Along Came a Duke (10 page)

Miss Timmons with her tart manners and country ways. With her scolds and staunchly held opinions. Miss Timmons with the appetite of a stevedore and all the innocence of a cloistered nun.

He was wading into deep waters thinking to teach her to dance.

Don't do this, my good man.
This isn't some bedraggled kitten or abandoned pup in the road but a lady.
Belonging to the same ilk as the rest of those muslin menaces who had made him a pariah in London society.

But still . . . how could he not help? He owed her something for this glimpse backward in time she'd unwittingly given him.

Especially when she'd made such a confession—that she'd never danced with a man before—and the stricken look in those brown eyes of hers had told him only too clearly how much such a revelation had cost her precious pride.

Then again, she hadn't exactly leapt at his offer. Only gaped at him as if he had gone mad.

Which probably wasn't far from the truth. Glancing at his wineglass, he blamed the inn's excellent Madeira, not enough Yorkshire pudding and Roxley's abandonment for this complete lapse of judgment.

No, come to think of it, it was all Roxley's fault.

“Since you've mastered dining with a gentleman,” he told her, rising to his feet, “now it is time to learn to dance.”

With that being said, he held out his hand.

She shied back and glanced around the room as if she expected scandal to rain down from the heavens.

Yet nothing happened. The ceiling held snugly, and not even her mongrel of a dog stirred at Preston's proximity to his mistress.

Some chaperone. Perhaps the dog was looking the other way out of courtesy.

One hound to another.

But then again, perhaps Mr. Muggins knew what Preston had sworn earlier—he was no threat to Miss Timmons.

None whatsoever.

At least he kept telling himself as he took command of the situation and caught hold of her wrist and pulled her up. Despite her rather amazing appetite, she was really quite light—no, make that thin and underfed—beneath that dreadful gown.

Good God, no one was looking after her, were they? His fingers wound around hers, and they were met with chapped, rough calluses, the sort one might find on a scullery maid.

He glanced at her, shocked by his discovery. She was naught but a waif. A lost kitten if ever there was one.

Miss Timmons, for her part, glanced away and tried to pull her hand free—as if she still had time to hide the evidence of her labors.

Preston refused to let go, even as that warning lump whalloped in his chest.

“There is no music,” she protested.

Oh, she had much to learn. “Dancing isn't as much about the music as it is being able to follow your partner's lead.”

She made an indelicate snort, but whether it had to do with his assurance or the “following” part, he didn't know.

But he soon discovered.

Indeed, following was not one of Miss Timmons's strong suits. Not that he was surprised. Though he couldn't recall ever dancing with a miss who was so utterly unyielding.

“This will never do,” she said, shaking her head and looking ready to bolt for the door after they knocked into the table the second time. “Without music we look foolish.”

“I never look foolish,” he mused, sliding his hand to her hip and hauling her closer. It was an intimate move, and for a moment they stared at each other. For all their barbs and spiked comments, standing like this, they fit.

He'd danced with dozens of women, perhaps even hundreds, but not one had ever curved up against him and belonged. Belonged? Miss Timmons? Why, that was madness. As quickly as he'd caught her, he very nearly set her out of reach.

Nearly.

Meanwhile, Miss Timmons was staging a small mutiny, trying to bat away his hand and wiggle free.

He ignored her and held her fast. He tapped his foot slowly and then began to hum, rather loudly and off-key, before setting off on this preposterous lesson, twirling the disbelieving miss around in a tight circle.

This was a dancing lesson after all. Nothing more.

Twice, three times he moved the stiff and leaden-footed lady around the room. He was all but ready to give up, but then something miraculous happened.

Miss Timmons laughed.

Right after she'd trod rather heavily on his boot.

The merry music bubbling forth from the previously taciturn lady turned into a series of unrepentant giggles as he winced and hopped for a moment before regaining his balance and his grasp on her.

“Did you do that on purpose?” Preston came to a stop, not relinquishing his hold on her—no matter how much his toes begged him. “Because a lady never steps on a man's foot deliberately. It just isn't done, Miss Timmons.”

