Along Came a Duke (17 page)

Lady Timmons didn't know whether to be pleased or furious, taking another scathing glance at Tabitha's gown. “I cannot take you home now,” she muttered. “I only hope Lady Ancil shares Lady Knolles's verdict.”

After continuing to move slowly along with the tide of guests, they finally got to the ballroom.

“How like Lady Knolles to invite such a crush,” Lady Peevers complained as they looked down at the elegantly attired, brightly gowned, and overly bejeweled guests. The grand ballroom—all done in gold and deep green—shimmered from the hundreds of candles lit in the chandeliers above.

“Goodness,” Tabitha whispered, and even in her new gown, she felt quite out of place. “Have you ever?” she whispered to Daphne, who she considered much more worldly.

“Never!” Daphne whispered back. “And here I always thought Foxgrove so grand.”

With such a dazzling display before her, Tabitha very nearly forgot that her entire future was to be decided shortly. She followed her aunt and uncle, with Lady Peevers bringing up the rear, through the crowd to the other side of the room.

“Ah, here we are,” Lady Timmons declared when they came to an open spot against the wall. “The perfect vantage point to see who is arriving.”

“Especially Barkworth,” Lady Peevers declared, nudging Tabitha and smiling at her.

But to Tabitha's own shock, for a moment all she could see was Preston standing at the head of the stairs about to descend into the ballroom.

Tabitha blinked and shook her head, for certainly she was seeing things. After all, Harriet had been most adamant that the Duke of Preston wasn't received. Yet there across the crowded room stood a man who quite looked like Preston . . .

Even as she began to doubt her own sanity, a shocked hush came over the room, stilling all the conversations and leaving any number of the matrons openmouthed. At least the ones who weren't already turning to their neighbor to whisper a shocked “He's here!”

“My dear!” her aunt whispered, nudging her to stand up straight. “He has arrived. Do smile.”

“Who?” Tabitha asked, squinting a glance through the throng. Certainly she was wrong, it couldn't be Preston.

“Who, she asks!” Lady Timmons said to her sister, shaking her head. “Barkworth, of course, you foolish girl!”

Lady Peevers reached over and pinched Tabitha's cheeks. “There! Now you don't look so pale. It won't do to appear sickly. Barkworth will need an heir, after all.”

Tabitha shot a shocked glanced at the lady. She had yet to meet the man and already a union was expected . . .

Her thoughts flashed to the night in the inn.

Preston holding her. His hands traveling down her back, over her hips, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Igniting her senses into a flurry of passion. His lips stealing kisses from her, his tongue teasing hers, drawing from her the very breath she could manage. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe . . . need filling her, her breasts heavy and taut, her thighs clenching together, her insides wavering and hungry.

“He is nearly here!” Lady Timmons whispered, dashing a bucket of cold water all over Tabitha's delicious memories and leaving her filled with nothing but panic. “Bother this press of people! Why, now he is trapped by that awful Lady Gudgeon.”

“Where is he?” Daphne asked, rising up on the toes of her slippers.

“Over there,” Lady Peevers said, pointing with the tip of her fan.

Both Harriet and Daphne craned their necks to see the man, but Tabitha couldn't bring herself to look.

What if Barkworth had a wen? His touch was clammy? He hadn't Preston's height and demanding stature? What if his kiss wasn't the same as Preston's?

If only she could ask her aunt if all men kissed the same. It would certainly help to keep her from being ill all over Lady Knolles's polished floor if she knew that a kiss was but a kiss.

Yet she suspected that wasn't the case.

“Oh, good heavens,” Harriet gasped.

Now Tabitha knew she was going to be ill.

“Is that truly him?!” Harriet asked.

“I thought you said he wasn't received,” Daphne shot back.

Not received.
Tabitha's gaze flew from one friend to the other, and from their horrified expressions it meant only one thing. It wasn't Barkworth they'd discovered but someone else.

Preston.

Tabitha turned around, slowly and trying her best to maintain her composure, but even she could not keep her mouth from falling open at the sight of him.

Shaved, combed and clean, dressed to the nines, the Duke of Preston was elegant perfection.

Oh, heavens, this was a disaster.

Then Tabitha noticed something else. On his arm was an equally beautiful woman all in black.

“Who is she?” Harriet asked, directing her question to Daphne, for she was their font of
tonnish
knowledge.

Possible answers had already run their course through Tabitha's frantic thoughts.

His . . . sister? The widow of a good friend? His mistress . . . ?

That seemed the most likely explanation, given that the entire room found the pair's arrival shocking. The crowd parted before them, a wake of whispers and pointing of fans rising up like a whirlwind behind them.

As handsome as Preston might be, the lady beside him moved with an elegance that was born with a knowledge that she was, quite frankly, stunning to behold, a confidence that Tabitha wouldn't even know how to summon.

A dark, deep jab of something ran down her spine. A feeling like nothing she'd ever known.

Tabitha shrank into her new gown, suddenly feeling the country cousin in comparison to this woman's elegant low-cut silk, diamond earrings and a heavily jeweled necklace that ran all the way down to the tops of her breasts.

Just then, Lady Peevers suddenly caught wind of the rising scandal in the room and, like a spaniel on the scent, raised her eyes and nose to catch any wisp of the current of gossip swirling about the room.

“Good heavens above!” she exclaimed. “It cannot be! Preston! As I live and breathe.” The lady made a
tsk tsk
noise and nudged her sister. “Antigone! So shocking! Look there.” The lady nodded toward the entrance, her feathers dancing to and fro in a grand, agitated dance.

Lady Timmons sucked in a deep breath. “I cannot believe Lady Knolles could be so indiscriminate. Whatever was she thinking to invite him?”

