And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (13 page)

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.

D
aphne 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?”

Chapter 7

Mr. Dishforth, may I be forward? I am going to be, without hearing your answer, because I know what you would tell me: speak from your heart. And I shall.

Do you have a wen?

Found in a letter from Miss Spooner to Mr. Dishforth

“W
hat the devil were you thinking?” Preston asked. No, more like lectured.

No, actually, bellowed.

Henry did his best to stand his ground in the spot of shame that was a well-worn patch in front of the fireplace. They were in the family salon in the back of the house, far from the guests. Which unfortunately gave Preston all the freedom the duke should desire to unleash his displeasure with his uncle.

It was rather an odd position for Henry to be in. Up until a month or so ago it had always been Preston standing uncomfortably at attention, forced to listen to his relations chastise his behavior.

But here he was, and Henry found it nearly impossible to keep from shifting from one foot to another while Preston and Hen took turns chiding him.

“What were you thinking?” Hen wailed.

“Dishforth made me do it,” he muttered.

“Dishforth? Who the devil is he?” Great-Aunt Zillah demanded from her prime location—the large chair by the fireplace.

The Dales had Damaris, and the Seldons had Zillah.

“Well?” the old girl demanded. “Who is this Dishforth?”

Preston and Henry shot accusing glances at Hen, since she’d insisted their only other relative be invited. While the Dales were as prolific as a colony of rabbits, the Seldons had never been overly fruitful.

“He’s no one, dear,” Hen told her.

“No one?” Zillah huffed. “You can’t fool me. There’s a note on the salver for him even now.”

Henry caught himself before his head snapped to attention and he let out an eager “There is?”

Instead, he spared a glance at his nephew and sister and gave a sad shake to his head.
Poor old girl. Going at long last.

“Henry! A Seldon does not blame others for his misdeeds,” Zillah admonished, wagging a long, thin finger at him and proving that she wasn’t as infirm as Henry would like the others to believe.

“Yes, precisely,” Hen agreed.

“It started to rain. Nothing more,” Henry told them. For about the tenth time. It was the truth and yet no one wanted to believe him.

Gads! Had it been like this for Preston all these years? Glancing over at the duke’s glower, which held a triumphant air to it, revealed that this turnabout wasn’t all that unpleasant for the notorious Duke of Preston.

Then again in his favor, having listened to Preston “explain” his side of his less-than-respectable conduct over the years had taught Henry a thing or two about confession.

Taking a page from Preston’s example, he used enough of the truth to be believable.

“I got lost.”

Hen and Preston glanced at one another and had to shrug in concession. There was no arguing Henry’s poor sense of direction.

Not that Zillah was about to yield the field. “That gel looked tumbled when you brought her back. Tumbled, I say!”

Yes, we all heard you the first time,
Henry thought with a flinch. Slanting a glance over at his great-aunt, an ancient crone if ever there was one, he knew there were volumes of old family stories about Zillah’s flamboyant past. Yet looking at her now, Henry found it impossible to believe she even knew what tumbled would look like, let alone be able to still discern it.

Why, not even Hen knew how old Zillah was. And the lady herself? She wouldn’t have revealed her age to save the king or the whole of England. For all they knew, Queen Elizabeth was most likely reigning when Zillah was born.

Probably been her impudent dog who had caused all the fuss between the Dales and the Seldons to begin with.

“Tumbled,” Zillah repeated, before her head nodded back and she let out a loud snore.

Henry shook his head at the others, even as he knew it was an impossible position to defend.

Daphne had looked tumbled, for she’d very nearly been.

So had he—though not in the same way. Never mind that kiss—well, not that he was ever going to forget it, for it alone had been enough to knock him over—but when she’d stood there before him in that state of enticing dishabille, all wet and disheveled, her hair tumbling . . . yes, tumbling . . . down in wet curls, making her stunning confession, she’d turned his world upside down.

Haven’t you ever wanted to dance where you may?

He’d staggered back as if she’d slapped him. Dishforth’s words. Coming out of her lips.

No, not Dishforth’s, but his words.

How the devil had she known to say that? Pure chance? A mockery by the gods of love?

