And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake (23 page)

“And whyever didn’t he?” she demanded of the duke. “Kiss me, that is?”

The rogue had no reply, but the glint in his eye suggested that he would not have failed in such an endeavor.

“I wonder who she is?”

Jealous?

“Not in the least.” Daphne’s brow furrowed. “I suppose I should be thankful. He would have ruined everything.”

If he hasn’t already . . .

“You see,” she continued, for apparently it was quite helpful to have an understanding, yet completely impotent, rogue to confide in, “he’s got me questioning everything about—well, about someone else. Someone I thought would be the perfect choice.”

But there was the rub. What if Dishforth wasn’t like Lord Henry? Didn’t leave her so unsettled, so filled with this restless passion that seemed to have a voice of its own, constantly demanding to be let out?

“Well, that wouldn’t do,” Daphne muttered. She couldn’t discard her reputation, her virtue just to discover what might be possible with a rogue like Lord Henry Seldon.

You might be surprised how perfect it is to be kissed by a rogue. . . . To let your passions run away unfettered . . .

She glanced back up at the portrait, for she could have sworn the old duke had just nudged her with such a scandalous thought.

Let him run away with you. . . .

“Oh, do be still,” she scolded the duke. “You are only complicating matters.”

For weren’t things complicated enough? Any moment now, the door to the library would open and in would come Mr. Dishforth.

Dishforth no longer, she corrected. She’d know exactly who her sensible gentleman was.

And what if it is Fieldgate?

Daphne slanted a glance at the painting. “That is hardly helpful, and I doubt it is him.”

No, she couldn’t imagine Viscount Fielding ever using the world
sensible,
let alone knowing how to spell it.

Then what about that earl? The one with that awful shock of ginger hair? Oh, he’s spilled a bit of his wild oats and gotten himself into a bit of financial trouble, but what young man hasn’t? He could be a sensible sort, with the right woman.

Daphne nodded in agreement. Kipps was an earl. And he did have his heart in the right place trying to find a bride to save his family.

“Why would a money-strapped earl use an advertisement to find a bride?” she posed, and when the seventh duke had no answer, she crossed the earl off her list. Yet again.

Astbury?

Daphne shook her head.

Bramston?

She laughed. The captain was quite dashing, but hardly the sort to sit down and compose such heartfelt missives.

Cowley?

Daphne bit her lower lip. He was rather the most likely choice. But oh, dear, whatever would she do if it was him?

Indeed. Can’t imagine him giving you a good thorough tumble.

“That would hardly be a proper consideration for choosing a mate.” Daphne stole a glance at the woman hanging in the portrait next to the duke. The seventh Duchess of Preston.

Little do you know,
her satisfied expression seemed to say
.

Daphne ignored her. Hadn’t that particular Preston duchess been an opera dancer?

The duke continued to grin.
Rawcliffe? Could be him. All that scandal around his first wife’s death has left him a bit of a pariah in Society. Certainly a passionate fellow when riled—they say he finished off Lady Rawcliffe in a fit of rage by . . .

“That is hardly helpful,” Daphne pointed out. “Now, however am I to get that image out of my head if it is indeed Lord Rawcliffe who comes through that door?”

The duke hardly appeared penitent, lounging in his frame and smiling at her with that look of scandalous delight.

There’s always my grandson,
he offered.
Could be him.

Daphne snorted. “I doubt he would know what a ‘rational meeting of minds’ entails. Lord Henry, my Dishforth? I’d rather eat my gloves.”

Before or after he kissed you?

P
reston led Henry down a passageway that wound behind the walls of Owle Park, holding a single candle aloft to gauge where they were.

As if one could tell in such a narrow, dark space, Henry thought.

“I had forgotten these were here,” Preston was saying, almost as if he was reminding himself, “until you started on about meeting this chit in the library. These tunnels run right alongside the wall where the seventh duke is hanging on the wall. Freddie and Felix used to take great delight in scaring the living daylights out of me from inside here. Had me utterly convinced the house was haunted until Dove showed me how to get in here. Then I had my revenge. Oh, how they howled.” He chuckled at the memory.

