Along Came a Duke (15 page)

“Mr. Preston?” Tabitha repeated, trying to recall when her cousins had ever mentioned him, for surely she would recall a conversation about him. Certainly her cousins wouldn't ever bother over such a bounder. They only had eyes and hearts for a man with a title, a man lofty enough to snub the likes of Preston.

Lofty. That word stopped her, and once again, Tabitha glanced one more time at the departing carriage—an elegant and expensive contraption being pulled by a matched set that must have cost a fortune.

A fortune. A worrisome niggle ran down her spine.
He's Preston
.

Harriet shook her head. “Tabitha, that man is not Mr. Preston. He's the Duke of Preston.”

The Duke of Preston
? Every bit of air that Tabitha had in her lungs rushed out in a dizzying whoosh.

She tried to breathe as the truth rained down on her.

Preston wasn't just some beyond the pale, ne'er-do-well? Some by-blow rake, dabbling about the fringes of good society?

Oh, good heavens. He was Society.

“That man is a Seldon?” Daphne finally managed, adding a loud huff for good measure. “That explains his manners!”

Harriet and Tabitha looked at her, as if that was hardly enough explanation.

Daphne sighed again. “He's a Seldon.”

“And?” Harriet prodded.

“I'm a Dale.” She looked from one to the other. “Surely, you've heard of the Dale-Seldon feud?” They both shook their heads, much to Daphne's chagrin. “Well, let it be said that the Seldons are unpardonable, indolent devils who should have been cast out of England centuries ago.”

That sounded like Preston, Tabitha would have agreed, if Harriet had not waded in. “He is rather beyond the pale.”

“Well beyond,” Daphne added.

“Harriet, why do you say that?” Tabitha asked.

“Haven't you been listening to a word your cousins have been nattering on about?”

“I try not to,” Tabitha admitted, rather put off by their mean-spirited gossip.

“Are you certain, Harriet, that he is the same one Tabitha's cousins have been discussing?”

“Oh, most decidedly,” Harriet said. “Apparently he's no longer received.”

Daphne shook her head. “Should he have ever been?”

Harriet paused and looked at both of them, then lowered her voice as if all of London might be eavesdropping. “He has ruined no less than five young ladies this Season.”

“No!” Daphne gasped.

Tabitha faltered a bit. She might well have been the sixth.

Who was she kidding? She
was
the sixth. “You gathered all this from my cousins?”

“Yes,” Harriet replied. “They are veritable fonts of gossip. I must admit their chatter is so much more interesting than my father going on about the price of corn or which tenant is behind on their rent.”

Daphne kicked at a stone in the path. “I would be loathe to run into the duke again, because I don't think I will be able to hold my tongue. He deserves a set down for what he said to Tabitha. A Dale set down.”

“I doubt we shall encounter him again,” Tabitha told her, not wanting to embroil herself any deeper into Preston's scandalous sphere. “Nor should we mention this meeting to anyone. Can you imagine the strictures my aunt would put in place if she knew—”

Both girls nodded in solemn agreement.

“Not a word,” Daphne promised, though she stole a glance at the carriage and looked as if she wanted nothing more than to follow it and make good her threat.

“Still, Tabitha,” Harriet began, “it would make a thrilling story. How he saved you from certain death. When he caught you in his arms and plucked you from danger, I thought I was in one of Miss Briggs's novels. Don't you remember that scene in
Miss Darby's Daring Dilemma,
where Lieutenant Throckmorten saves Miss Darby from that Spanish brigade? Yes, exactly like that. For all that the duke is a bounder, he is just as handsome and valiant as Lieutenant Throckmorten, don't you agree?”

Tabitha found them both staring at her as if they truly expected an answer—Harriet waiting for confirmation and Daphne for an outright denial.

However could she tell them that Preston up close was every bit as handsome and strong as he looked? How could she confess that the instant she'd found herself in his arms (again!) her body had come alive with languid, dangerous passions that left her knees quaking and her lips starving for his kiss?

