And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake

chapter 3



Do you think it is possible that we have met? Have seen each other and not known who the other truly was? Could such a thing be possible, for I think I would know you, sir, anywhere.

Found in a letter from Miss Spooner to Mr. Dishforth




“The supper dance is next,” Harriet said happily, rocking on the heels of her slippers as she scanned the crowded dance floor.

“Don’t remind me,” Daphne groaned. If anything, she was becoming desperate. For every tick of the clock that left her search unresolved, every dance that left her lacking an answer, she remained under the threat of having to dance with him.

Lord Henry Seldon.

She still wasn’t quite past her shock that the man she’d thought—nay, would have sworn—must be Mr. Dishforth was none other than Preston’s uncle.

His Seldon uncle.

Harriet hardly batted an eye. “Have you considered, Daphne, that Lord Henry might be your Mr. Dishforth?”

Daphne tried to speak, but the words choked in her throat.

Her Mr. Dishforth a Seldon? Wasn’t it bad enough she’d considered, even been willing, to let that ne’er-do-well kiss her?

“No, he cannot be,” she told her friend. “I am sure of it.”

“How unfortunate.” Harriet shrugged and continued scanning the crowd around them.

Unfortunate? Daphne would call it a blessing.

Nor did she want to recall the delicious sense of wonder that had unfurled inside her limbs as Lord Henry had held her, gazed down upon her. The hard strength of his chest beneath her hands, the steady drum of his heart.

Daphne shuddered. This was exactly the madness she had hoped to escape when she’d started corresponding with Mr. Dishforth.

A sensible courtship, that’s what she’d sought.

Which certainly meant not letting some dratted man leave her at sixes and sevens, what with his rakish charms and lies.

No, somewhere in this room was a sensible, reliable, perfectly amiable man, and she meant to find him. But when she looked up, all she spied was a portly fellow heading in her direction, and she edged behind a large red velvet curtain to escape his wandering gaze.

Harriet glanced over her shoulder. “What are you doing back there?”

Daphne sighed and stepped out of its protective shadow. “Hiding from Lord Middlecott.”

“Whyever won’t you dance with him?” Harriet asked, propping herself up on her tiptoes and taking a measure of the baron, who was prowling the crowd for his next choice.

“There isn’t a prayer that he is Dishforth,” Daphne replied, maintaining a position well out of the man’s line of sight.

“Is that because he isn’t as handsome as Lord Henry?” Harriet teased.

Daphne cringed, for there was some truth in that statement. However, it wouldn’t do to give an ounce of credit to Harriet’s impertinent opinions. “No. It is because he’s only just come to London. Which rules him out as a possible candidate.”

“And you thought Mr. Ives, that rather rapscallion Mr. Trewick, and that poor vicar—”

“Mr. Niniham,” Daphne supplied.

“Yes, Mr. Niniham, might be Dishforth?” Harriet echoed. “You will dance with him, a vicar with barely enough income to keep you in hats, and two fellows who aren’t worth a snap, just in hopes that one of them might be him.”

“Yes,” Daphne told her, though she’d been quite relieved the poor vicar had turned out to be in no way, shape or form her Dishforth.

Oh, she’d been so confident when she’d strolled into the ball earlier. So sure she’d find her dearest, genuine Mr. Dishforth.

But that had been before . . . before he’d ruined everything.

Now every time she tried to recall her list of parameters for identifying Mr. Dishforth, the only thing that rose up in her mind was the image of an arrogant, tall, and exceptionally handsome man—one with leonine features, a tawny shock of hair, a piercing gaze and a sure stance.

Daphne’s brow furrowed. For what she envisioned was the very image of Lord Henry.

Lord Henry, indeed!

Her dismay must have been all too obvious, for here was Harriet studying her. “Good heavens, Daphne, whatever has your petticoat in a knot?”

Daphne straightened and pressed her lips into a line. “Harriet Hathaway! What a singularly vulgar thing to say!”

Harriet hardly appeared chastened. Quite the opposite. “Oh, don’t start parroting Lady Essex to me. I know you,” she shot back, arms crossed over her chest. “So what is it?”

“Him!” Daphne said, nodding across the way.

Harriet glanced up. “Lord Henry?”

“Yes, of course, Lord Henry! The man is wretched. I deplore him.”

“Didn’t look that way earlier,” Harriet said. “The two of you looked quite cozy.”

“He tricked me,” Daphne avowed. Though she knew that was only partially true. She’d tricked herself. “He lulled me with his charm.”

Harriet’s eyes widened, a slight smile tugging at her lips. “So what you are saying is that Lord Henry is charming . . .”

