And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake

chapter 5



Does it matter what is on the outside, when there is a heart beating inside, a soul full of longing as it waits to discover its own grand passion?

Found in a letter from Mr. Dishforth to Miss Spooner




Owle Park, Surrey

A sennight later

Henry came down the main staircase early for breakfast. More to the point, before the rest of the guests arose. Benley would have the newly arrived London papers at the ready for him, and he could eat his kippers and eggs in peace.

Which would be difficult to find—solitude, that is—in the next fortnight, what with Owle Park overflowing with guests. Carriages had arrived in a steady stream the previous day and late into the night, the last-minute guests hurrying to stake their claim at what gossip columns were calling “the only house party of note.”

Thus, no one had turned down an invitation.

Especially since the engagement ball—specifically the supper dance, or that “scandalous dance,” as it had been dubbed. One night and he’d become an object of speculation and gossip, a position for which he was ill-fitted.

That had always been Preston’s role in the family, not Henry’s. But now that the duke had become utterly respectable with his engagement to Miss Timmons, the curious had pinned their avid interest on Henry.

And all because of her. That demmed Miss Dale.

Not that Henry didn’t feel a bit of guilt over all of it. Perhaps he had provoked her.

Ever-so-slightly.

Still, there was no arguing that her flight from the dance floor had put a crown on his head as the most Seldon of all Seldons, and there was just no removing it—not if the invitations that had suddenly flooded the foyer at Harley Street afterward were any indication. Offers, vouchers and notes from ladies—married and otherwise. All addressed to Lord Henry Seldon.

Not Preston. Not Hen. Him.

Apparently a man who inspired such wrath from a lady demanded a closer inspection.

Overnight, he’d become London’s most notorious rake.

Henry didn’t realize it, but he’d come to a stop on the landing, and one of the newly hired maids scuttled past him, all wide-eyed and curious, as if she were viewing such a creature for the first time.

A rake!

He felt like calling after her, “Boo!”

Instead, he shook his head and continued down the steps, the house around him silent at this unfashionable hour, save for the whispered movements of the servants as they readied the house for the day’s activities.

Which he would have to take part in—at Hen and Preston’s insistence. Penance, he supposed, for the debacle at the engagement ball.

He would have been much happier to have stayed in Town and come down the day before the wedding and then return to London immediately after, but no, now that he’d become the latest on dit there had been naught to do but flee to the country.

At least Owle Park afforded him one benefit. No Miss Dale.

That thought should have been some comfort to him, but it only showed that the impudent, wretched bit of muslin continued to invade his thoughts. What with her winsome smiles, her bright eyes and fair features.

And her utterly vexing behavior.

Well, thankfully, her stubborn pride and Dale bloodlines had kept her from accepting the invitation to Preston’s wedding and house party—no matter that she was supposedly Miss Timmons’s dearest friend.

But being in the country also left him at a disadvantage; he could hardly press forth with his search for Miss Spooner while he was stuck here rusticating.

His jaw worked back and forth. There hadn’t been a letter or a note from the lady since that night.

The night Miss Dale had ruined everything.

And as it was, every time he thought of that miss, he couldn’t but help compare her to Miss Spooner.

Which left him imagining her as Miss Dale’s true opposite—dowdy, plain, without an ounce of grace—like the creature who’d answered the door at Christopher Street.

For a moment, Henry had feared he’d need to put his own words to the test.

Does it matter what is on the outside . . .

The owlish girl—no, make that spinster—who had answered the door and regarded him with a mixture of suspicion and awe had left him a bit taken aback. That is until he discovered she wasn’t Miss Spooner.

Thank God, he’d nearly cheered, even as she’d taken his letter and efficiently sent him packing.

Must be a relation, he realized, for she had the same sensible and determined air that echoed through the pages of Miss Spooner’s letters. He’d also been struck by the thought that there was something very familiar about the gel, as if he’d seen her before—a family resemblance perhaps to his Miss Spooner—but the only person who kept coming to mind was Miss Dale.

Henry grimaced. Miss Dale, indeed! Wouldn’t that be a nightmare?