And before he’d been able to react, before he’d been able to demand an explanation from her, haul her back into his arms and kiss her until she was willing to explain how she knew such a thing, Preston, Hen and Tabitha had driven up, all too clearly witnessing the spectacle of the two of them—drenched to the bones, gaping at each other in wonder.

Then everything had sped forward so quickly that it was as if the thread binding them together with those words had been whisked back onto the spool from which it had come.

In the blink of an eye, Miss Dale had been bundled off in Preston’s carriage and Lord Henry had been left with the pony cart to trot obediently behind, with only Mr. Muggins for company. That, and the one burning question that had Henry at sixes and sevens.

Could that minx be . . . ?

No,
he’d told himself over and over.
Impossible
.

Miss Spooner was a respectable lady. Sensible. Well-bred.

With a tart pen and a passionate nature,
Dishforth would have added.
Don’t you recall what she wrote to us?

I am a tangle of shivers since I read your last letter. Promise one day we will dance under the stars. Dance where we may, just as you wrote. I would dance with you, sir. Wherever you may.

Henry had glanced up at the carriage before him, where all he’d been able to see had been the back of Miss Dale’s fair head.

No! . . .

And yet . . . what if Miss Dale was his Miss Spooner?

Henry had shaken that thought off just like Mr. Muggins had shaken the rain from his wiry coat—quickly and efficiently.

There was no way the impetuous beauty in the carriage before him was his Miss Spooner.

Would you mind if she was?
a voice like Dishforth’s had nudged.

Indeed I would,
he’d told himself, ignoring the way his body had thrummed to life as he’d recalled how she’d felt in his arms, her gown clinging to her full breasts, the rounded lines of her hips beneath his hands.

He hadn’t given her his coat out of some duty of chivalry. He’d done it to hide those damnable curves of hers—at least that had been his reasoning the second time around—for the sight of her could have turned even the most sensible of fellows into the most Seldon of rakes.

Even him.

Ah, those curves . . .

“Ahem,
” Hen said, clearing her throat and wrenching him back to the present.

Henry glanced around and found all three of them looking at him. “She was not tumbled,” he told his self-appointed tribunal.

“She was wearing your coat,” Preston pointed out. Being a rake of the first order gave him a rather unique familiarity with the subject.

If anyone could spot tumbled, it was Preston.

But Henry wasn’t a proper and sensible gentleman for nothing. “She was soaked,” he told his nephew. “Would you rather have had me leave her shivering? Or worse, catch her death?”

“Whose fault would that have been?” Hen mused.

Preston ignored her and continued on. “How the devil did you get so far afield as it was? Another few miles and you’d been over the boundary.”

The boundary.

Demmit! Henry had hoped to avoid that subject. And to his consternation, his guilt must have shown on his face.

“Henry! No!” Preston exclaimed. “You didn’t.”

He managed a deep breath and knew there was no choice but to confess it all.

The boundary part. Not the kiss. Nor about Miss Spooner. Or his suspicions as to who she might be.

Stealing a glance over at Zillah, he reordered his list. No confessing about the kiss. Especially not the kiss.

“Well, if you must know—” he began.

“No!” Preston groaned.

“Yes, I fear so,” Henry admitted.

Hen, scenting a growing scandal, sat up.

“Whatever are you going on about?” Zillah asked, her head snapping up to attention. Apparently her nap was over. “I will not be left out!”

Ignoring her, Henry lowered his voice. While a set down by Hen and Preston was one thing, Zillah was known to take umbrage for months. Years. Decades.

And while no one would venture a guess as to how long the old girl might have left, knowing Zillah she’d give it her all and last another quarter of a century, if only to make good on a grudge.

“I had a bit of a dustup with the viscount,” he admitted. He didn’t have to say which one.

“You not only crossed the line but you also managed to happen upon
him
?” Preston said, raking his hand through his hair and beginning to stalk about the room.

“Yes, I fear so,” Henry told him, his gaze following the duke warily.

“What is this?” Zillah demanded, her hand cupped to her ear.