Henry’s gaze flew up to Preston’s back. It was the first time he could ever remember the duke speaking of his long-lost brothers and sister.

Then again, it was miracle enough that Preston had reopened Owle Park, and now here he was happily reminiscing about the family he’d lost nearly overnight.

It was as Hen claimed; they owed a great debt for the healing touch Miss Timmons had brought to his life. Their lives as well, for Preston was now happily settling into his role as the duke and the head of the family.

Perhaps too much so.

“Henry, I still can’t believe you answered one of those letters,” Preston whispered, swiping his other arm in front of him to clear out the cobwebs.

“I’m rather at a loss to explain it myself,” he admitted, hoping the spiders had long since fled. Henry really loathed spiders.

“I wager we find Miss Walding in the library,” Preston said over his shoulder.

“Miss Walding?” Henry shook his head. “Unlikely.”

“Better than Miss Nashe.” Preston shuddered. “Last time I leave the guest list up to Hen.”

Henry didn’t bother to point out that the next guest list Preston had to review would have been compiled by his bride. Nor did he have time to, for Preston stopped and turned, put a warning finger to his lips, then pointed at a small slat in the wall. Shielding the candle with his hand to hide the light, Preston nodded at Henry to slide it open.

Taking a deep breath, and steeling himself against a major disappointment, Henry stepped up to the hole that had been hidden there.

In that moment, the entire guest list ran through his thoughts.

Lady Alicia, Lady Clare, Miss Nashe, Miss Walding, the Tempest twins, Miss Hathaway . . . right there, Henry stopped himself.

For in his mind’s eye, he imagined only one woman in the library.

No, not imagined.
Desired.
With a thunderous, loud rumble of desire that rushed through his veins like an avalanche.

Daphne Dale. With her willowy ways and impertinent manners. With her rosy, delectable lips, a mouth made for kissing, and a body that left a man with nothing but the most lascivious notions.

Why, that damned gown she was wearing tonight fit her like a glove and left him speechless. Yes, that was all he needed—a bride who would leave him in a perpetual state of dismay and desire.

No, his Miss Spooner was on the other side of this wall, and she would be a sensible, proper lady who would make an excellent partner with whom to live a perfectly prudent life.

That was what he wanted.

Until, that is, he peered through the opening.

And immediately reared back. “Good God, I’m ruined!” he gasped, albeit as quietly as he could.

He found himself with his back to the opposite wall, his chest pounding.

“I’m done for,” he whispered, his frantic gaze fluttering up to meet Preston’s.

Because he knew in his heart that this was exactly what he wanted. Wasn’t it?

“Who is it?” Preston asked in the same hushed tone.

Henry couldn’t say the name. Honestly, didn’t know if he could even speak.

He merely nodded toward the opening.
Be my guest.

Preston slanted a quizzical glance at him and then took a look. He had much the same reaction and reeled back from the hole as if it were on fire. “We’re all done for!”

The duke reached over and closed the slat. Then he pointed that they should beat a hasty retreat, handing Henry the candle so he could lead the way.

If only it was that easy.

“Better you found out now,” the duke whispered. “At least you are braced for the meeting ahead.”

Meeting?

“What the devil do you mean?” Henry asked.

“When you go in there,” Preston nudged him forward.

“I’m not going in there.” Was Preston mad? That room was no longer the library. It was the Coliseum, and he was about to be cast into the ring for lions to devour.

No, he wasn’t going. Not willingly. Not unless Preston had a Roman legion to prod his every step.

He wasn’t about to go in there and make a bloody fool of himself. She loved another, not him.

She was expecting her most excellent gentleman . . . not him.

Then the totality of all of it tumbled into place.

Oh, good God, she was expecting Dishforth. Her most excellent gentleman was . . . him.

Henry felt one of Hen’s megrims coming on. Hen never suffered from the complaint, but she demmed well knew how to give them.

“You have to go in there and tell her,” Preston whispered. No, more like commanded.

Henry took back his sentiment that Miss Timmons was to be commended for her reform of the duke.

A reformed duke was a pain in the ass.

Namely, his. Henry shook his head, as recalcitrant as a child.