No, he wanted a steady, reliable companion to spend his days with.

But what about your nights? a wry voice teased. Who would you rather spend your nights with?

Never mind that the first image that came to mind was Miss Dale, her hair unbound and that sylvan, delectable figure of hers wrapped only in his sheets, enticing him to abandon his sensible nature and come while away the night in the pleasures that only a creature of her nature could offer.

It was an image that had haunted him since that night.

Why, he’d even thought he’d seen her following him in London when he’d gone to discover Miss Spooner’s identity. Ridiculous notion—but that was what Dale women and their insufferable beauty did to sensible men.

Yes, a proper, sensible miss was exactly what he needed to extinguish this restless fire Miss Dale had lit inside him.

With that resolution firmly planted in his heart, he turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs and noticed a single note in the salver. He might have just walked right past, for it was probably no more than some titillating bit of gossip dashed off and left for one of the footmen to deliver to the intended party, but the handwriting stopped him cold.

And not just the handwriting, the name to whom it was addressed:

Dishforth

Glancing around, if only to ensure there was no one looking, Henry’s hand snaked out quickly and snatched it off the silver plate. He gaped down at the single folded page written in none other than Miss Spooner’s sure hand.

How the devil . . .

Taking another surreptitious glance around the open foyer and reassured that no one else was about, he slid his thumb under the wafer, wrenched the folded sheet open, and read the single line it contained.

As it turns out, I was invited as well.

Tucking neatly into her laden plate, Daphne sighed and glanced around the comfortable morning room. She found it unfathomable that this welcoming corner of Owle Park—what with its rococo ceiling, white wainscoting, celery paint and gilt trim here and there—was the design of a Seldon. Even the sparkling morning sunshine pouring in from the long windows at either end of the room cast such a bright, friendly glow that it made it nearly impossible to believe she was so deep in enemy territory.

Owle Park. The hereditary home of the Seldon heirs. She’d tamped down a momentary bit of panic by reaching over and putting her hand atop Mr. Muggins’s wiry head. The Irish terrier, Tabitha’s beast of a dog, had greeted her last night like a long-lost friend and had yet to leave her side—for which Daphne was grateful.

“Out on our own, aren’t we?” she whispered to him as she scratched behind his ears.

Mr. Muggins let out a grand sigh and tipped his head just so, willing to listen to her troubles as long as she continued to hit that spot.

“Dishforth is close at hand,” Daphne said, happy to have someone to confide in, even if it was just Mr. Muggins. “He’s here, within these walls.”

That very thought should have been enough to bolster her spirits, but there was one other consideration.

While Dishforth may indeed be at Owle Park this very moment, so was Lord Henry Seldon.

Daphne pressed her lips together and sighed. Wretched, awful man.

She couldn’t help it. Every time she thought of him, she reminded herself that he was exactly that.

A wretched, awful man.

Speaking of the devil, his deep voice sputtered from the doorway. “Oh, good God! What are you doing here?”

Daphne and Mr. Muggins both looked up to find the very fellow standing in the doorway.

“Lord Henry.” Daphne tipped her head slightly in greeting, while inside her thoughts clattered about like a shop bell.

Whatever was he doing up so early? She had assumed that when they—she, along with Lady Essex, Harriet and Lady Essex’s nephew, the Earl of Roxley—had arrived so late the night before and there had been no sign of him, he’d most likely already been engaged in whatever rakish and devilish exploits a man of his reputation and proclivities pursued.

For some reason the very notion of him with another woman piqued her in ways she didn’t like to consider.

Instead, she’d lent her consideration and pity toward the poor deluded lady who was the object of his attentions.

But that didn’t explain what he was doing up so early and looking as if he was in top form—brushed and dressed, his gaze sharp and piercing. Hardly the appearance of a man who’d been out carousing the hours away.

“Miss Dale, where did you come from?” he demanded as he came into the room and stopped at the far end of the table.

“London,” she replied smoothly, despite the flutter of emotions inside her at the sight of him. “Don’t you recall, we met there but a week ago.”

He flinched. “I had heard you declined Preston’s invitation,” he replied, glancing around the empty room and frowning.

