And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (24 page)

Good heavens, would she ever be able to get the seventh duke out of her head? Oh, yes, it had been a pleasure.

But it was also ruinous. She had pleaded with Dishforth to come, and this was how she repayed his loyalty? By letting him find her entwined with another man?

Putting her hands to Lord Henry’s wall of a chest, she shoved with all her might and toppled him off the settee.

He landed on the carpet with a thump and a curse. “What the devil—”

“Oh, do be quiet,” she whispered. “He’s coming—”

“No, he’s not,” Lord Henry complained, rubbing his backside. “Whoever it is, they’ve gone.”

“Gone?” Daphne glanced briefly over her shoulder at him and then did a quick shake of her gown, righting the hem in place and tugging up her sleeves. “No, that cannot be. Oh, what have I done?”

“Daphne, wait,” he said. No more Miss Dale. She was Daphne. As if she was his.

But she couldn’t be his. Not now. Not ever.

“I cannot. Oh, however did I let this happen?” she moaned, and then fled.

Out the door and away from the pleasures and utter ruin that was Lord Henry Seldon.

But it was too late. For even as her slippers padded up the stairs, she knew.

It was far too late for Dishforth. Or any other man.

Now that she was ruined.

L
ord Henry went to follow Daphne out of the library, but he found his path blocked by his nephew.

“Looks like she took the news hard,” Preston said, glancing up the stairs where Miss Dale had disappeared. “So much so that all her hairpins fell out.”

“Um, yes,” Henry managed.

“What went on in there?” The duke looked over Henry’s shoulder into the shadows of the library. “She didn’t break anything, did she? Like Hen did when that scoundrel Boland threw her over?”

Henry shook his head. Though he had rather feared she’d take up the pike on the wall. All that Kempton nonsense coming back to haunt him.

No, that cannot be. Oh, what have I done?
Her words full of anguish, her expression rife with a rising anger. Once she got done blaming herself, then she’d aim her fury at him.

Rightly so.

“Then what did she say?” Preston asked again.

“Um, well,” Henry began, shuffling his feet and wishing himself in a thousand different places.

Like in the lady’s bedchamber finishing what they had started.

“You did tell her, didn’t you, Henry?”

“Tell her? Oh, that.”

“Yes,
that
. Did you tell her or not?”

Henry shook his head.

Preston caught him by the arm and towed him back into the library, closing the door behind them. “Whyever not?”

Henry cursed Preston’s newfound respectability. “I . . . that is to say . . . it’s rather complicated . . .”

Preston, pacing before the aforementioned pike, came to an abrupt halt. “You can’t continue this! You have to tell her who you are.”

Henry shook his head. “I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“She despises me now,” Henry told Preston. “She’ll hate me more so when I tell her the truth.”

And that was putting it mildly. Especially now . . .

Preston’s brows furrowed into a line of confusion. “Why do you care what she thinks of you?”

The confession came out before Henry could stop the words. “Because I love her.”

There was a moment when Preston just stood there—most likely weighing whether or not he’d heard Henry correctly—but then the words registered and the duke sank into the large leather chair.

It creaked and protested.

“No, Henry,” he said, shaking his head. “Not her.”

“Yes, her.”

“She’s a Dale.” It was a statement that in any other circumstances would have been self-evident.

“I couldn’t help myself.”

“One says that over too much wine. Or betting on a nag that any man can see is going to run dead last. But not with one of them.”

A Dale.

Henry raked his hand through his hair. “You like her,” he pointed out.

“Liking her and pulling all the pins out of her hair is an entirely different matter.”

“She’s so demmed gorgeous.” As if that explained the circumstances. Nor could it be resolved by telling Preston that he’d done all that because Daphne Dale was aggravating and opinionated and tempting and delightful.

All at once. No, he’d stick with “gorgeous.”

“Of course she is,” Preston was arguing. “All Dale women are, and that’s the rub. Gorgeous, tempting pieces. Then once you find yourself leg-shackled to one of them, you’ll end up like Cornelius Seldon,” Preston said. “You do recall the story of Cornelius Seldon, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Henry ground out. Zillah used to tell them of Mad Corny’s final trip to Bedlam as a bedtime cautionary tale.

It had given Henry nightmares for years. Until . . .

“And what about Lord Kendrick Seldon? Do you recall how he ended his days once he’d crossed the line?”