Go in and face Miss Dale? Alone? In the library? With that grinning portrait of the seventh duke looking down at him in disappointment that he didn’t have the lady’s gown up over her hips and her crying out in delight?

No. He wasn’t going to do that.

But Preston had another notion. “You owe the lady the truth. Honor demands it. Anything less would be cowardly.”

Henry flinched. Damn Preston. Any moment now he was going to be dredging up the family code of honor, like Zillah would.

They’d gotten to the panel where they’d entered the tunnel and Preston reached over him, feeling around the wall for the latch.

“You never know,” he was saying. “Miss Dale might find the entire situation amusing.”

Hope sprang up in Henry’s chest. “You think so?”

Preston shook his head. “No. Not in the least.”

Chapter 12

There is nothing I can say that will gain your forgiveness for my unpardonable lapse.

Found in a letter never sent by Miss Spooner to Mr. Dishforth

H
enry took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the library, striding into the middle of the room. Feigning a measure of shock and surprise, he said, “Miss Dale! Whatever are you doing here?”

“Lord Henry?” Her face was the epitome of horror. “What are you doing here?” she finally managed, after—he guessed—she’d gone through a myriad of questions.

You’re Dishforth?

No, it can’t be true.

She glanced at the door, then her eyes narrowed.
How the devil am I going to get rid of him?

Henry watched her as she moved around the settee in the middle of the room, strategically placing it between them.

A good plan, but it was hardly the gulf that Henry suspected they needed if they were to truly keep their distance.

“My lord! What are you doing here?” This time her question was a demand.

“What am I doing here?” He forced a puzzled expression onto his face. “Why, I came to get a book, why else?”

“A book?”

No woman had ever sounded so relieved in her life.

To make good his point, he strolled over to the bookshelf and pulled one down. After thumbing through it for a moment, he looked around the room and proceeded to settle into the large chair by the fireplace.

Mr. Muggins opened one eye, examined this new addition to the room, thumped his tail a few times in approval and went back to sleep.

Miss Dale did not share the hound’s opinion. “What are you doing?”

“Thought I’d read a bit before I settle down for the night.”

“Well, you can’t!”

He glanced up from the page. “Pardon?”

“You mustn’t,” she told him.

“I mustn’t what?”

“Read that book! Not here.”

“It is a library, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“And this is where one normally finds a book to read, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Yet I can’t read it here?”

“No.”

“Whyever not?”

“The light is poor.” She glanced around, searching for more coin to add to her lie. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your own room?”

“No.” He stuck out his legs and tucked his boots atop the ottoman. “I rather prefer to read in here. I find this room quite agreeable.” Then he went back to the pages before him.

And while he wasn’t reading, he was counting.
One, two, three, four, five . . .

“You need to leave.”

He glanced up. “Leave?”

“Yes,” she said. “Immediately.” She pointed toward the door.

Henry closed the book and tossed it atop a nearby table. “Miss Dale, I have the distinct impression you want to get rid of me. Whatever are you about?” He glanced at her from head to toe. “Are you waiting for a gentleman? Some late-hour assignation?”

Her mouth fell open, but she recovered quickly. “What a scandalous suggestion, my lord!”

But, he noted, she hadn’t denied it. “Is it?”

“Yes! Don’t you recall that I am nearly betrothed?”

“Oh, yes, that,” he mused, waving his hand in dismissal.

“Yes. That.” Her gaze flitted from him to the door and back again, as if she could will him out of his seat.

Henry settled in deeper. “Still, I suppose when one finds a lady alone in the library at this hour of the night—when she should be safely ensconced and chaperoned in the salon with the company of the other ladies all around her—one might assume that she is—”

“Oh, good heavens! Only a man of your inclinations would assume such a thing.”

He ignored the slight she’d thrust into his midsection. “Then what
are
you doing here, Miss Dale?”

Her lips pursed together and her brow furrowed as she scrambled for an answer. “A book. Of course. That’s why I came here.”

Yes, of course.
“And you came here alone?”

“I was on my way up to bed.”

Bed
. That word landed between them and caught them both in its snare, its implications.

“Alone?” He couldn’t help himself. He followed the seventh duke’s example and leered.

Just a bit.

