it around her shoulders, ignoring her wary gaze and her attempt to brush his gallantry aside and slip out from his grasp. He held onto the lapels and straightened it so it covered her.

Protected her.

Then he looked into her eyes and saw a wrenching light of despair and felt—for whatever reason, for he was hardly the cause of this misery—a twinge of guilt.

He’d done this to her. Worse yet, a nudge of conscience said it was up to him to fix all this.

He let go of the lapels and backed away. He’d never been one to melt over a lady’s languid gaze, but Miss Dale had a way, what with those starry blue eyes of hers, that pierced his sensible hide like no other woman had ever done.

She’d done much the same thing to him on the dance floor at the ball.

Hell, from the first moment he’d spied her.

She’d led him astray that night with those come-hither eyes of hers, led him off course.

Taking up the clearly discernable path of puddles she’d left around the marble floor of the folly, he began to pace. The mess on the floor was in stark contrast to the unnavigable path she was treading upon his heart.

Henry shuddered against such a notion and concentrated on the moment at hand, stealing a glance at the lady and her wrenching expression.

His fault, indeed! It wasn’t. And yet . . .

For about the thousandth time since breakfast—hell, since the engagement ball—he’d reminded himself of two things.

She was a Dale.

And she was none of his concern.

Oh, but she is. And that was the rub. Somehow she’d become his problem, no matter how much he denied it or the lady herself protested. His problem. Or was she?

I’ll have you know, Lord Henry, I am nearly betrothed to another.

Henry latched onto the confession she’d made the other night at the ball. Nearly betrothed . . .

What else had she said about the man? Ay, yes. A gentleman of standing.

Henry skidded to a stop. Turning, his gaze narrowed, and he said, “Him! He’s your nearly gentleman.” He shook his head to clear his muddled thoughts. “Your nearly betrothed.”

She crossed her arms over her bosom and gaped at him. “Whatever are you going on about?”

“Crispin Dale. He’s your nearly betrothed. The one you were crowing about the other night.”

“My lord, I never crow,” she said, and then having taken in the full weight of his accusation, her eyes widened before she laughed. “Me? Betrothed to Crispin?” Her giggles turned into a loud series of guffaws, leaving her with her hands clasped over her stomach as if she’d never heard anything so amusing.

“Whatever did I say?”

“How little you know of the Dale clan.” She tittered again. “Me engaged to Crispin? Ridiculous.”

Henry didn’t see why such a notion was so foolish. “How so? He rather seems your sort.”

“My sort?” Her gaze wrenched up, all of her hilarity evaporating. Once again she was all wary suspicion.

“Yes, your sort,” he said, adding his own imperious stance to hers.

“Whatever does that mean?”

Henry shrugged. “Overdressed. Fussy. Wealthy.” He left out “an overreaching prig.”

“That description could be applied to most of the men in the ton,” she pointed out. Tipping her chin up, she added, “Yourself included.”

“I am not fussy,” Henry shot back.

“If you insist,” she said, shrugging a shoulder.

“I do.” Not liking the course of this conversation—damn the lady, she had a singular knack for turning the tables on him—he shifted the tide back in his favor. “Still, I don’t see why Lord Dale is not your sort.”

She shook her head as if the answer would be obvious even to the inhabitants of a nursery. “He’s Crispin.”

Whatever the devil did that mean?

Miss Dale huffed a little sigh and retreated to where her bonnet lay in a limp pile. Then she began ticking off what apparently was Dale canon. “He’s Crispin, Viscount Dale. The Dale of Langdale. The head of the family.”

Again Henry hardly saw why any of this precluded that starched and overbearing jackanape from being her “perfect gentleman.”

She must have seen the confusion in his eyes, so she went on. “Crispin Dale can have his choice of the most beautiful and eligible ladies in London.”

Henry had the suspicion he would never understand any of this, and yet, against his better judgment, he asked, “So why not you? You’re beautiful.”

The words, just like his suddenly vacant good sense, tumbled out into the space between them.

Words. They were only words. A simple statement of fact.

You’re beautiful.

Disarming words. For they held an unmistakable air of confession to them. Even he knew it.

Worse, so did she.

Her gaze flew up to meet his, as if she expected to find him laughing at her.

Just as she’d laughed at him.

And she said as much. “Now you’re teasing me.”

Henry straightened. Ever the Seldon, he’d waded into this mire, and instead of retreating for the safety of the bank, he plodded further into the depths.

Why wouldn’t he? Before him stood a lady who could have been mistaken for a watery nymph. Her fair hair coiled in long curls down from her head, her fair skin made even more translucent by the chill in the air, quite in contrast to the luscious pinkish rosy color of her cheeks and lips.

Only the smattering of freckles across her nose gave any indication that she was not some ethereal creature come to tempt him. Lure him to his doom.

Unfortunately for him, Miss Dale was all too real.

And she tempted him more than he cared to admit.

She repeated herself. “Lord Henry, it isn’t mannerly to tease a lady so.”