Henry’s gaze wandered up to the pike. Kendrick had been the source of his remaining childhood nightmares.

Preston wasn’t done. “I can’t believe you’ve fallen in love with her. What were you thinking?”

Apparently the ruinous interlude in the library was excusable, but falling in love with her, well, that was another matter altogether.

“When and how did this happen?” the duke continued. He glanced around the library. “And I assume this began before tonight?”

Henry nodded. Since it seemed a night for disclosures, he told Preston nearly everything.

About his mistake at the engagement ball. The encounter in the folly.

Meanwhile the duke had gotten to his feet and was once again pacing. “If Hen finds out—”

“Oh, good God, no,” Henry added, coming to his senses.

“Now you see that? After you’ve gone and—”

“Demmit, Preston!” Henry said, getting to his feet as well. “It isn’t like I set out to ruin her.”

It was bad enough she was ruined, but she’d left him aching for more. Left him gobsmacked with the white-hot truth: he’d never stop wanting her.

“You cannot pretend this did not happen,” the duke told him. “There are consequences to these things. There always are.” If anyone would know that, it was Preston. “The Dales will be out for blood.”

“However do you think they will find out?” Henry shot back.

“Someone always finds out,” Preston said, again with the surety of a practiced rake.

“It isn’t as if she is going to tell her family this.” No more than Henry had any intention of telling Hen.

Preston groaned, hand to his forehead. “Of course she won’t say anything directly. But someone will hear of this. Mark my words.”

“Not from Miss Dale. She’s in love with someone else.” Henry paused. “She’s convinced he’s the only man for her.”

The duke turned and studied his nephew. “In love with whom?”

“Dishforth,” Henry said. “She is in love with Dishforth.”

“Dishforth?” Preston’s eyes widened as he tried not to laugh. “That is a tangle.”

“Do not remind me. I loathe the fellow.”

“You are the fellow.”

“Yes, and I’m a wretched bastard in both cases,” Henry admitted.

Preston did laugh this time. “When you tell her that Dishforth is naught but a figment of your imagination, she’ll probably be inclined to share your loathing—so you’ll have something in common.”

“This is hardly funny,” Henry told him, finding nothing amusing in any of it.

“I never said it was. But you must admit”—Preston shook a little, then composed himself enough to finish—“she’s in love with another man who happens to be you.”

“Oh, good God, you are not helping.”

“I suppose I’m not,” Preston said. “But when you do tell her, I might suggest telling her in a letter. Especially if she takes after Kendrick’s Dale bride.”

Henry groaned. “She’ll hunt me down. Determined minx.”

Preston went over to the sideboard and filled two glasses with brandy. He handed one to Henry.

Henry raised his glass in a mock toast. “Demmed Dishforth. Bloody, rotten fellow.”

“He’s supposed to get us out of fixes, not make our lives a tangled mess,” Preston mused.

Henry glanced over at him. “What did you say?”

“Dishforth. He’s ever so unreliable, and such a horribly unfeeling creature,” he said, using the line Hen had once given their nanny about one of Dishforth’s alleged crimes. It had become one of those oft-repeated sayings between the three of them.

What a horribly unfeeling creature Mr. Dishforth can be. Ever so unreliable.

“That’s it!” Henry said. Raising his glass, he added, “To Dishforth, may he prove himself such a horribly unfeeling creature that she’ll have nothing to do with him.”

D
aphne hurried up the stairs and down the first hall she came to, only to discover she was on the wrong floor, and in the wrong wing.

Glancing around, she realized she was standing in front of the music room, and from inside came a crash of the keys.

She whirled around and found Lady Zillah making a beeline for her. The lady seemed to have lost most of her infirmities; fiery determination marked her every step.

“You there!” the lady said, shaking a bony finger at her.

There was no hope of fleeing now.

Lady Zillah came to a stop before her and took in her disheveled appearance with a quick glance and a very loud snort. “Bah! Get in here, Miss Dale. I will have a word with you.”

Daphne found herself rooted in place, for inside the music room was a large fireplace, and even though it was August, there was a good blaze roaring away.

“Don’t keep me waiting!” Lady Zillah chided as she turned back toward the piano. “Any niece of Damaris Dale would have better manners than that.”