“I fear it happened so quickly, I barely noticed,” she lied, her fingers dipping into the pocket of her gown where a single penny lay hidden. Her fingers brushed over the rough, nicked portion and she sighed. “I must confess that I found the entire encounter ever so dreadful.”

Because now he deplored her. Hated her. And that left her memories of the night at the inn somehow tarnished.

They walked along, and when they got to Park Lane, they had to pause for a break in the traffic.

“There is one thing I don't understand, Tabitha,” Harriet said as she watched with a practiced eye a set of horses pulling a fancy phaeton much like Preston's.

“What is that?” Tabitha said, leaning over to give Mr. Muggins a scratch. The dog was busy watching all the passing carriages, probably looking for the duke and his freely shared beef.

“However did Preston know you cannot dance?”

“I
think I should take a boat to Halifax and marry the first savage I find.”

“Why is that?” Roxley asked.

“If you must know, by marrying some native maiden, I wouldn't have to endure the years of nagging that gels like those”—he tipped his head back at the trio of misses they were leaving behind—“promise to give a man.”

Roxley shook his head at this argument. “Oh, I wouldn't be so convinced. You'd still get nagged. Only it wouldn't be in English.”

Preston growled something unintelligible, not that Roxley needed a translation. Instead, he sat back and yawned. “If you didn't drive around at this wretched hour, then you wouldn't encounter such females.”

“I like this hour because I usually don't encounter any females.” At least he hadn't until today. Never mind that he'd been looking for this one.

Tabby. His Tabby.

His Tabby no more. Why, the lying little minx! For all her innocent ways and claims of never marrying, she'd been heading to London to get married. Preston clamped his teeth together as if that could stop the knot in his gut from rising up and choking him.

“If you are determined to avoid females, then you had best flee to the country, what with the Season and all. Town will be overrun by the end of the week.” Roxley chuckled. “Bad enough when even the cursed ones are making their curtsy. No man is safe.”

Cursed. The only one cursed was Preston. He'd spent the last fortnight replaying that night at the inn over and over, so much so that he had begun to think he'd imagined it.

For he'd also come to believe that he, perhaps, could have a lifetime of such contented evenings. Passionate evenings.

He'd come to think, nay, hope, as Hen had avowed, that love would find him and make his life whole.

Only to discover that the night had been a lie.

Miss Timmons was as deceitful as the rest of the Bath misses who invaded Town every year like litters of well-dressed alley cats.

“Mark my words,” Preston said, having driven far enough for his temper to cool a bit. Well, maybe not that far. “That is exactly the sort of tart-tongued minx Hen is going to drag in front of me and expect me to marry if only to gain the good graces of every matron in Town.”

“At least Miss Timmons is pretty. In a country sort of way,” Roxley said, arms crossed over his chest and stealing a glance over his shoulder. “Can't imagine the spotted sorts my aunts would dangle in my path.”

Preston pulled the pair of chestnuts to a stop and turned to face his friend. “Miss Timmons? Pretty? Good God, man, you're still half-seas over from last night if you find that chit pretty.”

Actually Tabby was more like breathtaking—what with that red hair, those brown eyes and, in the bright light of day, a nose that held a faint sprinkling of freckles. Ones he had wanted to kiss . . .

“I said pretty in a country sort of way,” Roxley told him. “You know, not from her dress—which is ghastly—but her eyes and her hair. Gels from the country usually have nice hair.” The earl nodded for Preston to drive on, which his friend did. “Good teeth, nice hair. Good gait—all that walking about and such.”

“I think you're describing country horses,” Preston remarked, “not country misses.”

Roxley shook his head, used to Preston's moods as he was. “I will make a note to keep you and Miss Timmons well out of each other's paths. She quite puts you in the worst of humors. Certainly soured your dinner the other night. Though she hardly seemed the difficult sort when I left you in her company—”

“Abandoned me,” Preston corrected.

“Rightly so,” the earl pointed out without the least bit of guilt. “Still, thought you'd been caught in a
fait accompli
when you came bursting into the room—after midnight, I might note—and like the hounds of hell were after you. What the devil happened between the two of you?”