His sister was more than willing to enlighten her, for it hadn’t taken her long to catch up. “Apparently, Henry strayed across the boundary onto Langdale, Auntie.”

Zillah’s eyes widened. And then she let fly. “Lord Henry Arthur George Baldwin Seldon! How could you? There are just three rules we Seldons live by—”

Oh, no,
Henry winced.
Not the rules
.

She held up her bony fingers and ticked them off in order. “A Seldon serves his king. He does his duty by his family. And he never, I mean ever, crosses
that
line.”

“Yes, right, but it isn’t well marked,” Henry said in his defense, not that any of them were listening.

“What happened?” Preston demanded in a voice that reminded one and all he was the duke.

Henry related Crispin’s demands and Miss Dale’s obstinate refusal to acquiesce.

“I despise that man,” Hen said, shaking her head.

“You made much the same observation about Michaels,” Henry reminded her.

Hen’s nose wrinkled. “At least he wasn’t a Dale.”

“Might as well have been,” Zillah muttered.

They all ignored her, no matter that they agreed.

“What do you think will come of this?” Preston asked.

“Miss Dale believes he will write Damaris Dale.”

All four Seldons shuddered at the mention of that lady’s name.

“How unfortunate burning witches has gone out of fashion,” Zillah said, spitting at the coals in the grate like one would to ward off an evil spirit.

No one argued with her.

Henry weighed his next words carefully. There was still the matter of Mr. Muggins’s indiscretion . . . but perhaps that would be better mentioned after dinner. And after Preston had partaken in a brandy or two.

“Miss Dale believes that once her family is apprised of her whereabouts, someone will be dispatched to bring her home.”

Hen got to her feet. “Are you suggesting her parents are unaware she is here?”

“So it seems.”

His sister sank back down into her chair, white-faced at the very thought of it. “Whyever would she come here against her family’s wishes?”

“Tabitha is her best friend,” Preston said, raising a defense for Miss Dale. For whatever reason, he held a soft spot when it came to this particular Dale, for this wasn’t the first time he’d championed her cause. “I suspect she was willing to set aside tradition to see her best friend married.”

Hen nodded in concession, but Henry held his tongue.

He wasn’t about to voice his own suspicions until he had some concrete proof.

If Daphne Dale was . . . was . . . her . . . his Miss Spooner . . . Henry stilled. No, it couldn’t be true. Even if he’d been all but convinced as much the night of the ball. Yet now he knew that had been a grave mistake, one he didn’t want to repeat.

All he had to do was prove Miss Dale’s uncanny choice of words was mere happenstance.

Like her choice of that blasted red gown.

Or her sudden inexplicable appearance at a Seldon house party.

Henry flinched as the evidence began to mount against him.

Zillah, who’d been nodding again, jerked back awake. “Whyever are we discussing Damaris Dale?”

“Her niece is here,” Hen explained. “Miss Dale. You met her earlier.”

“Dale?” Zillah shook her head. “I thought her name was Hale.” This time she turned her wrath on Preston—a deliverance of sorts for Henry. “Good heavens, young man!” she bleated. “That you have to lower yourself to include Dales just to fill out your house party convinces me you’ve brought this family to the very depths of shame.” She squinted at Preston, then at the others, and then sort of nodded off again.

Much to everyone’s relief.

“How long do we have?” Preston asked quietly, sneaking a glance at their great-aunt to make sure she was still dozing.

“A fortnight at the most, I imagine,” Henry said.

“Unless Crispin Dale decides to come storming over here beforehand, if only to make a scene,” Hen pointed out.

She needn’t sound so pleased with the notion. Then again, there wasn’t anything Hen loved more than a good row.

Hence her disastrous marriage to Lord Michaels.

“Why not just send her packing now?” she continued.

Preston shook his head. “What? And cause more scandal? Besides, Tabitha is over the moon that her ‘dear Daphne’ was allowed to attend. I won’t ruin her happiness.”

“If this disrupts your wedding, you might be of another opinion,” Hen pointed out.

“It won’t,” Henry said, straightening up. Like it or not, until he could prove otherwise, Daphne Dale had become his problem. “I swear I shall see to all this myself.”