Along Came a Duke (13 page)

“You are forgiven,” Tabitha said, for she too had started to chafe at her aunt's strictures.

“At least we are promised an outing this evening,” Harriet said, and then, as if remembering the significance of the night, looked away.

“Yes, and new gowns to wear,” Daphne said, adding that as if it made the prospect of meeting one's future spouse more palatable. “I do hope the color for my gown suits.”

“I thought you weren't looking for a husband,” Harriet reminded her.

“I am not,” she replied tartly. Then her voice lowered. “Though I wouldn't mind being admired . . . just once.”

Yes, just once,
Tabitha found herself silently agreeing. And much to her chagrin, she wondered what Preston would think of her new gown—a scandalous creation Daphne had instructed the modiste to make when Lady Timmons had been called from the drawing room for a few minutes.

Not that she wanted Preston to admire her. Not in the least.

Good heavens! What if she was to run into him? Whatever would he say if he discovered the truth—that she was here in London to be married—when she'd been so adamant in her determination never to take a husband.

Something ruinous, she had to imagine. Or worse, he might do something scandalous.

“Then if we were by chance to meet, perhaps I would ask you to dance.”

He'd been teasing certainly, but still, she couldn't help imagining tonight's outcome far differently than everyone else envisioned.

With Preston crossing the ballroom and taking her hand and stealing her away.

Tabitha glanced around at the line of vast trees and orderly grounds, as if she half expected to find him striding across the green, but she just as quickly realized there was little chance of running into the man here, especially at this hour. “Oh bother, it might be best if we return before my aunt arises, or worse, disaster strikes.”

“I fear it already has.” Harriet pointed up the path.

For while they had been comporting themselves with all the grace and manners that would have even Lady Essex nodding with approval, Mr. Muggins had found someone new to bedevil and plopped them into the suds.

“O
 h, you are in the suds,” Roxley told Preston as the duke turned his new curricle onto the long, open path known about Town as Rotten Row, “if we must ride about at this time of day. Remind me again why we are out at this hour?”

“It wasn't like I rousted you,” Preston replied, his head tipped as he studied how this new pair took to the straightaway.

“No, suppose not.” Roxley leaned back in his seat and stretched out his long legs, folding his arms across his chest. “Demmed good night and here it is morning. Funny how that happens.” He closed his eyes and began to doze.

Preston slanted a glance over at his friend, who was still in his evening attire and had come along readily at the suggestion of trying out the duke's new carriage and set.

Leave it to Roxley, feckless and idle fellow that he was, never to turn down a lark. Even if he slept through it.

Preston frowned, for a sleeping Roxley hardly served his purposes. But it would hardly do to have to nudge him awake and demand his help . . .

Help in finding Miss Timmons.

Tabby. Damn her and her wide brown eyes and appetite for Yorkshire pudding. And her hilariously tart opinion that he needed employment.

One kiss, and she'd turned his life upside down. And what had he done? Run away.

It hadn't been just the lure of her kiss—though that had been a good part of his flight—no, it was because Tabby held the key to a door he hadn't even realized he'd been searching all this time to discover.

What he needed to do was find her and prove to himself, once and for all, that he'd imagined that magical, delirious evening.

But how could he do that when the demmed little slip o'muslin had disappeared? Spirited away by none other than Roxley's aunt, and he had no idea how to find her.

Tabby, not Lady Essex.

Oh, he knew exactly where Lady Essex was—ensconced at Roxley's house (because Roxley remained comfortably encamped at Preston's)—but he also knew that the lady was staying at the earl's town house without any companions.

Without Tabby. A fact he'd discovered by bribing Roxley's butler, Fiske. Preston shook his head. This is what he'd come to—skulking about London hoping to discover what Lady Essex had done with Tabby between that demmed inn and Town.

He glanced over at Roxley and felt a twinge of guilt, for he knew what he must ask the earl to do, and it was unthinkable.

But Roxley was his last hope. He was also Preston's sole remaining friend, for he'd been given the cut direct even by the lowest members of the
ton
.