“Nothing of consequence,” Preston told him. Nothing. At least now it was nothing, since the poxy little bit of muslin was going to marry another.

Roxley, it turned out, saw right through his lie. “Nothing! I saw the way you looked at her. Wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself.”

“Believed what?”

“You like that—what did you call her?—ah, yes, tart-tongued minx.” Roxley paused. “Now all those questions about my aunt make sense. You had hoped to find Miss Timmons again.”

Preston straightened. “Roxley, leave off.”

“Oh, don't get all squiffy on me. I know you too well. You fancy that gel, and you have every intention of stirring up trouble again.” Roxley clucked his tongue. “Hen would have had your hide. Bah! That gel has gone and done you a favor getting engaged before you led her astray.”

“I had no intention of leading her—”

Roxley slanted a glance at him.

Then Preston saw it. His old friend—who did know him better than anyone—had led him right down the path to confessing the truth.

They rode along in silence for a good while before Roxley dared speak again. “Whatever happened that night, best forget it,” he advised. “And don't go seeking her out. It will only leave you worse off.”

There was something in the earl's words that held a hint of experience.

“What if I can't?” Preston hated to admit it, but even as he'd driven away, he had wanted nothing more than to turn around and gather her up in his arms and rattle the truth out of her.

“Then you will be in sorry straits,” Roxley sighed. “If she is betrothed, she is lost to you.”

Lost. It was a word that didn't set well with Preston. He never lost—save for that wager with Tabby.

He should have known right then she would be his ruin.

Of course, if he were to be honest, winning wasn't always the best course either. Look where beating Kipps had gotten him.

“I will admit to being a bit shocked to hear Miss Timmons was betrothed,” Roxley began.

The earl was shocked? Preston had been bowled over by the news.

“Don't you think it odd that Miss Timmons is getting married so suddenly?” Roxley paused for a moment and slanted a glance at Preston. “You didn't leave her . . . well, you know?” He grimaced, brows arched knowingly.

It took a moment, but then it struck Preston what Roxley was implying. “Good God, no! I didn't do anything more than kiss her.”

“Aha!” the earl exclaimed. “So you did trifle with her.”

“Not intentionally,” Preston shot back.

“Never is,” Roxley said. “Still, if she isn't breeding—”

“It was only a fortnight ago, you idiot,” Preston said, hoping the earl would take offense and ask to be let out.

But this was Roxley, who was well used to the duke's tempers and not insulted in the least. He merely shrugged. “Then I can hardly think of any other reason for such a hasty marriage.”

His ire aside, Preston realized that Roxley made an excellent point.

There had to be a reason for this swift marriage, and as he thought about it more, Tabby had hardly lorded the news of her betrothal over him . . . point of fact, one might argue she'd tried to continue to conceal it.

But why? Preston glanced over his shoulder, but Tabitha was already gone from view.

“If you are plotting on how to find her and discover the truth, I shall not help you,” Roxley said, for he knew Preston oh, too well.

“I doubt you have to worry about me running into her again. Miss Timmons could hardly come up to snuff to gain vouchers, let alone the lowly heights of Lady Knolles's ballroom.”

Roxley wisely chose not to point out that Miss Timmons, as an heiress, was more likely to see the inside of Almack's before Preston would ever be returned to the patronesses' good graces—given the current public sentiment against him. The mere fact that his only invitation—a lowly one at that—was to Lady Knolles's was most likely due to Lady Juniper's willingness to pander to that overreaching matron, not the Duke of Preston's lofty rank.

“Why not come with me to Lady Knolles's,” Preston offered. “You can keep me out of temptation's path . . . on the off chance . . .”

“Lady Knolles's?” Roxley shuddered. “Might run into my aunt.”

Which was precisely why Preston needed Roxley by his side tonight.

“Coward,” Preston taunted as he turned the horses into the mews behind his town house. “Where is that legion of friendship you love to hold over my head? Abandoning me not once but twice in less than a month.” He muttered a
tsk tsk
under his breath and turned from the earl slightly, as if giving him a cut.