“If you say so,” she managed with a flash of mischief in her brown eyes.

But it was. Twice more.

“That is not sporting,” he told her as he hopped out of her range, shaking his foot.

Even the hound glanced up at him. In sympathy, or so Preston could have sworn. Perhaps that's why their canine chaperone hadn't protested the duke's attentions toward Miss Timmons.

Mr. Muggins had known the fate awaiting him.

“I thought we were dancing,” she replied, shaking away from her eyes a tendril that had come loose. It fell back over her shoulder in a silken curl of deep, dark auburn.

“I was dancing,” he corrected her and his errant thoughts. “You are attempting some sort of Spanish torture on my toes.”

“If you do not like how I dance, then you shouldn't bully ladies into partnering with you,” she shot back, her eyes alight.

“Bullying?” he sputtered. “I will have you know, I never have to bully a woman to dance with me. Quite the opposite.”

She began to laugh again, as if this was the most diverting thing she'd ever heard. “Oh, Mr. Preston, isn't that doing it up a bit?” She giggled some more. “You think I can be gulled into believing that all the ladies are lined up when
you
arrive.”

Preston straightened, and it was nearly on the tip of his tongue to correct her.

At least that had been the case until a few months ago, he would have liked to inform Miss Timmons.

Now when he entered a ballroom—and only after Hen had coerced the hostess into an invitation—nearly every lady in the room turned their collective back to him, leaving only the ones too nearsighted and infirm to offer him their deepest and heartiest disinterest.

However, she continued on, blithely and unrepentantly insulting him. “I do believe you shall have to cross dancing master off your list of possible occupations, sir.”

Possible occupations, indeed! It would be a cold day in hell when the Duke of Preston was reduced to teaching dancing to cow-footed, cursed spinsters—let alone fail miserably at the task.

That thought should have been enough to send him hying off after Roxley, but something else was happening . . . and not just that sensation was finally returning to his flattened foot.

Miss Timmons and her laughter surrounded him.

Oh, yes, she was laughing
at
him. And enjoying herself immensely as she snubbed his pretensions thoroughly.

“Ah, yes, Monsieur Preston. Dancing Master. That is, if you have extra toes to spare?”

No one ever laughed at him. At least not to his face. Preston found himself a bit off-center, for laughing at a duke just wasn't done.

Then something else happened; her infectious tones did exactly what they were meant to do—whittle away at his lofty arrogance.

For much to his disbelief, he found himself laughing. “I'll have you know I am considered an excellent partner.” When he wasn't being snubbed or given the cut direct.

Miss Timmons wasn't done with her taunts. “What a happy coincidence for me then.”

“How is that?” he asked, reaching down to give his boots a tug back into place.

“I doubt anyone will notice my poor skills if you are considered ‘excellent.'” Dark eyes alight, mouth set in a tempting little moue—probably to keep her from laughing aloud—her hands settled on her hips as if she were utterly satisfied with the aim of her finishing salvo.

Of all the audacious, rude, presumptuous things to say. Preston set his jaw, for her teasing words weren't merely a warning shot across the bow but a squarely landed challenge.

At least to Preston.

Jerking his waistcoat into place, throwing his chin up in jaunty answer to the gauntlet she'd tossed down, he caught hold of her hand.

“There is no room to dance,” she told him. “Whatever do you think you can teach me in such a confined space?”

“A Mayfair ballroom will be no different. In London, I would be forced to hold you just so.” With that, he tugged Miss Timmons closer.

Being Miss Timmons, she stumbled forward and landed squarely against him. Her breasts pressed to his chest, one arm winding around him to steady herself, and her legs and skirts twining into his legs.

Then it happened again. As they found their footing, settled into place, a rare awareness of how they dovetailed so perfectly entwined around them—her in his arms and Preston holding her. Her gaze swept slowly up until it met his, wonder mirrored in those brown eyes of hers.

Yes, she felt it as well. There was no mistaking that look of shock.