Daphne found herself being herded toward a confession she wasn’t going to make.

Ever.

“He can’t help it,” she said, mostly in her own defense. “Look at him over there now, flirting with Miss . . . Miss . . .”

Oh, bother, it was impossible to think of the girl’s name when her gaze kept straying to Lord Henry’s bright smile. And never mind that she knew exactly where he was. She was willing to concede that the Seldon males were overly handsome and eye catching.

Most likely every woman in the room knew exactly where that Lothario stood.

It was their curse, their charm. Daphne cringed at that last thought. Lord Henry Seldon was too charming.

“That’s Miss Lantham,” Harriet supplied.

“Yes, well, poor Miss Lantham. For there she is getting her hopes up that he’s taken notice of her, and he won’t. For in about two minutes he will be on to his next conquest.”

Harriet cocked her head to one side as she looked at Daphne. “And you would know this because . . . ?”

“Because that is exactly what he did to me. At least what he attempted to do,” she said. “I can hear him right now. ‘Oh, Miss Lantham, I would remember meeting you—how is it I have yet to have the pleasure of your acquaintance?’ ”

Harriet laughed at her imitation.

But Daphne wasn’t done; she nodded at the pair across the way, and when Miss Lantham began to chatter, she filled in the words for Harriet.

Miss Lantham: “Lord Henry, I avow I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

“And I you, Miss Lantham,” Daphne added, with a deep rakish voice.

Miss Lantham: “I have a very large dowry I would love to show you.”

Lord Henry: “I possess a great fondness for large dowries and ladies who delight in sharing.”

“Daphne, you are being wicked,” Harriet complained as she laughed. “Do stop, or you’ll have Lady Essex over here to discover why we are having fun and not out dancing with the Lord Middlecotts of the world.” Having composed herself, Harriet dared not look over at Lord Henry, but in his defense she said, “I hardly think he is as bad as all that.”

“He is an unpardonable rake.”

Harriet looked sideways at her. “Daphne Dale, I’ve never known you to be prone to such dramatics. Lord Henry is no rake. By all accounts, he’s considered quite dull.”

Against her better judgment, Daphne glanced across the room where he still stood charming Miss Lantham.

Dull? Hardly.

Not for all the silver in the King’s treasury would she admit the treacherous thoughts that had sprung to mind when Lord Henry raised his heart-stopping gaze and turned ever-so-slightly to look at her.

As if he’d known she’d been watching him.

Wrenching her gaze away, Daphne feigned indifference. Her insides were a little more difficult to tame, for her heart raced, and something wild and tempting uncoiled inside her, teasing her to look again.

Well, she wouldn’t.

“Whoever is your partner for the supper dance?” Daphne asked her friend, hoping this would change the subject.

“Oh, just Fieldgate,” Harriet said, casting the name aside with a breezy wave of her hand.

“Fieldgate!” Daphne made a tsk, tsk. “But you’ve danced with him twice tonight. I hope Lady Essex hasn’t noticed. She’s already vexed that I’ll be dancing with Lord Henry twice, but another round with Fieldgate? Harriet!” She wagged her finger at her friend. “She’ll complain to Roxley.”

“I know,” Harriet said, a slight grin tipping her lips.

“You deplore the viscount, Harriet.”

“I do indeed.”

“And Roxley avows he is a scandalous, scurrilous fellow.”

“Precisely his appeal,” Harriet said, once again smiling like a well-pleased cat.

Daphne shook her head. “You’ll push Roxley too far.”

“Not far enough,” Harriet said, glancing around for the earl, who was even now across the room chatting with a tall, well-dressed widow. The sight did nothing but bring a glower to Harriet’s face. “And what about you? Are you ready to risk England’s welfare and dance with Lord Henry a second time, or shall I stand warned that such a happening will most likely bring down the realm?”

“You shouldn’t tease,” Daphne told her, though when Harriet said it, it did sound rather ridiculous. “The Seldons are an egregious lot. Any Dale would tell you so.”

“Harrumph!” Harriet snorted. “However did this ridiculous feud get started?”

“I haven’t the least notion,” Daphne replied. She actually did know, but it was a very private matter. And not spoken of. Not by Dale or Seldon.

At least not in public.

“Daphne! There you are,” Tabitha said, having appeared out of the crush. “My goodness, you’ve been difficult to catch up with. If I didn’t know better, I would swear you’ve been hiding behind that curtain—which can only mean you haven’t found him.”

Oh, but I have, her errant and newfound desires cried out. He’s right over there.