She wasn’t any more pleased to be alone with him than he was. “I changed my mind.”

“Of course you did,” he said, looking ready to throw up his hands in despair . . . or throw her out.

Daphne reached for Mr. Muggins and tried to look braver than she felt. Whyever did this man leave her so . . . so . . . undone? And certainly she couldn’t let him inspire another scene like the one that had transpired at the engagement ball.

No, no, that would never do.

Stealing another glance at him, with his brow furrowed, his blue eyes dark with something she suspected was not a welcoming light, she thought it might help to remind him of her position here. “I know Tabitha will be ever so glad to see that I was able to come down with Lady Essex.”

As she suspected, Lord Henry looked ready to cast up his accounts at the mention of the spinster’s name.

But the devilish man wasn’t completely undone. Composing himself quickly, arms crossed over his chest as if he hadn’t the least notion what she was talking about, he said, “And your family? They approve of you being here? I’d think they’d be up in arms.”

Now it was Daphne’s insides that quaked. “Not in the least,” she lied. “They trust I will not be tempted by your family’s notorious predilections.” Pausing for a moment to look again at his handsome features, she added hastily, “Which I won’t.”

“Thank God for small favors,” he shot back, his deep tone ruffling down her spine with its rich notes of irony, while his gaze raked over her and dismissed her all at once.

“Are there more Dales due to come after you?” he asked, having obviously warmed to his subject: her removal. “A rescue effort so to say? Should we expect the odd catapult to be wheeled over from Langdale?” he said, making light of the Dale property that adjoined Owle Park.

The property resided in by Crispin, Viscount Dale.

That was the one snag in all this. Crispin. She just needed to avoid him. Which would be easily done, since he would never set foot on Seldon land.

Unlike her.

Daphne felt a frisson of guilt but once again pushed it aside. There was more at stake here than deeply held family obligations.

“No, I hardly think that will be necessary,” she said. “I don’t believe my stay will be overlong.”

“No?” Good heavens, he needn’t sound so hopeful.

“No,” she acknowledged, not saying anything more, returning to her breakfast with a determination to ignore the man and concentrate on her plans to find Dishforth.

For she hadn’t much time to accomplish her task.

Daphne had no idea how long Phi could hold up her end of the bargain and stall the family from discovering the truth—that she wasn’t, as her mother believed, continuing her sojourn in London at Great-Aunt Damaris’s home. Which meant the grand dame of the Dale clan had to be kept under the impression that Daphne had returned to her parents’ house in Kempton.

Given that it would take a week or so for the letters to cross and recross, as long as Phi could intercept any damaging correspondence and no one reported Daphne’s whereabouts or repeated some gossipy report from the night of the ball, Daphne would have just enough time to discover Mr. Dishforth, fall utterly in love with him, and then return to London or Kempton betrothed to the perfect gentleman.

At least that was the plan. She glanced down at Mr. Muggins for reassurance.

The dog had his eyes on the plate that Lord Henry was filling over at the sideboard.

She ground her teeth in frustration. Did he have to stay? Then she reminded herself—this was his family’s house, and she was the interloper.

When he noticed her staring at him, he asked, “Whatever are you doing up so early?”

“I prefer to arise at this hour.” She glanced over at him. “As do you, it seems.”

“Yes, I had thought to avoid the wedding hordes.” His glance at her and Mr. Muggins was telling.

Or the stray unwanted Dale.

Daphne smiled blandly, as if she hadn’t a clue what he might mean.

Then he turned, plate in hand, and faced her. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why?” His jaw set. “Miss Dale, your being here is inexplicable.”

“And yet, here I am.”

“Again, I ask why?” he pressed.

He would.

“Tabitha, of course.” She glanced away, because she didn’t trust herself. Lord Henry was many things, but the man was no fool and his sharp gaze had a way of piercing her—leaving Daphne with the sense he could see right through her gown, straight to her very heart.

“And your family approves?”

“But of course,” she lied again. “My lord, let me be frank—”

“I prefer it,” he said emphatically.