And something else. Passion. A spark of passion that no spinster should still possess. One that fickle time should have extinguished years ago.

Apparently not so with Miss Timmons.

Her rosy lips parted and she looked at him, as if she expected . . . as if she knew what would happen next.

And once again, Christopher Seldon, the Duke of Preston, found himself caught up in something that was veering all too suddenly into a scandal.

Chapter 5

O
 h, however had this evening come to this dangerous precipice?

Preston had given his word that he wouldn't ruin her, and yet here he was. Tabitha tried to breathe. He was going to kiss her.

Then again, you never promised. . .

No, she hadn't, trying to grasp the last bit of sensibility she seemed to possess. And with that bit close at hand, she managed one more important thought.

So whatever did one do?

Run, would be the sensible choice. Get as far away from this devilish rake as possible.

But however could she do that when her legs refused to move? Other than to tremble—with what she suspected was anticipation. When her hands were unwilling to let go of his waistcoat? When the heat of his touch burned through her gown, when his dark, usually inscrutable gaze turned into a smoky, tempting fire?

When all she wanted to do was to let him kiss her . . . let him . . .

Let him do what? Ruin her? She couldn't.
Remember Barkworth. Think of your betrothed.

Oh, bother, however was she supposed to recall a man when she had yet to meet him? Nor had she promised anything to him. Her uncle had.

And she might have been content to take this paragon her uncle had willed to her, until Preston had come along. Arrogant, rakish, devil-may-care (and far more important, entirely improper) and stolen away her sensibilities.

Somewhere between the third helping of Yorkshire pudding and the moment he'd taken her hand and tugged her to her feet, this man, the one holding her in this delicious state of languor, had stopped being
that
Preston.

Oh, good heavens! This was wrong. She closed her eyes and tried to think of how to stop this. Tried to convince her fluttering heart, her pursed lips that all this was utterly and completely wrong. But before she could regain enough of her senses to escape his snare, her rake, her Preston, did the unthinkable.

In a swoosh, he set her out of reach.

One moment she was there in the warmth of his arms, held in his steely grasp, and the next, it was as if she'd been shoved under a rainspout. In December.

Her lashes sprang open and she found him standing a few steps away. He looked as shocked as she felt—but whether it was for the same reasons, she didn't know.

“I'm . . . I'm so . . . so sorry,” she managed. “Did I step on your foot again?”

It was the only excuse she could manage for having landed so scandalously in his arms.

He shook his head. “No, no, it was my mistake,” he said, looking anywhere but at her. “I fear you are correct—this room is too small for dancing.”

A moment ago the room had felt as tight as a closet, but now it expanded around them like a cavernous hollow.

Empty and cold.

Tabitha shivered and realized she'd dropped her shawl at some point. Hurrying across the room to where it had fallen, she caught it up and threw it around her shoulders like it might offer some protection.

But the damage was already done.

She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself to forget . . . forget what she'd wished for . . . what she'd thought. What she'd felt.

That shiver of anticipation. The idea that his handsome, sculpted lips would claim hers, kiss her.

That he would have to draw her closer still, closer than he already had.

She forced her eyes open and let the cold emptiness of the room, of the chasm between them, wash away the last of those warm, enticing memories.

Tabitha pressed her lips together and hoped her cheeks were not burning evidence of her previous thoughts.

Then again, she felt as if there wasn't a part of her that wasn't blushing.

“I should go,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Thank you ever so much for sharing your supper with me.”

There. A mannerly retreat. Polite. Cool. Sensible.

She could only hope she appeared as unruffled as her words.

At least he couldn't see her insides—for her heart pounded tremulously and her legs wobbled yet.

Even a glance at his dark eyes, the hard line of his jaw, the breadth of his chest was enough to catch her breath, so what would it have felt like to have him kiss her?

More to the point, did all men have this power over women? She shivered at the thought.

She went over to nudge Mr. Muggins, but she stopped when Preston said, “You cannot leave yet, Miss Timmons.”