Daphne fixed her gaze on Tabitha and did not indulge in another glance across the ballroom.

Tabitha, taking her friend’s silence and distraction all wrong, linked her arm in Daphne’s and began towing her along the edge of the ballroom. Harriet brought up the rear.

While it may appear a sisterly and affectionate move, Daphne was not fooled. Her friends were herding her toward her next partner. The last dance on her card. The one she’d been ordered to fill with a solitary name—and rebelliously she’d left blank.

The supper dance with Lord Henry.

“Whyever must I do this?” Daphne complained.

Heaving a sigh, Tabitha launched right in. It seemed she was quite prepared for this last protest. “Because it is Seldon family tradition. A sign that both families are in agreement over the marriage.”

“Rather ironic, don’t you think?” Harriet mused. “The two of you leading the way—”

“Yes, yes, very amusing,” Daphne shot back. “If Preston can scoff at the Kempton curse, whyever is he holding fast to this tradition?”

Tabitha smiled. “It is considered a blessing, a sign of good luck on the marriage. Don’t you want that for me?”

Daphne clenched her teeth. Oh, bother. Tabitha would have to say something like that.

And now it seemed Daphne would have no choice. Even when she’d left the supper dance blank on her card solely because she had held out every last hope that when she discovered the identity of Mr. Dishforth he would take Lord Henry’s spot.

Nay, demand it.

Miss Dale, it is my privilege, my right to claim this dance. Save you from this knavish Seldon.

At least that was how she’d imagined it.

Unfortunately for Daphne, all she had to show for an evening of accepting one dance after another was a pair of sore feet. She’d quite worn out her new slippers.

She took a moment to look down and mourn their loss. Daphne did so love a pretty pair of shoes.

“Oh, dear!” Tabitha exclaimed. “It appears Lady Essex is over there badgering Lady Juniper again. Most likely about the buntings for the wedding ball. Do you mind? I must extract her from Lady Essex’s clutches before Preston intervenes—you all know what happened the last time he crossed swords with Lady Essex.”

They all smirked. For the lady liked to remind one and all that the Duke of Preston had once kissed her.

Though not in that way, she was wont to add.

“No, I don’t mind in the least,” Daphne said, glancing over toward the garden doors.

It would hardly be her fault if she missed her dance with Lord Henry because she needed a breath of fresh air. . . .

“Don’t you dare, Daphne Dale,” Tabitha warned, having taken two steps and then turned back.

“Dare what?” Daphne exclaimed, wrenching her gaze away from the lure that the open doors offered, the deep shadows of night enveloping the roses and graveled paths.

“Go hide in the garden to escape your dance with Lord Henry. I will not have this evening ruined by your lack of attendance at the supper dance. You must be there to lead it off with Lord Henry—it means everything to Preston. Besides, if you refuse, there will be talk.”

“I think their first dance together covered that issue quite nicely,” Harriet said with a well-meaning smirk.

Daphne’s gaze flew up. “I hardly think . . .”

But the look that passed between Tabitha and Harriet said it all. Oh, goodness, it hadn’t looked as bad as all that, had it?

Apparently so.

But gossip? Daphne stifled a groan, for the last thing she needed was on dit about her attendance at this ball bandied about London. A Seldon ball. She was still a bit in horror that someone might let drop to Great-Aunt Damaris that they’d spied her niece dancing the night away.

With Lord Henry Seldon.

She might be able to explain away her attendance—for Tabitha’s sake and all. But a second dance? Unforgivable.

“Daphne? Do you promise?” Tabitha said, giving her a little shake to rattle her out of her reverie.

Harriet crossed her arms over her chest and shot her pointed stare. “I’ll see that she makes it over to his lordship,” she said, more to Daphne than Tabitha.

“Traitor,” Daphne whispered.

“Again, not my feud,” Harriet replied with a shrug.

Meanwhile, Tabitha stood there, arms crossed and slipper tapping impatiently.

“Oh, bother both of you!” Daphne said. “Yes, I promise.”

“I do not know what has come over you,” Harriet scolded as she had to tug Daphne back into their ambling pace around the room. “I thought you’d come to like Preston . . .”

But Daphne wasn’t really listening. She was taking one last scan of the crowd around them for any man who might possibly be Mr. Dishforth. Much to her chagrin she found her wandering led her right back to one man. Lord Henry.

Ah, yes, there he was, having moved on from his previous conquest of Miss Lantham to charming a pair of impressionable and utterly innocent twins.

“Harrumph.” Daphne shook her head as the girls took turns fluttering their fans and batting their lashes in hopes that Lord Henry could discern one from the other.

Not that he would probably care.