“As do I,” she told him. “I am here for Tabitha and Tabitha only. Once she and Preston are wed, I will return to London . . .” Or to wherever her furious family decided to banish her. She suspected a prolonged visit to Dermot Dale would be in order, never mind that Dermot had the distinction of being the only Dale ever to be convicted and transported to Botany Bay.

A moment of panic struck her. I wonder if they have modiste shops in New South Wales?

She steeled herself to such a fate and looked Lord Henry directly in the eye. “So you can see, you will not have to suffer my company any more than a fortnight, and then we shall never see each other again.”

She waited for him to add some comment. An “Amen!” or “Thank God.” Or the one probably closest to the surface of his sharp tongue, a heartfelt “Good riddance.”

But he did not. Much to her amazement, he nodded and sat down in the chair across from hers. “Then if that is the case, Miss Dale, might I suggest that we pledge to keep our distance?”

“You mean keep to our separate corners, as it were?” she asked, glancing tellingly down to the other end of the table.

“Yes, exactly,” he said, completely missing her point.

“An excellent proposal,” she agreed.

“Nothing I would like more,” he said, then tucked into his breakfast.

Daphne paused, then cleared her throat. “Ahem.”

He glanced up and blinked at her as if he had already forgotten her presence. “Yes, Miss Dale?”

“You can start by moving.”

He glanced up. “Excuse me?”

“Moving, my lord.”

“Wherever to?”

“The other end of the table.” She nodded down to the far end. The one well away from her.

“But I am settled here. I always sit here.”

“Yes, that may be so, but this was your idea, your proposal.” She dabbed her lips with her napkin. “It hardly seems gentlemanly to insist on such an arrangement, then require a lady to move.”

She eyed him yet again, sending a skeptical, scathing glance that said she highly doubted he was capable of such a gentlemanly concession.

Henry’s eyes narrowed, murderously so, but even still, he picked up his plate and stomped down to the end of the long table, well away from her.

And once he was well settled, she handed Mr. Muggins the last of her sausages and arose, having suddenly lost her appetite. As Lord Henry gaped at her, Daphne left the morning room at a serene pace despite the glowering storm cloud rising behind her.

Daphne spent a good part of the morning in the quiet of the library, comparing the guest list she’d purloined from Tabitha’s desk drawer to her own list of possible candidates. She’d come quickly to the conclusion that she had her work cut out for her, for nearly half a dozen of the gentlemen assembled could be the man she sought.

“Bother, Mr. Muggins! However will I narrow the field?” she asked the now ever-present terrier.

Mr. Muggins scrambled to his feet, his ears at attention, and it was only after he’d raced to the door that Daphne heard the telltale click of Tabitha’s sensible boots.

Her friend poked her head in the library. “Here she is, Harriet,” she called out. And to Daphne she said, “We have been hunting for you all over. Whatever are you doing?” she asked as Harriet appeared at her shoulder.

“What else? Trying to discover who Dishforth might be.” Daphne quickly folded her papers and notes into her notebook, tying it shut.

“Perhaps you’d need only look as far as Lord Henry,” Harriet suggested.

Daphne bristled. Not this again. Ever since Tabitha’s engagement ball, Harriet had been unrelenting in her conviction that Lord Henry must be Mr. Dishforth.

“How many times must I say it, Harriet? Lord Henry is not my Mr. Dishforth.”

“But at the ball—”

“Yes, yes, I might have been misled into thinking he was Mr. Dishforth, but can’t you see how wrong I was?”

Tabitha and Harriet exchanged a pair of skeptical glances.

“Daphne,” the future duchess began, “why don’t I ask Preston if he knows—”

Daphne cut Tabitha off in an instant. “No! You mustn’t! What if he were to mention it to Lord Henry?”

“Might clear this all up,” Harriet muttered under her breath.

Daphne ignored her, as did Tabitha.

“The night of the engagement ball was mortifying enough—” Daphne began. “Please, Tabitha, I beg of you, don’t mention any of this to the duke.”

“I won’t,” her friend swore.