The command behind his words held the power to bind her feet to the floor. “I cannot?”

“No. I'm not finished yet.”

Was it her, or did his words sound as uneven as her breathing? “Not finished?”

Whatever did that mean?

They stood there looking at each other and Tabitha wondered if he truly meant to finish what he'd started—that he intended to kiss her.

“I have yet to . . .” —he glanced around the room—“finish my apple tart.”

“Your what?” Perhaps she hadn't heard him correctly. Perhaps “apple tart” was rakish code for something more sinister, something more delightful.

Not that the apple tart wasn't excellent.

He nodded at the table. “You agreed to keep me company through my supper, and I have yet to finish.”

His gaze met hers and she heard the words as clearly as if they had been spoken aloud.
Stay, Miss Timmons. Stay with me.

He held out her chair for her, and Tabitha found herself powerless to resist. She should be scurrying out of the room like any sensible, proper young lady would (then again a sensible, proper young lady would never have found herself in this lion's lair), but the power of that unsaid plea in his eyes left her with no capacity to resist, so she sat down.

And worse, a wry little voice nudged into her thoughts.
Perhaps by staying, he might kiss you for once and for all.

As if she wanted him to do any such thing. Which she didn't.

At least, that was what she kept telling herself.

Preston retook his seat and picked up his fork, digging into the tart as if nothing had happened.

Then again, perhaps for him nothing had. Nothing of consequence.

Tabitha stole a glance at the man and found him silently and methodically eating his apple tart as if their encounter had been yet another course to the meal.

One he'd nearly sampled and then sent back untried.

An unfamiliar pang unfurled inside her. Whatever was wrong with her? He must kiss young ladies as a matter of course, yet not her?

She looked up and found that he had stopped eating and was staring at her. Gaping, really. More like looking at her plate in horror.

And when she glanced down, she realized she'd just spent the last minute stabbing her poor apple tart into a crumble.

“Did it offend you?” he teased.

Bother the man.

“Not yet,” she replied and took a bite.

Something deep and dark continued to pique inside Tabitha. A worrisome little nudge she'd never felt before. Almost like jealousy. Envy. Of all the ladies who did catch his eye . . . and more.

She stabbed at her apple tart, this time with a little too much ferocity, scattering crumbs across the tablecloth. Pausing for a moment, she stole a glance at Preston to see if he'd noticed her unwitting violence on the hapless pastry.

Then a more worrisome thought occurred to her—one beyond the notion that she'd just wasted a good portion of this delicious tart.

Whatever would her betrothed think when she arrived in London wearing her Kempton country finery and antiquated sense of propriety? Her intended could hardly be impressed if she came in looking like she'd just fallen off a hayrick!

Would he marry her and then set her aside as Preston had just done? Sent back untried. Oh, how very humiliating.

Just as it was now.

Worse, she had to imagine.

Tabitha's fork dove into her apple tart, and she took another bite and tried to tell herself she was being irrational.

Certainly Mr. Reginald Barkworth wasn't expecting a Diamond of the First Water. After all, theirs was an arranged marriage, a match made for mutual benefit.

A rational union of equals, as Daphne would say.

Tabitha flinched at such a cold, boring description and ate a few more bites of tart before she stole another glance at Preston.

She hoped, nay, she wanted her future husband to gaze across their dining table at her with eyes alight with nothing less than burning desire.

Desire for her.

But would he if she looked like someone's country cousin?

“Is it ever so noticeable?” she blurted out without even thinking.

Preston sat back, looking startled by her anxious words. “Is what so noticeable?” he asked calmly, setting down his knife and fork. He glanced over at the carnage that had once been her slice of apple tart, and his brows rose.

“That I am from the country?” She set down her fork and crossed her arms over her chest.

He glanced up at her, his eyes inscrutable. “Is it important?”

“Yes.” How could he ask? She hardly wanted to find herself being a point of ridicule.

“That depends on whether you are worried about how the other ladies find you or how the men in Town will give their regard.”