“Which of you is Lucinda and which is Lydia? No, don’t tell me. I prefer to guess.”

“Giggle.”

“Giggle.”

“Hmm. I believe it could take a man an entire lifetime to discern between the two of you.”

“You aren’t making up the conversation again, are you?” Harriet asked over Daphne’s shoulder.

Daphne blushed a little. “No.”

“Yes, you are,” Harriet contradicted.

“I might be,” Daphne conceded as the dialogue continued unabated inside her head.

“Ah, the problem with twins is that I find it hardly fair that I must choose.”

“Must you, Lord Henry?”

“Oh, aye. Must you choose?”

“I don’t even want to know what is going on in that diabolical mind of yours,” Harriet avowed, shaking her head.

Daphne glanced around the room. “I would like to know where their mother might be, for she’s left them utterly unguarded.”

“Perhaps they are not here in London with their mother.”

“Then a companion? Or a maiden aunt?” Daphne turned to her friend. “You have no idea what he is capable of.”

“And you do?” Harriet asked, as if she would like Daphne to enlighten her.

Which she was not going to do. Notching up her chin, Daphne turned her gaze back at the identical pair, look-alikes right down to their matching gowns and gloves. Oh, bother, there must be, at the very least, a guardian nearby, perhaps one with a penchant for pistols.

For if Lord Henry was called out, then sadly she would have to forgo the pleasure of partnering him for the supper dance.

“He hardly seems as bad as you would like me to believe,” Harriet said, nudging into Daphne’s reverie, one that had Lord Henry face down on a grassy meadow, with the retort of a pistol still echoing through the early morning shadows.

Daphne turned to argue but just as quickly bit back her remarks. For if she was to point out that Lord Henry Seldon had spent the entire evening prowling about the ballroom, dancing with every woman he could charm—which was any bit of muslin his lustful gaze fell upon—Harriet would only too gleefully point out the obvious.

Whyever were you watching him if you know he isn’t the man you want . . . ? Unless . . .

Unless nothing!

And luckily for her, now that she knew exactly who he was, she was quite immune to his charms.

Unlike that silly pair of girls who stood there, gazing up at that handsome, roguish son of a duke with stars in their eyes.

“Oh, Lord Henry, say that again . . .”

“Oh, yes, Lord Henry, tell us that witty story over and over . . .”

Daphne would never be so misled, not again. Not by him.

“Brace yourself if you are determined to be stubborn about all this,” Harriet warned. “Here he comes.”

“Why must I dance with him?”

“Because Tabitha is our dearest friend. And we will not have her happiness marred in any way whatsoever,” Harriet said as both a reminder and a bit of scold. “And it is only one dance.”

Yet for some reason, that thought—one dance—made Daphne’s heart beat a little faster, her insides quake and tighten.

Ridiculous, truly. Quite insensible.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” Harriet was saying. “It scrunches up your brow in the most unbecoming way—you look older than Miss Fielding.”

Daphne immediately smiled, for Tabitha’s sake and so as to avoid any further unflattering comparisons, especially since Miss Fielding was three years her senior. It would never do to be thought of as that ancient and still unmarried.

Even if she was from Kempton.

“Do make the best of it,” Harriet continued. “Show these Seldons that the Dales possess all the manners and grace you keep declaring is the difference between your families. Besides, you know not who else might be watching you.”

Daphne stilled. But of course! Dishforth! Perhaps he was here still—or had been delayed and was even now set to arrive. Oh, yes, he’d been delayed. That was it. Nor would he find her scowling like an old maid, even when faced with Lord Henry’s glowering visage, which made him resemble some stone-carved mythical beast.

Albeit a rather handsome one.

Daphne buttoned down her resolve, as well as the odd rabble of passions he evoked. One dance. That was all.

And the supper . . .

Clearly Lord Henry found this situation as distasteful as she did, for he did nothing to hide the disdain in his glance.

So why was it, as she stared into his stormy gaze, that all she could think of was a line from one of Dishforth’s early letters?

We are all bound by our lot, by tradition, are we not, Miss Spooner? But don’t you long to be free of it all? Free to choose? Free to dance where you may?

Dance where you may . . . She would dance with Lord Henry—under duress—but very soon she would find Mr. Dishforth, and they would dance where they may and no one would naysay her choice ever again.

“Miss Hathaway,” Lord Henry said, bowing low to Harriet. As he rose, he sent a scant glance at Daphne. “Miss Dale.”

The greeting came out in a tone one might use upon finding a beggar curled up on one’s front step.