Seeing the outright pessimism on Harriet’s face, Daphne had no choice but to continue on. “I was merely caught up in the romance of a ball and the very idea of meeting him. If I had been in a more sensible frame of mind, I would never have made such a mistake. The very idea! Lord Henry, indeed. Why, it is too ridiculous to consider.”

“Yes, well,” Tabitha mused, slanting a glance at Harriet. “Might I suggest that instead of hiding in here, you resume your search in person. We are all summoned outside.” She moved forward and plucked up Daphne’s notebook, handing it off to Pansy, who was hovering behind with Daphne’s hat and a shawl at the ready.

“Whatever is going on?” Daphne asked as Tabitha hustled her and Harriet through one long hall, and then another.

“House party obligations,” Harriet filled in from behind.

Daphne was about to protest that she had better tasks at hand than tea on the lawn or embroidery when Tabitha led them out the front door and down the steps.

To her amazement, the entire house party stood about the wide gravel mews of Owle Park. Out along the curved drive that lay beyond sat a collection of carriages, gigs and carts awaiting whatever the duke had planned.

But more to the point were the gentlemen.

Daphne’s gaze flitted from one to the next. “Is this all of them?”

Tabitha’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Yes. Much more revealing than guest lists and entries copied from Debrett’s.”

“Now all you must do is find him,” Harriet added, waving at Lady Essex, who was standing near another elderly matron.

It was at that moment that Daphne’s gaze came to an unwanted halt on Lord Henry.

He was strolling about through the throng of guests, and she could see why she might have mistaken him for Dishforth. There were glaring similarities between Preston’s uncle and her true love—certainly they shared the same sure stance and confident bearing she’d witnessed the other day on Christopher Street.

If only she had seen the man up close, for the more she looked around, she realized nearly all the men in attendance carried themselves thusly.

Good heavens, it was just her luck to be at the house party with every handsome man in England. So much for going by Phi’s near-sighted description.

“Have you been introduced to all of them, Tabitha?” she asked.

“I have,” she offered but said nothing more.

Harriet nudged her with her shoulder. “Stop being a tease and tell us who they are. Before Daphne trips you.”

Tabitha smirked. “She wouldn’t dare try that stunt twice.”

Daphne ignored them both and marched down the steps, her friends following her quickly.

Once they’d finished laughing.

As they strolled across the yard, Mr. Muggins following at their heels, Daphne tipped her head ever so slightly toward the first man before them. “Whoever is that?”

“Which one?” Tabitha asked, shielding her eyes.

Harriet laughed. “The one who looks like a pirate.”

For indeed there was a gentleman who did resemble a privateer of old—from his rugged, tanned countenance, his untamed crop of dark hair, to the nonchalance of his dress. He leaned heavily on a cane but at the same time gestured wildly as he conversed with another man.

“That is Captain Bramston,” Tabitha told them.

“Bramston?!” Harriet gasped. “The Captain Bramston?”

All three ladies gazed over at England’s newest hero. Daphne knew the name well, for his naval daring had figured prominently in the papers for years, and his prominence had continued once he’d been sent home to London to recuperate.

“He is a cousin or some such to Lady Juniper and Lord Henry, on their mother’s side. He also brought his sister, Lady Clare,” Tabitha supplied as they continued past the captain, who doffed his hat and winked as they passed.

“So he’s not a Seldon, then,” Daphne remarked.

Harriet let out a low whistle. “He’s handsome enough to be one.”

“And a bit devilish,” Daphne noted, wondering if perhaps behind all the man’s bluster lay Dishforth’s sensible soul. It didn’t seem possible, so she moved to the next possible candidate. “And who is that with the captain?”

“Believe it or not, the Earl of Rawcliffe,” Tabitha told them.

“Rawcliffe?” they both gasped, their gazes pivoting back to the man who, in Kempton, was as infamous as he was absent. The earl held the living that had been Tabitha’s father’s until his death, and that Tabitha’s uncle, Reverend Timmons, now held.

“Yes, he’s back in England. Has been since the beginning of the Season. Preston mentioned seeing him at White’s, and so I invited him,” Tabitha confided. “Imagine my surprise when he accepted.”

The man noticed their attentions and bowed to the three of them.

