And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (12 page)

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.

T
he 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.