Ignoring his complete lack of manners—truly, what did she expect?—Daphne pasted a bright smile on her face, the most regal tilt to her chin and sent a slight flutter of lashes at Lord Henry, if only to disarm him.

She was, after all, a Dale.

“Lord Henry,” she replied with a mixture of bright charm and an equal dose of disdain.

Harriet cringed, having recognized the same polite, yet terse, tones Daphne took when she locked horns with Miss Fielding over some point of order in their weekly meetings at the Society for the Temperance and Improvement of Kempton.

“I believe we are expected to begin this dance,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the parties forming. “But, if you . . .”

Daphne shot a glance at Harriet to see if she had heard the implication behind Lord Henry’s statement.

If you refuse me, Miss Dale, it will not break my heart.

Unfortunately for Daphne, Harriet stood stonily at her side, an ever-present reminder, her conscience, per se, that she was not allowed to give in to what she wanted more than anything.

To avoid this dance.

“Apparently it is a Seldon tradition,” she said, reminding him that this was not a situation of her making. It was a slippery slope, a moral equivocation.

She didn’t dare glance over at Harriet, but she heard all too clearly her snort of derision.

No, Harriet wasn’t buying her dissembling in the least.

“Yes, tradition,” he agreed, sounding no more pleased about it than she. “Are we not all bound by it?”

Daphne stilled. Good heavens, he almost sounded like . . .

Then Lord Henry did her the favor of proving himself utterly unworthy of the title of Dishforth, dispelling any further comparisons.

“Well, shall we get this over with?” he asked as the music started.

Get this over with? Daphne wrenched herself out of her woolgathering and let the full impact of his words come to rest. Get this over with? Why, she’d never been so insulted. He should be so lucky to be able to dance with a Dale.

And she would show him just how lucky he was.

Holding Miss Daphne Dale, Henry quickly surmised, was akin to holding a rosebush.

One with a generous portion of thorns that had previously been hidden beneath her beauty.

If only she wasn’t so demmed pretty. That was the real problem, Henry told himself. Lithe and fair, Miss Dale’s gown—some tempting creation of silk that clung to her every curve and left her looking like one of the Three Graces come to life—was enough to make any man mad with desire.

And how ironic that it was red. He nearly shuddered. Now every time he tried to envision his Miss Spooner, all that came to mind was this tempting chit.

Worse, the supper dance had them hedged in—for nearly everyone was dancing. Even Roxley’s old aunt, Lady Essex, was being squired about the floor by some aging gallant.

So here he was, forced to dance with an utterly desirable lady, one who would most likely leave him pricked and bleeding by the time the musicians got out the last note.

Certainly the expression on her face suggested that such a fate would not be beyond her means.

He tried smiling in the face of his predicament.

“You needn’t feign any affection you do not feel, Lord Henry. Not for my sake,” the blunt little snip told him.

So much for putting her at ease in hopes she might rein back the worst of her thorns.

“Affection is hardly the word I would use,” he replied, not caring that he was being an ass. Besides, he had a few choice things he could say about her behavior earlier.

“Then may I be frank?” she asked.

As if she wasn’t planning on being so anyway. He just nodded, for it was a rather ridiculous question.

“Lord Henry, you know who I am, and I know what you are—”

What he was? Of all the rude, presumptuous—

“Well, yes, I am under no delusions that you, as a Seldon, cannot help your predilection to vice and debauchery—”

Him? He was the most sensible Seldon who had ever borne the name, yet, holding this impossible miss, this woman who had more charms than a lady deserved, he had the insensible urge to take up Preston’s newly retired rakish mantle and prove Miss Dale right.

That he was truly a Seldon. A rake of the first order. Might send her scurrying back to Kennels . . . No, Kempling . . . Oh, bother, whatever that village of spinsters she’d come from. Well, they could have her back with his blessing.

Perhaps he could take up the matter in Parliament and see about having a wall constructed around the village so no more of its ladies descended upon London.

“—so let us make the best of this situation, and when this evening is over, we can go our separate ways,” she said, as if that settled everything neatly and properly.

As if she’d been the paragon of virtue and he the devil incarnate.

Then, to make things worse—if one could imagine this entire tangle going much further down the well—he detected what could only have been a shudder running through her limbs.

Whatever did she have to shudder about?

He straightened slightly, ruffled by her implications, for they pricked at his pride. He’d spent his entire life being tarred with the Seldon brush—that he must be a rake, that he must be inclined to vice, and he had thought he’d risen above such implications.

“Miss Dale, believe me when I say I am merely trying to make the best of this situation,” he told her, smiling this time for the sake of Aunt Zillah Seldon, who looked ready to storm the dance floor and pluck Henry from these ghastly straits.