He couldn't get himself invited to a dogfight.

God knows, Hen had tried. He'd surrendered to her demands that he seek a wife, albeit if only to find Tabby, then only to discover that his attendance was not wished by anyone of consequence.

He'd even gone to Almack's with her, but to Hen's horror, they had been denied entrance by the patronesses.

Sent home in utter disgrace.

Not that his indomitable aunt had given up. Lady Juniper was a Seldon at heart and had not taken the snub lightly. “They shall all rue the day when I have restored you,” she kept muttering and had so until she'd managed to gain them both a single, solitary invitation.

“I wouldn't be in this demmed wretched tangle if it hadn't been for that race,” Preston muttered.

“What is that?” Roxley asked, opening an eye and propping himself up a bit.

“The race. With Kipps.”

“Oh, yes, that.” Roxley shifted and glanced up to give the horses a discerning examination. Nodding at their pace, he added, “Bad business, indeed.”

“You didn't seem to mind when you pocketed your winnings.”

“I wasn't wagering with poor Kipps,” Roxley replied. “I took Dillamore's blunt. Well, his vowel,” he corrected, patting his coat pocket, where he kept his collection of notes and empty promises to pay. “Remember, I warned you not to drag Kipps deeper into the mire. I did.”

“Yes, you did.” Preston glanced over at him. “I should have listened to you.”

Roxley scrambled upright, gaping. “What is this? Humility from the likes of the almighty and lofty Preston?” He glanced up and down the Row. “And not a soul around to witness this change of heart.”

Preston laughed. “I'll deny it if you repeat it to anyone.”

Roxley mustered an expression of utter indignation. “Have you ever known me to carry tales?”

“Do I have to answer that?”

“For the sake of our friendship, I think not.” Roxley yawned and crossed his arms over his chest. “Besides, if I were to nose it about that you are suffering from pangs of remorse, no one would believe me. Think me mad.”

“They already do.”

“Remarkably convenient,” Roxley replied. “No one wants to saddle their daughter to a jinglebrains.” He grinned, content in his foolish reputation.

“Perhaps I should try that,” Preston mused. Good God, he was already half mad to find Tabby.

“No one would believe it,” Roxley said. “Same reason I never told anyone how you cracked up your carriage outside of Kempton.”

“Roxley!” Preston growled in warning.

His friend chuckled. “Not a word. I shan't tell a soul. Not that anyone would believe me.” The earl glanced up at the horses and changed the subject, much to both their relief. “Good pair. Solid. Nice gait.”

“Yes, I thought so as well.”

“Won't get skittish when you come around a corner and find the roadway filled with—”

“Roxley—” the duke warned.

His friend chuckled and Preston realized that he would probably never let him hear the end of that demmed accident.

They drove for a bit in silence until Roxley ventured, “I take it Lady Juniper—it is still Juniper, isn't it?”

The duke nodded.

“Yes, well, I take it she hasn't caught wind of that race with Walsby fortnight last?”

“No. Thank God.” She and Henry would have been packed and gone.

Roxley sat back again. “Thought she'd find out for certain when we ended up in that inn full up with everyone coming into town. Demmed rotten luck as it was, nearly running into Lady Essex. She'd have had us both in the stocks. Deplores gambling. And racing?” Roxley shuddered. “Good thing that chit from Kempton isn't one of those gabble-grinders. Sensible bit of muslin that one, didn't you think?”

Preston pressed his lips together and didn't answer. This was the perfect opening, but however did he ask his friend to throw himself on the sword of Damocles just to find her?

Roxley glanced down at his gloves and tugged at one of the fingers. “What was her name?”

“Who?” Preston feigned.

And did so miserably.

“Who, he says! Preston, you are a terrible liar. You know who I mean. That pretty little chit I made you sup with.” Roxley slanted a glance at him. “And don't try to tell me you don't remember her name. Miss Tate. No, that's not it. Miss Trifle—”

“Miss Timmons,” Preston ground out, wary because Roxley might seem a fool, but he had a sharp wit behind his lighthearted exterior.