“Either, I suppose,” she told him, then hastily added, “not that I care how the gentlemen regard me, for I am not looking for a husband.”

Preston's brow cocked up. “So you've said.”

He needn't appear so dubious. She wasn't looking.

But suddenly Mr. Reginald Barkworth, heir presumptive to his uncle's marquisate, sounded neither romantic nor full of possibilities, not even a rational union of equals. He seemed quite daunting.

Her frantic gaze rose to meet Preston's, and for a moment she thought she spied a hint of surprise there, like he was seeing her for the first time.

Then to her shock, he leaned across the table and whispered, as if he were sharing a secret of state, “Miss Timmons, you have nothing to fear. The men in Town won't get past your bewitching eyes and that siren's head of hair of yours. You'll have them utterly charmed. As for the ladies, they will only be envious.” He leaned back, a devilish tilt to his lips.

Tabitha's mouth fell open in shock.

Truly, had she heard him correctly? Bewitching eyes and a siren's head of hair? Her hand went to her chignon, the pins loose and probably tumbling about as it was wont to do. The hair her aunt called an abomination.

Truly, her? A siren? Goodness, he should be shoveling out the inn's stalls for trying to pass off such nonsense.

“I think you have had too much Madeira,” she told him. Yes, that was it. The wine had loosened his tongue and his vision. “The wine has turned you into an unrepentant flirt.”

Instead of being chastened, he looked quite proud. “That is an excellent suggestion, Miss Timmons.”

A suggestion? “Whatever do you mean?”

“You have found my profession. You needn't badger me further about finding an occupation.” He sat back and tapped his chin. “Yes, I do think that will suit. Thank you, Miss Timmons.”

“A profession? I have made no such suggestions.”

“Of course you have. I think I will make a most excellent flirt. Don't you concur?”

“A flirt? You call that a profession?” she shot back, a little more sharply than she intended. Then again, she was also doing her best not to look directly into his gaze, what with its mischievous, tempting light. “Why, it hardly pays.”

“Ah, but it does. In ways you cannot imagine.”

“M
r. Preston, I am trying to have a discussion in earnest.”

Preston glanced up at her and smiled. She'd been correct earlier. He was a bit foxed. He'd have to ask the innkeeper as to who it was who'd smuggled this Madeira: it was an excellent vintage, excellent in that it had him seeing Miss Timmons, of all people, as some sort of watery nymph come to tempt him.

For somewhere after his third glass of that demmed Madeira, she'd stopped being a vexing little spinster and become something altogether different.

Whyever did she fit in his arms the way she did? And whatever had she been doing, glancing up at him with those large brown eyes and looking entirely too tempting?

That was the Madeira
, he told himself. It must be. For Miss Timmons was the daughter of a vicar.

Someone Hen might even approve of. Well, not entirely, but Miss Timmons was overly respectable.

Overly respectable.
Preston sat back and looked at her again, an odd plan formulating. Miss Timmons was certainly that.

Society might even find her endearing.

Even now, she was chattering on about “fitting in” and not appearing like a “poor relation” when she got to Town, and all he could think about was that for Miss Timmons to fit into London society, her mysterious relations and Lady Essex would have to strip her of every bit of charm she possessed.

That would be a crime indeed.

His chest did that odd wallop again as he saw Miss Timmons all done up and yapping like yet another Bath-educated miss.

Oh, that would never do
.

Whether it was the wine prodding him into this ridiculous notion or just that he had spied that familiar spark of passion in her eyes—a spark he understood all too well and had been ordered to extinguish in the name of respectability—he couldn't let anyone ruin her.

For if they did, they might steal away this mysterious bit of magic she, and only she, seemed to possess. She'd unlocked a hidden realm for him tonight. As if he'd awakened in a room that was both familiar and yet unknown. Had reminded him of a life he'd all but forgotten.

Why was it that when he looked across the table at Miss Timmons, he wasn't in this wayside inn but in that cozy parlor at Owle Park, the one into which his parents had loved to crowd them all, if only to while away the evenings? Together.