Good heavens, she was in her eighties and could barely cross the room without her cane, let alone manage to weave and wind her way through an entire floor full of swaying couples.

Then he glanced down and realized he hardly appeared the willing gentleman—he had Miss Dale out nearly at arm’s reach and was dancing with the measured grace of a twelve-year-old lad.

While Miss Dale, despite his clod-footed handling, moved with the grace of a lady born.

A lady, indeed. He’d show one and all what sort of ladies the Dales produced.

As they swung around the next turn, Henry hitched her up close. Scandalously close.

Miss Dale’s mouth opened in a wide moue, and her brows? They now arched like a pair of cats on points.

Well, she did assume him to be quite the rake. And he hated to disappoint a lady.

Ignoring her outraged expression or her attempt to step from his grasp, he said, “I know that Miss Timmons is ever so disappointed that you will not be attending the wedding.” He smiled as if the very idea was certainly not breaking his heart.

“Yes, well, we both know that such a thing is impossible,” she replied, not at all looking at him.

“Quite so, which makes your attendance this evening ever so surprising.”

“It was a last-minute decision,” she told him. “For Tabitha’s sake.” Then she glanced away, as if she could wish herself halfway to Scotland rather than be here. In his arms.

Henry rather liked her dismay. Served her right. Coming here and pretending to be . . . Well, never mind that. . . . After all, he’d been only her first in a long string of conquests this evening. He’d seen how she’d taken great delight in accepting nearly every gentleman who’d asked her to dance and then summarily dismissing them after.

Not that he’d been watching her. Not in the least.

“Ahem,” she coughed.

He glanced down at her and wished he hadn’t. For here she was, all blue eyes and fair complexion. And how hadn’t he noticed before that delicate spray of freckles on her nose? So very kissable and so tempting.

“Yes, Miss Dale?” he managed.

“Must you hold me so close?”

He leaned a bit to one side and studied his own stance for a second. “Am I?”

“Yes,” she complained, followed by a stony glance that said what the lady refused to say in public. Let me go, you great pondering ape.

He smiled, tucked her ever so slightly closer, and hoped she knew exactly what he meant.

Not in your life.

While he thought she might make a scene—which would definitely guarantee her a one-way mail coach ticket back to wherever it was she came from, ruin dripping from her hem—at that moment, as she surveyed the crowd around them, she fluttered those long lashes of hers as if she’d suddenly remembered something very important.

And instead of sending him off with a flea in his ear, she did quite the opposite.

As they swept along the edge of the dance floor, the lady’s entire demeanor changed.

She smiled brightly as her gaze swept from one man to the next—all the way down the line.

And her captivated audience gazed back in appreciation.

Henry’s brow furrowed. Normally it didn’t bother him to have the ton’s rakes and Corinthians eyeing the armful he’d gained for a dance. It left him able to smile over the lady’s shoulder with a look that said all too clearly:

Mine if I want her. . . .

Yet when he looked down at this minx, this lady who was causing more than one jaw to drop in admiration, he realized two things:

Firstly, Miss Daphne Dale had every asset necessary to leave a man aching with desire.

And secondly, she would never be his.

Much to his chagrin, that notion—that she was well out of his reach—left him a bit off kilter.

Not that he wanted Miss Daphne Dale. Certainly he wasn’t mad like Lord Norton Seldon, the last known member of his family foolish enough to cross the firmly established lines between the Seldon and Dale clans, but there was just no arguing that she was a tempting piece of muslin.

He saw her as he had earlier, looking up at him with eyes shining—alight all for him. He rather liked the way she tipped her head as she glanced just over her shoulder, letting the waterfall of curls pinned atop her head fall all the way over her bare shoulder . . . a teasing sort of glance that made a man consider how she would look being tossed atop his bed . . . those glorious blonde tresses freed and falling all about her shoulders . . . over her naked . . .

Henry wrenched his gaze away, righting his errant thoughts as quickly as he could.

How he’d ever thought her to be his sensible Miss Spooner, he didn’t know.

Not that Miss Dale seemed to care what her come-hither glances and bright smile might do to a man. In fact, if he didn’t know better, he might think she was posing for another.

Another?

He glanced about the room and tried to gauge who this fribble might be. Not that her previous partners could be considered. A beggary lot of dull sticks for the most part. Ives. Niniham. Trewick. And that dull vicar Hen had insisted be invited.

Yet she’d turned down Middlecott, considered to be the catch of the Season. Odd choice that, given that the man was as rich as Midas and rumored to be ready to set up his nursery.