She would if she wasn’t so uncertain whether or not the crone before her wasn’t about to pop her in the fireplace.

But Daphne was also Damaris’s niece, so with her head held high, albeit missing hairpins, she strode into the music room as if this was to be merely a friendly chat.

Lady Zillah sat with her back ramrod straight, and she took another look at Daphne before she began with the honesty for which she was famous.

“If you think that rapscallion nephew of mine will marry you even now after he’s obviously tumbled you—”

“My lady!” Daphne burst out.

“Was it him, or wasn’t it?” Lady Zillah demanded. When Daphne refused to answer, Lady Zillah took her silence as confirmation.

The interview went rather downhill from there, and ended with Lady Zillah stalking out of the music room in high dudgeons.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Chapter 13

Come with me, Miss Spooner. Run away and be my bride. I shall await your answer at the inn in the village. My coach and my heart await you.

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner

E
arly the next morning, with Dishforth’s latest note tucked into her pocket, Daphne stole down the stairs. The entire house was quiet, save for Mr. Muggins, who continued to dog her every step.

Literally.

She turned to the Irish terrier and scratched his head. “Sit here, Mr. Muggins. And wait for Tabitha.”

And then she closed the front door behind her and went down the drive, taking a deep breath and committing herself to the plan before her.

The one outlined in Dishforth’s note, the one she’d found waiting for her, having been slipped under her door during the night. So he had discovered her identity after all.

Yet it was his words that took her breath away.

He loved her still, despite their missed chances, and hoped she’d understand.

Daphne had read those lines twice. Perhaps three times. He loved her. Still.

And as she read the rest of his letter, she knew exactly what she had to do.

Yet with each step she took down the long, winding drive, she wondered if this was the wisest course.

Whatever would her family say?

Daphne took only one glance over her shoulder back at Owle Park and then vowed not to look again.

Whatever her doubts about Dishforth, she had no such qualms or doubts now of his intentions toward her. He wanted to marry her.

She got to the gate and shifted her traveling valise from one hand to another as she crossed under the imposing stone arch, with its colonnaded towers on either side.

“Giving up?”

Daphne paused, for she knew that voice as well as she knew the owner’s kiss.

Lord Henry.

There was a crunch of gravel behind her, and she turned to find the rogue pushing off the base of the column, where he’d apparently been lounging about.

Morning had barely arrived, yet here he was, with his coat flung open, no cravat, his shirt open in a V at the neck and his waistcoat undone. Dusty breeches and scuffed boots showed the wear of a cross-country trek, while his usually properly combed mane of hair was tied back in merely a simple queue.

She’d never seen him so undone. So entirely at ease. So perfectly handsome.

Had he been up all night? she wondered. Not that she had much time to consider it as he came forward much as he had last night—a lion stalking through his territory, eyeing her as one might easy prey—until he stood before her, blocking her escape. “I asked if you were giving up. Going home, perhaps?”

Daphne tried to get an answer out, but all that she could manage was a stammering “Yes . . . no . . . eventually.” And then she shifted her valise again and went around him.

Persistent rake that he was, he followed and kept up with her easily. “If that is the case, I could call for a carriage.”

She shook her head. “No thank you, my lord.” If she thought that was enough to deter the man, Lord Henry continued to match her pace.

For a while they walked in silence, Daphne continuing determinedly along, Lord Henry doggedly following her.

He rather reminded her of Mr. Muggins.

Finally, tired of this ruse, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Whatever are you doing, loitering after me? Haven’t you something more important to attend to?”

He shook his head. “No, not in the least. Found myself awake early this morning. Couldn’t sleep, so I decided to come down here and watch the sun rise.”

Daphne glanced over her shoulder. “And so it has, so now shouldn’t you be seeing to your breakfast?”

He grinned at her. “Actually, it didn’t show its bright face until you arrived.”

“Pish!” she replied. “Really, Lord Henry? Comparing my arrival to the sun?” She shuddered and shifted her valise again, but she found it removed from her grasp and the gentleman carrying it for her. He didn’t say a word, but the stubborn set of his jaw precluded any opposition to his assistance.

“It is a long way to London,” he noted, nodding up the empty road before them. “I can still call for a carriage.”

“I’m only going to the village.”

“There is no mail coach through the village.”

“I have a ride.”

“You do?”

She nodded.

“Who?”