Daphne sighed. There wasn’t a spinster in Kempton who didn’t dream of being the mistress who restored Rawcliffe Manor to its former glory, the grand Tudor mansion having sat empty for far too many years. If he were Dishforth . . .

She slanted one more glance at the Earl of Rawcliffe and considered the possibilities.

No wonder Lady Essex and several other ladies from Kempton—the Tempest twins and even shy Miss Walding—hovered about in the man’s orbit.

As they continued to move along the outside of the crowd, Daphne discarded several of the guests as unlikely candidates: Harriet’s brother Chaunce, too much a Hathaway to sit down and compose a letter; Roxley, too much a gadfly even to think of such a thing; and the Earl of Kipps? Easily dismissed, for he had pockets to let.

Kipps needed an heiress. Not something one sought by placing an advertisement in the Morning Chronicle.

As they got to the front of the crowd, Daphne spied Lord Henry off to Preston’s right, and discovered, much to her annoyance, that he was watching her.

She wet her lips and glanced away, that wild tremor racing through her limbs, the one that always ran rampant whenever she looked at him.

She had to imagine that when she found Dishforth, her entire body would tremble so, and so she glanced around at the crowd of gentlemen, waiting for one of them to inspire such a passion.

A slight shiver.

A spark?

And yet there was nothing.

“Daphne,” Harriet whispered. “Smile. That scowl you are wearing will have Lady Essex over here with her vinaigrette, convinced you have need of it.”

“I am hardly scowling,” she whispered back, doing her best to smile and not look at Lord Henry. “Do you know what all this is about, Tabitha?”

“Preston will explain,” the future duchess said, nodding toward her soon-to-be husband.

The duke leapt onto a mounting block and held up his hands. “Here is the challenge for today. A treasure hunt.”

There were cheers and some bits of muttering. Gentlemen cast mischievous glances at the ladies, while fans fluttered over the prospect of such a task.

The duke continued, “Each pair will be provided a map and instructions for where their treasure is hidden, and all you have to do is find it and return before anyone else.”

“However are the teams to be decided?” Fieldgate asked, sending a wink over at Harriet.

“By lots,” he told them.

This took everyone aback, and this time the muttering grew louder.

“Yes, but—” Roxley objected.

“No objections or you will not be eligible for the prize,” Preston told his friend.

“A prize?” whispered Daphne.

“Yes, just listen,” Tabitha told her.

“The winning team will have the first choice of dancing partner for the unmasking waltz at the ball.”

Daphne took a deep breath. How utterly romantic. If she were to win or Dishforth did, they could be together for the unmasking.

She saw it so perfectly in her imagination.

“Miss Spooner,” he would whisper, his fingers gently tugging at the laces of her mask, and when it fell away, they would see each other for the first time.

But much to her chagrin, as she imagined the moment, it wasn’t just any handsome features staring down at her but Lord Henry’s.

She wrenched her eyes open and shuddered.

“Whatever is the matter?” Harriet asked.

“A chill,” Daphne replied.

“I am beginning to think you do need Lady Essex’s smelling salts,” Harriet muttered back.

“I daresay it is going to rain,” Tabitha added. They both looked at her. “Well, Daphne always shivers just before it starts to rain.”

“There’s nary a cloud in the sky,” Harriet said, crossing her arms over her chest and giving Daphne a searching glance.

“It might rain,” Daphne said, not wanting to reveal the true cause of her trembling.

And this time, she didn’t look in his direction. Rather she scanned the rest of the crowd and noticed ladies off to one side near Lord Astbury. One of them wore a fine apple green silk that Daphne had seen in a draper’s shop in London. She’d nearly died over the cost—it had been prohibitively expensive—and now here was a young woman who not only could afford it but could also wear it done up in an ordinary day gown.

“Tabitha,” Daphne whispered. “Who is that lady—” She nodded toward Lord Astbury. “The one in the apple green silk?”

Sparing a quick glance in that direction, Tabitha’s nose wrinkled. “Miss Nashe. And of course, Lady Alicia Lovell with her.”