So if she wasn’t looking for a title and fortune, then what was she after?

He cast one more glance down at her rosebud lips, pursed and ready to be kissed. Henry didn’t know what came over him, but he hitched her up a little closer.

Thorns and all.

Oh, and how those thorns bristled. Her brows arched higher, and in tones dripping with censure, she said, “I’ll have you know, I am nearly engaged, and you are being entirely impudent by insisting on holding me thusly.”

Of all the self-important, pompous Dale presumption. As if he was holding her solely for his benefit.

Which he wasn’t. Not in the least.

“Nearly engaged?” he wondered aloud. “Whatever does that mean? Could it be the man can’t make up his mind, or you haven’t let him get a word in edgewise?”

Her bright smile tightened, and her lashes stopped that delectable flutter. And he should have realized the next thrust from this slight English rose would be straight into his gut.

“What would you know of love, Lord Henry?” she returned. “Being a Seldon and all. From what I hear, a Seldon’s forte is to ravage and run.”

She would bring Montgomery Seldon into all this.

Rather than acknowledge her sniping comment—good heavens, that incident had happened during the reign of Charles the Second, but leave it to a Dale to carry it about—he asked, “And is this paragon of yours here tonight? I wouldn’t mind knowing whose wrath I should be fearing.”

Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed together.

What? No answer? Henry knew a mystery when he held one, and Miss Dale’s “engagement” had all the hallmarks of a most intriguing one.

“Well, is he here or not?” he pressed. “It is a simple question.”

“Ours is not a simple engagement,” she shot back.

Of course it wouldn’t be. The fellow must be stark raving mad. Perhaps they had refused to let the poor blighter out of Bedlam to attend this evening’s festivities.

For certainly if Henry had known what was in store for himself, he would have gladly exchanged places with the fool.

“Not that I would expect you to have any understanding of such a relationship,” she was saying.

“A relationship?” he mused aloud and immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Yes, I thought the word would be foreign to you,” she shot back. “And having seen you at work this evening—”

“At work?” What the devil did that mean?

Oh, she told him.

“Lord Henry, I have not been blind to the fact that you’ve flirted and flitted your way through every innocent in the room this evening—”

He hoped she didn’t count herself amongst them. There was nothing innocent about a lady who wore such a gown.

“—but it is refreshing to discover that I am not the only one immune to your rakish charms—”

She thought he had charms? Never mind that. More to the point, she’d been watching him.

Just as you were watching her . . .

“—true love,” she continued, “a meeting of minds and hearts is not found in such trivial pursuits as flirting and dancing.”

“You don’t like to dance?” he said. And to prove his point, he held her closer and swung her tightly through the crowd.

Something fluttered in her eyes, a mischievous light. She loved to dance. Just as he did.

Yet she was also just as stubborn. “There are not so many opportunities at home for such festivities.”

“Ah, yes, in . . . where is it you are from?”

“Kempton,” she told him, her chin notching up slightly.

He nodded. “Preston mentioned the place. Something about all the ladies being cursed. Should I worry for my safety?”

“Only if we were to marry,” she shot back, and was it him, or did her gleeful note imply she’d rather like to see him married to a Kempton bride?

And end up just like all the rest of the village grooms, spending their honeymoons napping in the graveyard.

“That will never happen, I assure you, Miss Dale,” he replied.

She sighed, with a bit of resignation. “The curse is naught but a myth.”

“Yes, well, I hope so,” he told her. “For the sake of your unknown gentleman and my nephew. I would hate to have Preston turn up his toes with a fire iron sticking out of his chest—”

There was a flash of annoyance in her eyes.

So she didn’t like her hometown curse being bandied about or mocked. Yet it was so perfect an opening . . .

“—leaving me in the demmed uncomfortable position of having to inherit,” he finished.

“You wouldn’t want the dukedom?” This surprised her, as it did most people.

“Heavens, no,” he shuddered. “I have other plans for my future.”

She didn’t ask what those were, and he didn’t elaborate.

He could imagine the delight she’d take in laughing at his desires for a comfortable, sensible life in the country, well away from London and the ton.

Speaking of his future, he glanced down at the tempting beauty in his arms and knew that sensible would never be a word attributed to her.

“Now whatever is the matter?” she asked, once again wiggling in his arms to gain some distance between them.

If only she knew what that did to a man—her breasts pressed against him, her hips moving to and fro.

Or perhaps she did.

“Your gown,” he said.

She glanced down at it. “It is the first stare of fashion. Why, there are three other ladies wearing very similar dresses—though I should complain to the modiste, for she said it was the only one like it in London.”