“Miss Dale, I do not tease.” Taking a deep breath, he took another step—figuratively. For if he did it literally, he would have been straying dangerously close to temptation. “You are a beautiful woman. Too much so.”

They stood there—and once again Henry had the sense of being lost within their own world—with the only sound the pattering of rain all around them. The deluge was beginning to let up, and now the drops competed with the large plops of water dripping from the trees and shrubberies that hid them away in this quiet corner of Owle Park.

Neither of them moved, just stood there, expectantly.

It was the sort of moment that was more Preston’s forte than Henry’s, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know what to do . . . or rather what he’d promised not to . . .

She pursed her lips as she watched him, her lashes fluttering softly. “Lord Henry, I—”

He didn’t want to hear what she had to say. Didn’t want to hear her protest. Or a confession of her own.

So he did the only thing left to him.

The same thing that his rakish ancestors had always done so well.

Daphne might be from Kempton and considered a bit naive—rightly so—but she wasn’t so inexperienced with men that she didn’t recognize the rakish gleam in Lord Henry’s eyes as he declared her “beautiful.”

Too much so.

Her heart took a tremulous leap. And wrapped as she was in his greatcoat, surrounded by the fine wool and the masculine air that clung to the threads as if it was woven in . . . bayberry rum and something so very male . . . she couldn’t help but feel surrounded by him.

Then she looked again into the piercing blue gaze of Lord Henry Seldon and knew . . . knew down to the squishy soles of her boots why every Dale lady was warned to give the Seldon males a wide berth.

Because the light of passion burning in his eyes left her trembling . . . shivering despite his warm coat around her shoulders. Probably because of it.

For it was like having the man himself holding her.

Almost. For she knew what that was like. All too well.

Just then the rain stopped. As if the heavens had decided the green fields had had enough and that was that. The steady patter abruptly ended, broken only by the occasional drip and plop, leaving Daphne standing and staring at this man in a still air of wonder.

Did he truly think her beautiful?

One more glance told her the truth. And more.

Not only was Lord Henry telling the truth—he did find her beautiful—but the gleam in his eyes also said he found her desirable.

Her legs pressed together and she gathered her arms around herself, either to ward him off or to hold fast to the delicious sense of yearning that was spiraling through her.

Desirable. Oh, such a notion brought with it a heady, wondrous feeling. Made only that much more dangerous because it came from someone as rakish and dangerous as Lord Henry.

Oh, Harriet could claim all the way to Scotland and back that Lord Henry was a dull stick, an anomaly of the Seldon bloodlines, but nothing could be further from the truth. Daphne saw him exactly for what he was, in his true light.

For here she stood, with her toes curled up inside her damp stockings, her soaked boots, and it was all she could do not to take a step closer to him.

She needn’t. He did it for her.

Coming closer and reaching out to push a stray tendril of her hair off her face. His fingers brushed over her cheek, her temple, and she shivered.

“You’re chilled,” he whispered.

“Not in the least,” she admitted. Not when he touched her like that. Her insides seemed to catch fire.

“No?” he asked again, teasing another strand out of her eyes.

Teasing her.

All the denial Daphne could manage was a slight shake of her head.

He reached down and took up her hands in his, holding them together as if they could ward off any chill.

But the thing was, she was no longer cold.

“Your fingers are like ice,” he said, bringing them to his lips, blowing slightly on them, the heat of his breath a shock to her senses.

He glanced at her, waiting for her protest, some word. As she should. As she would, once she remembered how to breathe.

You are a beautiful woman. Too much so.

She hardly knew what to do, other than stand there and let this handsome man work his rakish magic on her.

His warm lips stole over her fingertips. As he drew them closer, she followed, leaning up against him, his coat falling open.

And then it was as if all the barriers between them fell away.

For one moment she was there, enclosed and safe in his coat, and the next she was in his arms.

And hardly safe.

Daphne had moved without any thought, save one.

This is where I belong.

In this man’s arms. Oh, it shouldn’t be so. But it was.

Still, she looked up, ready to protest, searching for the scolding words she should be casting out, and finding only one thing in her heart . . .

Surrender.

It was that starry, dangerous moment at the ball all over again, save there was no impending threat of family, friends or fire-breathing chaperones.

No boundaries. No barriers. Nothing but this spark that could not be denied.

He bent his head down and claimed her lips with his.

Daphne sighed. Good heavens, how could one desire a thing so much without ever having known it could be so?

His lips teased her mouth, nipping at her lower lip, nudging her to open up to him.

And when she did, everything shifted.

The spark burst into a bonfire of desire, and Lord Henry tugged her up against him and deepened his kiss. His tongue slid over her lips, tasting her, moving over her own.

Daring her to dance. To dance where she may.

Meanwhile, his hands roamed over her, beneath his coat, over her curves, tracing the line of her hips, curving around her behind, igniting a firestorm in their wake.

His coat slipped from her shoulders and she trembled as it puddled around her feet.