Daphne huffed an impatient breath. If that was the way he wanted to do this . . . “None of your business.”

“Miss Dale, are you eloping?”

This time she merely shook her head, as she did when Pansy brought her the wrong gown. And she kept walking.

With the wretched lout stalking along beside her.

“Let me see, sneaking off from a house party at an early hour,” he mused. “No need for a coach, mail or otherwise. And a small valise”—he gave it a heft, as if weighing it—“with the necessities for a three-day journey.
Hmmm,
then I can only assume you are indeed eloping.”

“Oh, bother. Yes. I am.”

“Hardly proper,” he told her.

“But necessary,” she shot back.

“Necessary?”

“As if you have to ask,” she said. She leaned over to retrieve her valise, but he held it out of her reach. Thwarted, but refusing to give up, Daphne continued on.

Lord Henry followed. “Why is this elopement suddenly so necessary?”

She came to a grinding halt, hands fisting to her hips. “Since you ask, any moment now Cousin Crispin and an entire host of Dales will arrive here demanding my removal, and I will be whisked away in shame.”

“Shame?”

“Utter ruin,” she corrected. “Then there will be a family conclave and I will be married off to the first Dale they can find to take me in my tarnished state.”

“Tarnished?” He looked her up and down as if searching for a blemish.

She gave him a withering glance.

To which he smiled. “Never tarnished, Miss Dale. Not to me. To me, you shine brightly.”

“Harrumph
!” And this time she managed to regain the possession of her valise, marching onward toward a fate of her own making. Though she knew the necessity of making a good show of it.

“Go away!” she told him, like one might a stray dog.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeated. “As a gentleman—”

“A gentleman! Bah!”

“A man of honor?”

“Piffle!”

He came around in front of her, once again blocking her escape. “What about a fellow in good standing—”

“Please, Lord Henry,” she begged, pointing down the road in the direction from which they’d come, “go back to Owle Park, where you belong. To your life. Leave me to mine. Please.”

“No,” he repeated stubbornly. “Not until I know you’re safe.” He paused for a moment, and when she glared at him, he continued, “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something untoward happened to you. And there it is. You might not think me a gentleman or a man of honor, but I won’t let anything or anyone harm you.”

She nodded in acquiescence.

They continued walking on, and as they entered the village, Daphne spoke up again. “Aren’t you needed elsewhere?”

Henry considered her question for a moment and then shook his head. “No. Not that I can think of.”

One of the shopkeepers who was opening his business for the day doffed his hat to them, and Henry nodded politely back. “I’d rather spend these last few minutes with you. That, and I would be remiss if I didn’t stay and ensure this gentleman’s intentions toward you are honorable.”

Daphne stumbled and stopped. “
You
are going to discern
that
?”

“You needn’t sound so incredulous,” he replied as he kept walking. “It takes a rake to know one,” he called back over his shoulder. “I’d be doing you a favor. I owe you that much, Miss Dale.”

Daphne hurried to catch up. “I would prefer you leave well enough alone.”

He slanted a glance at her. “I suppose you are going to insist.”

“I am.”

He sighed again. “But I could ensure—”

“Not one word, Lord Henry!”

“Oh, good heavens, Miss Dale, you are a trying creature. But if I must remain silent—”

“You must,” she insisted. “You will not say a word to the gentleman who is awaiting me at the inn.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “If that is your heart’s desire, Miss Dale, I will promise with all my heart not to say a word to the gentleman waiting for you.”

“Swear?” she pressed.

“Upon my honor,” he told her.

Satisfied, she continued on, her eyes fixed on the inn at the end of the row of shops and houses.

Out in front sat a shabby-looking carriage.

“How odd,” Lord Henry remarked.

“Odd?”

“I thought this most excellent gentleman of yours would have some elegant barouche to carry you off in style and comfort.”

Tucking her chin up, she told him, “Thankfully, he is not the sort to be overly extravagant—he disdains such showy pretensions. Some might call him thrifty and sensible. Qualities I quite admire.”

As they got closer to the carriage, it was obvious it was a tumbledown affair.

Lord Henry let out a low whistle. “As long as he doesn’t do the same thing to your dress accounts.”

She shot him a furious glance.

“I must ask,” Lord Henry continued, “however did you fall in love with this man? Because a lady would have to be in love to dare a journey in that rattletrap.”