“Of course,” she huffed. “As I was trying to explain, I have a megrim.” And then, remembering her malady, she pressed her hand to her brow. After a few moments of this dramatic repose, she opened one eye to see its effect.

He gave her his best imitation of Zillah’s stare—the one that said all too clearly that the preceding statement was a steaming pile of horse manure.

“Well, it isn’t a truly horrific one. Yet. Just the beginnings of one,” she corrected, fingers going to press her forehead as if that could stem the rising pain. “After making my excuses to your sister and Lady Essex . . . in fact, it was Lady Essex’s suggestion that I retire early—”

“Who am I to disagree with my sister and Lady Essex?”

“Who, indeed?”

“That doesn’t explain how you ended up here, alone, in the library.”

“As I said, I came here to find a book.”

“To read?”

“Of course!”

“To help ease your megrim?”

Miss Dale stilled, like a doe cornered. Then she turned ever so slowly, her chin chucked up and her eyes full of determination.

He had to admire her daring. Her continued battle to maintain this charade.

“Not to read this evening, my lord,” she replied.

“No, of course not.” He shook his head, the master of concern and care.

Lying little minx.

“As you know, I like to arise early—”

Yes, he knew.

“And I thought that if I awoke refreshed, I might like to read before I came down for breakfast.” She finished with a triumphant smile, her chin tipping upward, daring him to refute her story.

He had to admit she had bottom.

But was a terrible liar.

Henry glanced up at the seventh duke’s portrait hanging over her shoulder.

What the devil are you waiting for?

Henry blinked. Had he just heard that? “Pardon?”

“I didn’t say anything,” she told him before she glanced over her shoulder. Henry could have sworn she flinched as she looked at the notorious rake.

There was little doubt in Henry’s mind what the duke would advise his namesake to do.

Get up. Take that bonny bit of muslin in your arms and declare yourself. It’s that simple.

If only it was. For now that he was faced with telling her the truth, he realized he wanted Daphne Dale to choose him for being him—not the man who had written those ridiculous letters.

Dishforth, he would tell Miss Dale, is a right proper prig.

No, Henry wanted her to defy everything that was sensible and proper. Demmit, defy her family as he would his, and choose him. Lord Henry Seldon.

So he began with the first of the seventh duke’s instructions. He got up.

Miss Dale regarded him warily, her fingers digging into the settee before her. “Are you leaving?”

She sounded rather hopeful.

“No,” he told her, crossing the room toward her.

She backed up until she stood right beneath the previous Henry Seldon.

“I came for something,” he told her as he stopped before her.

“Can I help you find it?” she offered, standing her ground.
So you’ll be on your way.

“Yes, I believe you can,” he said, reaching out and hauling her into his arms. Rakish step number two accomplished. “Miss Dale, I have something to tell you.”

Overhead, Henry thought it was the duke’s turn to flinch.

Honesty? With a woman? Are you mad? Wait just a bloody moment, did you say Dale—

Henry blotted out any more notions of seeking his grandfather’s advice.

He could do this on his own from here. Thank you very much.

“Lord Henry?”

He looked down at her. “Yes, Miss Dale?”

“Did you know you have a collection of cobwebs on the shoulder of your jacket?”

He glanced over. “I shall advise my valet to be more careful in future.”

“Indeed, in fact—”

“Miss Dale, there is something I must tell you—”

“Now?” she glanced frantically at the door.

“Yes, now.”

“I really don’t think this is a good time.”

“I disagree,” he said. Then Lord Henry Arthur George Baldwin Seldon proved he was every inch the grandson of the seventh duke.

D
aphne didn’t even have a chance to protest.

Not that she would have.

When Lord Henry’s lips met hers, she surrendered. To every bit of good sense, to any hope of a future that wasn’t marked in ruin.

For here he was, his lips hard and demanding. She opened up to him, and his tongue danced and slid over hers, enticing her to come along on this passionate exploration.

How could she deny him?

Her shawl fell to the floor. Whether she’d shrugged it off or he’d brushed it aside, she didn’t know, she didn’t care, for his fingers were sliding along the edge of her bodice, over her collarbone, twining into her hair and, finding the pins there, plucking them free until her hair tumbled down.