Not from the chill in the air. Hardly. How could she be cold when she was on fire?

Longing, deep, dangerous longing, filled her. Uncoiling inside her, leaving her tangled and tight, and delirious.

This was not a kiss, it was an awakening.

Daphne tried to breathe as she clung to the man holding her. Raw, untamed passion unraveled within her as he touched her, as his kiss deepened.

If she shivered before it rained, Daphne now trembled before the storm of desire Lord Henry unleashed with his kiss.

Her nipples tightened as she found herself pressed against the wool of his jacket. Daphne moved against him like a cat, letting her senses come alive as her body contacted his. Her hands opened across his chest, and she let her fingers fan out over the muscled planes.

He continued to kiss her, hold her, explore her, his lips leaving hers to kiss her neck, the hollow of her throat, and then back to her lips, returning to her eagerly, hungrily.

His hand caught hold of her backside and drew her closer, right up against him, and Daphne’s lashes fluttered open as she realized just how much of a rake Lord Henry was . . . and in that same moment, the sharp trill of a warbler burst through the stillness.

It was as if the bird’s song brought with it a reminder. Cousin Crispin’s warning.

Consider this choice carefully, for once made it cannot be undone.

Cannot be undone . . .

Half mad with desires she was only beginning to understand, but knew would lure her to her ruin, Daphne wrenched herself away from this man who had suddenly stopped being merely a Seldon.

And something oh-so-much-more treacherous.

No, desirable. Very much so.

“Miss Dale, I—”

She held up her hand. “No. Please don’t say a word.” For she didn’t know what she feared more: his words dousing the fire between them or his saying something utterly unforgivable . . . like apologizing for his behavior or calling it a mistake.

“It’s just that—”

“Please, Lord Henry!” This time she pleaded. “Can we not speak of this?”

For a moment they just stood there, naught but an arm’s length between them. And like it had earlier, that spark started to kindle anew as she stole a glance at him. For there in his eyes was the truth.

He wanted her back in his arms.

And, oh, how she wanted to return. To that breathless place where there was only his lips on hers, his arms around her, and passion . . . nothing but passion between them.

But then it was as if he heard his own warning, and his eyes widened as if he had just connected the woman before him with the woman to whom he’d pledged earlier to keep his distance.

Much to her chagrin he took a hasty step back. “Yes, yes, I suppose it is for the better.”

They stood there for some time, separated by silence and wariness until Lord Henry asked quietly, “What will he do?”

So quietly that she barely discerned that he’d spoken, for she was still lost in her tangled thoughts, this sudden passion.

Daphne glanced up, blinking. “Pardon?”

“What will Lord Dale do now?” He bent over and picked up his greatcoat, this time handing it to her instead of settling it over her shoulders himself.

Oh, yes, Crispin. She’d nearly forgotten. Shrugging on the coat, she slanted a glance at Lord Henry. It was easy to see why the threat of her relatives was so far from her thoughts.

His blue eyes still held a smoky hue, his tawny hair loose from his usual queue—giving him a pirate air. Without his driving coat, he cut a rakish figure, standing there in his dark jacket, plain waistcoat and breeches. Polished boots encased his muscled calves. And that chest, oh, she knew that chest so well now, for her hands had splayed across it, explored it.

She blushed at her wayward thoughts and looked away.

“Crispin?” he nudged.

“Oh, yes,” she stammered. “Most likely, he’ll write Aunt Damaris.”

“Damaris Dale?” Lord Henry exclaimed, his words followed by a great shudder.

Apparently her great-aunt’s infamy extended even outside the family.

Daphne continued on with the likely scenario. “Then there will be a flurry of correspondence as to what must be done.”

“That could take a week or so,” he offered, most likely trying to appear helpful. That, or calculating the necessary fortifications that would need to be made to Owle Park.

“And then someone will be dispatched to fetch me home.” She made her way back to her sad, lonely bonnet and picked it up. The pink bow lay flat, and the silk flowers that had looked so jaunty earlier were now all well past their bloom.

The whole thing was a shambles.

Just like her plans to find Dishforth.

“Oh, dear!” she gasped, her hands coming to her still swollen lips. Lips that she’d vowed only for another.

However had she forgotten her stalwart, her steady love so quickly? So utterly?

She glanced over at Lord Henry and found him studying her, a bevy of questions mulling about behind the furrow of his brow, the intensity of his scrutiny.

One not to leave any stone unturned, as she feared, he asked, “Why did you come here, to Owle Park, if you knew this would happen?”

This? Their kiss? She looked at him and realized he’d meant—much to her embarrassment—something else entirely.

Why had she come? Why had she risked so much?

Without even thinking, she said the first words that came to her. For they answered both her reasons for coming to Owle Park and perhaps her unfathomable reasons for kissing him.

They were Dishforth’s words, and once again, her mysterious lover seemed to know her better than she knew herself.

“Lord Henry, haven’t you ever wanted to dance where you may?”