Henry laughed at her consternation. “You needn’t worry; you far outshine them. I doubt any man in the room noticed the others.”

Then he realized what he’d said. Confessed, really.

Her eyes widened and then narrowed as she regarded him warily. “If you are trying to charm me yet again—”

“I wasn’t trying to charm you before—”

“You weren’t? Whatever was all that you were doing?”

“A grave error,” he told her, growing a bit annoyed—mostly at himself.

Every moment spent arguing and bear-baiting with Miss Dale was just more time lost and with it his hopes of finding Miss Spooner before he was forced to hie off to the country for Preston’s house party and wedding.

It would be a good month before he returned to London, and where Miss Spooner would be then or if she would still be in Town, he knew not.

He had to find her tonight.

“A grave error?” Miss Dale repeated. “Dancing with me was a grave error?”

If he had been paying more attention, he might have heard the warning note in her voice. It was one that Norton Seldon had ignored and one Montgomery Seldon should have heeded . . . and saved ensuing generations of Seldons from wagonloads of grief.

“I’ll have you know, you should be honored,” she told him, thorns coming through the silk. “I haven’t trod on your foot, like that simpering Miss Rigglesford did—twice—and I’ve managed to hold up my end of this . . . this . . . conversation, unlike that tongue-tied nitwit Lady Honoria, who you seemed to find so amusing. No one finds her amusing, Lord Henry. No one. You, sir, have been lucky beyond measure to dance with me. Twice, I might note.”

“Lucky?” he sputtered. “As if this is some boon to me? To be cast with one of your lot?”

“One. Of. My. Lot?” she bit out.

“Yes, lot. Dales! Stubborn, prideful, braggarts,” he told her.

“Seldons!” she shot back. “I am too much a lady to give your gaggle of relations their due.”

“Are you sure about that?”

If ever there was a question a man wished he could take back, that was one.

Her eyes darkened with fury. No simpering gel like Miss Rigglesford, or rigidly dull chit like Lady Honoria, or like any other Bath-educated, perfectly mannered London lady.

Kempton-born, and Dale to the bone, Miss Daphne Dale wrenched herself out of his arms and went to leave him mid-dance, mid-turn, as everyone was executing a complicated step.

It was uncalled for, it was a cut direct. It was a ruinous move on her part.

But her timing couldn’t have been more perfect. For the ruin, it turned out, was to be all his.

For when she gave him the heave-ho, he wasn’t prepared for her flight and found himself floundering forward, his feet tangled and hung up.

He would have sworn he’d been tripped. Or perhaps he’d just trod upon her silken hem.

Not that the how mattered, for all of sudden, one moment she was there, and the next she was casting him off and he was falling, his hands flailing out to catch hold of something to keep him from toppling headfirst into the tight knots of dancers.

And find something he did. His outstretched hands came right into a lady. More to the point, the very front of a lady’s gown.

Lady Essex’s, to be exact.

After that, the evening was naught but a blur for Lord Henry.

Though it all came into sharp focus when the Earl of Roxley came ambling into the upper reaches of Preston’s town house a few hours before dawn and found the duke and Lord Henry on their second decanter. Or maybe their third.

Well, perhaps not sharp focus, for Henry was well into his cups. Then again, he had much to forget.

Miss Dale, for one thing. And then that entire mishap with Lady Essex. And the hullabaloo the lady had raised. And the peal Hen had rung over him for his disgraceful behavior.

Accosting a spinster! Why, it was beneath even a Seldon.

Henry tried to forget, but it was nearly impossible. For along with Hen’s scolding chorus still ringing in his ears were Lady Essex’s shrill screams.

Oh, good God! He’d all but mauled Lady Essex Marshom. The room began to spin around him.

And now added to that whirl was Lord Roxley. Or rather two earls. It was rather difficult to discern when one was this top-heavy.

“Ah, Roxley,” Preston called out, waving him toward the sideboard. “How fares your aunt?”

The earl shuddered at the question, as if he wished the entire evening could be dismissed so easily. Teetering over to the sideboard, he poured himself a measure. Then, eyeing it, he tipped the bottle of brandy yet again until the glass was almost full.

Preston shot the nearly overflowing glass a second look. “As bad as all that?”

“Worse,” Roxley avowed. “She’s demanding satisfaction. Wants me to name my seconds. My aunt seems to think that only my shooting Lord Henry on some grassy field will ‘regain her lost honor.’ ”

“Did you point out that I am the better shot?” Henry said.

Roxley nodded. “Unfortunately, she’s quite willing to take the risk.”