“I did, and I will, because he has been nothing but honest and forthright with me.” Was it Daphne’s imagination, or did Lord Henry flinch?

When she started for the inn’s door, he called after her, “Well, good, you’ve gotten that off your chest.”

Against her better judgment, Daphne stopped. “Excuse me?”

“That bit of pique. It brightened you up a bit. I fear you were starting to look a bit pale. A man likes his bride with a starry-eyed gaze and a bit of a blush to her.”

She glanced over at him, feeling a lot of her color rushing into her cheeks. “I’ve already taken up too much of your time. Good-bye, Lord Henry.” She stopped short of adding,
Good riddance
.

Lord Henry ignored her, went over to the door and pushed it open. “Miss Dale, wild horses couldn’t drag me away from witnessing your happy union.”

F
rom over Daphne’s shoulder, Henry winked at the innkeeper.
This is the one I told you about.

The man barely nodded, giving Henry a nearly imperceptible answer.
Gotcha, gov’ner.

Even the lad on the stool by the fire knew his role, for he said not a thing.

Henry had been most honest with Miss Dale when he’d said he’d gotten up early and gone for a walk. He had. To this very inn to set up the tableau which was about to play out.

It was all he could do not to grin.

For in the next few minutes, Daphne would find out that Dishforth had departed, and he, Henry, would be right there to soothe her broken heart. The perfect time to make his case and show her exactly why he was the only gentleman for her.

And such a plan might have worked if he had tried it on someone a little less determined, a far sight more malleable than Daphne Dale.

Certainly there should be a furrowed look of concern on her face—for here was the common room, empty, with no sign of Dishforth. Shouldn’t she appear, at the very least, a bit crestfallen?

Not Miss Dale.

She marched up to the serving board and nodded politely to the innkeeper. “Sir, I am to meet a gentleman here. Where might he be?”

The innkeeper bore a patient expression. Truly, in Henry’s estimation he was on par with Keen in his acting ability. “A gentleman, you say?”

“Yes, he said he would be waiting here for me,” she explained. “His coach and four are outside. Will you please summon him and let him know that Miss Dale is here.”

The man’s gaze narrowed. “A coach and four?”

“Yes, the one outside.”

Shaking his head, the innkeeper said, “The coach outside belongs to the inn. We let it out. Do you need a coach, miss?”

“No, I don’t need a coach,” she said. “The gentleman I was to meet was bringing his. Might he be summoned, please?”

Lord Henry leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and watched her with nothing less than awe. What a determined slip of muslin she was.

The innkeeper shook his head. “Miss, there is no one else about. Just you and his lordship.” He nodded toward Henry, who did his best to look mildly concerned—at least for her sake. Besides, everything was working perfectly. All the innkeeper had to do was explain—

She frowned at Lord Henry and leaned closer to the innkeeper so her query wasn’t so public.

Not that it wasn’t easy to hear.

“I am looking for a gentleman.” She leaned closer still. “Mr. Dishforth.”

“Mr. Dishforth?” He scratched his chin.

“Yes, a gentleman of some respectability. He was to meet me here.”

“Oh, that gentleman,” the innkeeper said, snapping his fingers. “I fear, miss, he left.”

“Left?”

“Yes, he already left. In a hurry, you might say.”

Miss Dale stepped back from the board. “But whyever would he have left?”

“I can’t say, miss. He was here and then he was gone.” The innkeeper shrugged, then picked up a tankard and began polishing it with a cloth.

Truly, Lord Henry felt guilty about this deception, but it was better this way. Certainly it had to be.

“He left?” she asked, then shook her head. “He can’t have left. He wouldn’t have left. You are mistaken.”

Of course she wasn’t going to believe that her loyal Dishforth would abandon her, so Lord Henry had taken the precaution of adding another player to this scene.

“Oh, aye, miss,” the lad by the fire piped up. “The grand gentleman left, oh, say, an hour ago. Mayhap two it was.”

“No, he wouldn’t have,” she told the boy, tears brimming up in her eyes. “He wouldn’t have left. Not without me.”

My dearest, beloved Miss Spooner. When we meet at the inn, we shall never be parted ever again.

And it was that very promise broken that left her wide blue eyes all undone with grief. Those tears also managed to unravel everything Henry had devised.