As it cascaded down, he moaned—growled, really—a sound both greedy and delirious. It was filled with desire and passion entwined in a deep earthy need that vibrated through her limbs, as if he’d touched her with his longing.

She answered back, pressing herself against him, her breasts against his chest, her hips swaying, a feminine reply that said she’d heard his call.

And still he kissed her. Long, hard, demanding.

Devouring her.

He held her fast, up against him, and there was no doubt the entire man was in the same state as his kiss.

Long. Hard. Demanding.

A sigh, a moan rose up from her depths, her hips brushing his as she drew even closer, as a desire to be right up against him, to draw him inside her, shivered through her.

His hands roamed over her, cupping her breasts, his thumb rolling over her nipple. It tightened into a bud beneath the muslin of her gown, and then the fabric was teased from her shoulders, leaving her bare to his touch.

Daphne shivered, but where the cool air touched her skin, Lord Henry’s lips followed.

She arched as his hot breath, his tongue washed over her shoulder, leaving a trail of desire in its wake. Then his head dipped lower, while his hand cupped her breast and brought it up for him to explore, to kiss, and then taking her nipple into his mouth, he sucked on it—leaving her gasping for air.

However could such a thing feel so good?

Oh, but it did, leaving her rising up on her tiptoes and clinging to his shoulders as he suckled one side and then the other, until even her breath was shuddering, coming in and out in ragged gasps.

He paused for a moment, and Daphne opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—and found him smiling at her.

Oh, what a smile. Full of dark, smoky passions. Full of possession. Like all Seldons, he had the coloring of a lion—that tawny hair, those dark eyes—and right now he looked every inch the great beast, hungry and ready to claim his stake.

Without asking, without a word, he swept her up into his arms and carried her across the room, kissing her as he went. When they came to the wide, deep gold brocade settee that sat in one of the shadowed corners, he laid her down and followed quickly, covering her with his body.

Daphne reached for him, her arms winding around his neck, her lips seeking his, her fingers twining in his hair, holding him, so she could find her way right back to that delicious, trembling state.

His body rocked against hers, as if seeking solace, seeking entry.

Between her legs, her body was tight and trembling, coiled with longing, and every time he slid against her, her insides quaked.

Yes. Yes. Please!

And so when she felt his hand draw her skirt up, a momentary shiver of panic ran through her.

Whatever was he going to do?

His fingers brushed over her small clothes, then slipped inside, brushing over the curls at her apex, then teasing past the folds and finding the taut nub beneath.

Daphne arched against his hand, her mouth opening in a wide O even as his fingers stroked her, beguiled her, sliding deeper, and then he slid a finger inside her—right into her, filling her, stretching her, drawing the wetness from her and sliding it back over her.

Back and forth he moved inside her, out, even as he kissed her, his tongue sliding over hers, sucking her into him, breathing her out. Her bare nipples rubbed against his shirt.

When the devil had he taken off his jacket? His waistcoat? She couldn’t remember.

She didn’t care. For the linen of his shirt brushed over the sensitive points, only adding to the building fires inside her. It was all building so quickly, his touch—insistent and teasing, drawing her upward. His kiss, demanding and insistent.

Come with me, love. Come with me,
his body cried out to hers.
Come see what we can find up here
.

She rose with his touch, with his kiss. Let him lead her upwards, where there was no air, no light, just his touch and her need.

Her hips were moving on their own, urging him to touch her faster. Deeper. Harder.

The darkness burst into light, her mouth opened to cry out, but no words came out. Shattering waves rushed through her, tossing her, crashing over her, until she had gone as high as she could.

And when she began to fall, fluttering in the wind like a feather on the colliding currents, there was Lord Henry, holding her, whispering to her, teasing her still so the waves of pleasure continued until she was spent.

That was also when she heard the footsteps in the hall. The sharp trod of boots sending a warning refrain through her muddled senses.

She blinked once, then twice, and looked up at Lord Henry.

He grinned at her with a lion’s share of pride at what he’d done. What he’d drawn from her.

But her passion was replaced with panic.

Dishforth!

Oh, what had she done? What had Lord Henry done to her?

Pleased you immensely, I imagine.