“Miss Nashe? The heiress?” Harriet said, gaping unfashionably at the lady.

“The one and the same,” Tabitha replied, but it was clear she did not like the girl. Though Tabitha was an heiress herself, she hardly played the part as Miss Nashe apparently did, from the French ribbons in her bonnet down to the fine calfskin of her boots. “Lady Juniper insisted she be invited. And you can’t ask Miss Nashe without including Lady Alicia.”

And they all knew why. Wherever Miss Nashe went, glowing reports in the columns were sure to follow—as they had all Season. Where Miss Nashe shopped. Who she danced with. At what times she rode in the park. To be snubbed by Miss Nashe was as good as being ruined.

And of course, there was always her dearest friend, Lady Alicia, right there, with her impeccable bloodlines and connections, though sadly none of Miss Nashe’s blunt.

Meanwhile, Preston was holding up two velvet purses. “I have the names of all the ladies in this pouch”—he held the first one up high and then hefted the other—“and the men in this one. I shall pull the name of a lady and then she will pull the name of her partner. Then the team is free to choose the carriage of their choice and be on their way.” Preston handed the pouch with the men’s names to Tabitha, then reached inside the sack with the ladies’ names. “Miss Hathaway,” he called out.

Harriet shrugged and walked forward. After a moment of trepidation, she shoved her hand in the sack and pulled out a name, holding it up for Preston.

“Fieldgate.”

The man came stalking forward, grinning like a lion. He took a map from Preston, caught Harriet’s hand in his and walked triumphantly toward the racing curricle in front.

And thus it was for the next few minutes, couples being paired up, the field of potential partners narrowing and the faster carriages disappearing quickly.

Even Lady Essex gained a partner, Lord Whenby, an older gentleman who left her blushing with whispered promises as he escorted her to one of Preston’s more daring phaetons.

Much to Daphne’s dismay, all too quickly it came down to her, Miss Nashe, Lord Astbury, and none other than Lord Henry.

Worse yet, the choice of carriages was down to an old curricle and a pony cart. Not exactly the sort of fleet conveyances that would carry one to victory.

Fixing her attention on Lord Astbury, she considered his potential as Dishforth.

He was rumored to be educated and scholarly, and it was said he kept to himself in London. All points in his favor.

And he was handsome. Ever so.

Yet . . . rebelliously her gaze strayed in the other direction.

For there was Lord Henry, grinning with rakish delight at Miss Nashe, as if he was convinced of their pairing. The girl fluttered her lashes at him and smiled, just slightly.

Truly? This was the sort of preening lady that Lord Henry found intriguing?

Once again, Daphne felt a smug satisfaction in her convictions that Lord Henry couldn’t be the man she sought. Her very sensible Mr. Dishforth would view the showy and overly resplendent Miss Nashe with prudent horror.

No, there was no earthly way Lord Henry could be Dishforth.

Just then, Daphne realized that Preston was calling another name.

“Miss Nashe.”

Daphne stilled as she watched the heiress step forward.

Her fate, her very future, was being decided by Miss Edith Nashe.

The girl fished around inside the bag for what felt like an eternity until Lord Henry said, “Miss Nashe, it is but a slip of paper—take one.” His words came out impatiently, almost testily.

“I hardly know which one to choose,” she said, smiling at both gentlemen and obviously immune to the censure.

Good heavens, pull out Lord Henry’s name and be done with it, Daphne wanted to shout. That, or just tug off her boot and clout the simpering fool with it, like she’d seen Harriet do once to one of her brothers.

Lord Astbury was far kinder. He smiled warmly. “You have both our hearts in your dear hand, Miss Nashe.”

Daphne didn’t know why, but she slanted a disgruntled glance at Lord Henry, for she very rightly shared his impatience. And to her surprise, he was looking at her with the same look of utter exasperation.

Whatever is wrong with her?

How am I to know? I would have pulled the name by now.

She wrenched her gaze away. However was it that every time she looked at that man, he had a way of entangling her?

But this time, Lord Henry wasn’t entirely to blame.

“Yes, well, here goes,” Miss Nashe said and pulled a name from the bag.