And the Miss Ran Away With the Rake by Elizabeth Boyle Page A

amused.
    “Oh, dear,” she muttered.
    “What is it?” he asked, turning his head in that direction.
    “No, don’t,” she said, tugging him in the opposite way and nearly running them into another couple. “Don’t look!”
    “Whyever not?”
    “My chaperone. She doesn’t look pleased,” Daphne whispered, stealing a cautious glance over his shoulder, then back up at the man holding her. “Who are you?”
    “I can assure you, she has nothing to fear from me. Besides, she had best get used to seeing me holding you thusly.” And with that he tugged her scandalously close.
    “Oh, you mustn’t,” she told him, even as her body nestled closer to his. To the sturdy wall of his chest, to the steady confines of his arms, against the lean, long muscled length of his thighs.
    Oh, yes, you must.
    But even as Daphne tried to will herself to maintain a position of decorum, the man holding her suddenly straightened, his gaze locked on the opposite corner of the room.
    “Good God, what now?” he muttered.
    “Is it my guardian?” she asked, turning to glance in that direction.
    He whirled her around, making it impossible to pinpoint the source of his dismay. “No, worse. My sister appears to be in a fettle over something.”
    “Your sister?” Daphne brightened. For here was another check in the “Yes-I-Am-Dishforth” column. For on more than one occasion, Mr. Dishforth had mentioned his sister.
    “Yes, my sister. But don’t ask for an introduction. I daresay she could out-dragon your chaperone.”
    “She could try,” Daphne told him, knowing all too well what sort of adversary Lady Essex made.
    “Whatever has her in such a stew?” he mused.
    Daphne couldn’t offer an answer, for Lady Essex and Tabitha were bearing down on them through the crowd.
    It was then that Daphne realized the set was finishing. The last notes wheezed out, so quickly ending their dance— their first dance , she corrected—that Daphne came to a tumbled stop. Instead of a graceful pause, she slammed into his chest, hands splayed out over his waistcoat, leaving her fully and completely aware of every bit of the man who’d claimed her.
    Stolen her heart.
    No wonder poor Agnes Perts had been willing to risk madness and marry John Stakes all those years ago. Even if they’d only had one night together.
    Well, half a wedding night.
    For to be held like this, Daphne discovered, was the most perfect madness. Her fingers curling over the muscles beneath her hand, her hips swaying slightly, seeking desires as yet unknown.
    But oh, the promise . . . it left her breathless. She looked up and into his deep, dark blue eyes and found herself trapped with no wish to ever break this spell.
    And whoever he was, Dishforth or no, it mattered naught. He could be anyone for all she cared.
    Or so she thought as she glanced up at him, ready for this man who had so quickly stolen her heart to steal so much more.
    H enry caught the delightful armful of muslin that came tumbling up against him. She’d been as caught unaware that the music was ending as he’d been.
    But not so insensible of the woman in his arms.
    From the moment he’d spied her across the ballroom, he’d suspected she was Miss Spooner. Who else could she be?
    Now, in the course of a dance, she’d given him all the evidence he needed.
    She had been in London for the Season. Demonstrated Miss Spooner’s sharp wit and keen intelligence, both in her words and the bright, sharp light in her eyes.
    Though definitely a spinster—he gauged her to be nearly, if not so, at her majority—she wasn’t so far up on the shelf to make one wonder why it was a beauty like her wasn’t married.
    He drew a deep breath and thought about her letters, her words. Tart, opinionated, strong-willed.
    Those traits in a lady were enough to scare off most gentlemen.
    Not him.
    Gathering her closer, Henry glanced up to gauge which of the matrons coming closer might be her fire-breathing chaperone.
    And how much