Yes, her name was Miss Tabitha Timmons.

Tabby.
With her voracious appetite and pert opinions. With a kiss and a way of looking at a man that left him all tangled up and lost.

Lost. That was it. Her kiss had left him adrift.

Now all he needed to do was find the little chit, kiss her, and discover that she was merely ordinary—not a siren capable of stealing his heart.

Then his life would return to normal. He just knew it.

“Ah, yes. Miss Timmons. The vicar's daughter,” Roxley was saying, waggling his brows. “Thought you might end up with another scandal in your collection with that one.”

Demn near had. How Preston had managed to wrench himself away from her that night was still beyond him.

Kissing her had been a momentary lapse in judgment. He'd certainly never set out to find himself entangled with her. And certainly not to ruin the little minx.

Some would argue that he already had—just by kissing her—and certainly he'd kissed any number of impudent misses in his time. But none of them had ever twined her innocent gaze into his heart.

He'd never wanted a woman more than he had Tabby.

Yet when he'd looked into her eyes, so filled with wonder and, heaven help him, desire, he'd found that he couldn't continue. Couldn't ruin her.

Something in his heart had stopped him.
Don't make this mistake.

If anything, that warning had sent him scurrying away, all the while telling himself he'd been saving himself.

“Took long enough for you to return to the room,” Roxley was saying as he nonchalantly glanced down at the state of his boots. “Began wondering if I was going to have to stand second . . . yet again.”

Preston gave his friend his most scathing ducal glance. The one his grandfather had all but perfected. “Over that spinster? Nonsense. Besides, Hen would have my hide if I were to do something so imprudent.”

“Only if she hears about it,” Roxley replied as he leaned back and closed his eyes. “Scares me to death, your aunt.”

“She should,” Preston told him. “Managed to get me invited to a soirée tonight.”

This brought Roxley fully awake. “You don't say! Who is going to receive you?”

That was the rub. Since the debacle with Kipps, no one sent round any invitations. Save one.

“Lady Knolles.”

Roxley shuddered. “Poor Lady Juniper. Having to toady up to such a low creature. Rather deplore Lady Knolles. She's one of my aunt's cronies, you know.”

Which was exactly why Preston needed Roxley's help.

But before he could ask, Roxley glanced up at the horses. “Fine pair. But here on the Row is one thing, out in the country—”

“They'll do. Want to give them a run tomorrow?”

“Thought you'd never ask. But you aren't racing them, are you?”

“
Et tu,
Brutus?”

“A man can only be guilty by association so many times before the old cats start tarring him with the same brush.” Roxley paused. “You haven't my aunts.”

“I have Hen.”

“That you do,” Roxley agreed. “I must say, I have never been in the park so early—not since I was in short coats. Forgotten how nice it is . . . my nanny used to bring me around this time of day. Did yours?”

“Pardon?” Preston asked.

“Did your nanny bring you here when you were a child?”

Preston glanced around the park and realized how much the grand trees and wide lawns reminded him of Owle Park, the house he'd grown up in. How had he never noticed this?

“No,” he replied, more to blot out the memory than to answer Roxley's question.

“Never?” the man pressed.

Preston's jaw tightened. “I grew up in the country.”

“Suppose that is like being in the park all the time,” Roxley mused, before he began reminiscing about his childhood in London.

But for Preston, talk of his childhood was nothing but heart wrenching. As much as he tried not to listen to Roxley's musings, he saw Owle Park come alive around him—the wide lawn, dogs bounding across the green, his brothers teasing him, his sister's merry laughter, his mother and father walking arm in arm across the estate they loved.

All gone. All lost. Of course, not Owle Park. The grand Palladian house still remained, though shuttered and closed, just like Preston preferred to keep all the memories of his lost childhood.

But since his dinner with Tabby it was all he could think about. Owle Park. The possibility that it could all come alive again.

And then, as if to keep those painful images alive for just a bit longer, out of nowhere, a large dog came racing toward them, bounding and bouncing as if it were on springs, barking madly at the horses.