“That man is a villain, a rogue—” Lady Peevers said, again with the same disapproving
tsk tsk
.

“Precisely, sister,” Lady Timmons agreed. “The Duke of Preston is the worst sort of example.” She paused for a moment and then her eyes widened. “Whatever is he doing gaping at us? We have no connection to
him
.”

Still, she spun around and made sure her daughters were close at hand and well behind her.

“Thankfully,” Lady Peevers said, picking up her lorgnette and taking a closer examination of the infamous man. “I do say, he is looking this way. Why, I would say he is looking at—”

The lady and her sister both turned and frowned at Tabitha.

Tabitha flinched. Nor was she about to enlighten her aunt that yes, they actually did have a connection to the infamous Duke of Preston.

At least she did.

However the inspection didn't last long, for both ladies quickly dismissed the notion that the Duke of Preston was looking at their party.

“Poor Lady Knolles must have been put in this terrible position by that woman,” Lady Timmons noted as she nodded at the widow on Preston's arm, “to have to extend an invitation.”

Tabitha glanced at “that woman” once again, this time with more than just curiosity. So not only was Preston a terrible roué, but from her aunt's implication, the lady was just as notorious.

Whoever was she?

Lady Timmons fluttered her fan as she continued, “How she would be seen in public with him after that ruinous disaster with poor Kipps.”

“Poor, dearest Kipps,” Lady Peevers echoed, and the pair bowed their heads in a moment of sisterly silence.

Kipps? Tabitha pressed her lips together. Where had she heard that name before? Then she remembered. What was it that Preston had said to Lord Roxley that day in Kempton?

“Come now, Roxley? However will we ruin Kipps if we dally here all day?”

Tabitha pressed her lips together to keep from gasping. So Preston had done just that—ruined this Kipps, who apparently was held in dear regard.

Oh, the devil of a man! Her guilt about not revealing the truth of her situation eased a bit. Truly, what did she know of the Duke of Preston?

Other than that his kiss was enough to leave her trembling still.

“Poor Kipps!” Lady Peevers sighed with great feeling, as did Lady Timmons, as if this fellow had been their nearest and dearest. “So young!”

“So impressionable,” Lady Timmons added. “Now lost to good society all because of
his
influence.”

Daphne glanced over at her, having been listening to this exchange, and her look said it all.
I told you so
.

“Poor Kipps. I weep daily for his dear mother and sisters!”

“Yes, all of them. Ruined.” Lady Peevers shuddered.

“I wonder how
he
sleeps at night,” Lady Timmons shook her head.

Lady Peevers made a loud snort. “Sleep is not what the Lion of Harley Street does at night, if you know what I mean.”

Tabitha had the good sense to look away and pretend that she hadn't heard a single word, nor that she was paying the least bit of heed to the object of their scorn. Yet when she glanced around the room, she realized that most every conversation was now focused on the couple making their way through the crush.

Scornful glances, whispered comments made behind fans—as if that hid their ugly meaning—and even the cut direct as several of the gentlemen and ladies turned their backs to the pair.

“I wish he would stop staring in our direction. There is nothing of interest for him over here,” Lady Timmons said in an aside that carried.

Sir Mauris arrived, having wandered off to chat with a crony, and said quite loudly and with no particular concern for discretion, “Have you all seen who is here?”

Tabitha glanced at Preston again and found his gaze fixed on her.

Miss Timmons
, the wry dark smile tipping at his lips seemed to say.
How lovely to see you . . . again.
He paused for a moment, as if he knew she was taking in his altered appearance, and then he bowed his head slightly.

He knew that she knew.

Who he was, that is. Or rather, who he wasn't—the common scoundrel she'd accused him of being.

Not that a lofty one was much better
.

She found him studying her again, this time with a narrowed gaze, as if he was considering some scheme.

Oh, no! He wouldn't! Come over here as he'd promised in the inn and ask her to dance?

He'd ruin everything.

Which she surmised would be his point.

Certainly, she might have left out the part of her betrothal when she'd dined with him, but she'd only done so out of misplaced pride.

Something he should know a thing or two about, she guessed. But then again, he might have told her who he was. Or rather
what
he was.

A duke who discarded young ladies right and left.

And now he was about to add her to his list of fallen misses.

“Tabitha, are you listening? He is here!” Lady Timmons was saying in an excited whisper, fussing over her so she might appear at advantage—like a horse at the fair.

Suddenly, she was no longer staring at Preston, for a tall figure had stepped in front of her, blocking her view. She blinked and tried to focus even as that someone said, “My dear and lovely Miss Timmons, at last we meet.”

The rich, deep voice washed over her with sultry ease, the words echoing through her Preston-addled thoughts.

“ . . . at last we meet . . .”

Oh. My. Goodness
. Barkworth!

Tabitha couldn't breathe as she looked up into the face of the man she was destined to marry. And as she blinked again, and his features came into focus, she discovered that the man before her was nearly as handsome as Preston.

Nearly.
Which was saying quite a bit.

Jet-black hair, bright blue eyes and a hawkish nose were framed by a solid, hewn jaw and a strong brow. Taking in his hair, brushed and cut in the latest fashion, and his perfectly chosen trappings, Tabitha wasn't sure if Mr. Reginald Barkworth had ever been born, more like sprung from a fashion plate in dapper style.

Flashing a blazing smile and a wry tip of his brow, he bowed gracefully and perfectly. Then, rising up, he caught her hand and brought it to his lips with all the elegance of . . . of . . . say a duke.

“Mr. Reginald Barkworth, at your service,” the man whispered over her fingertips, a perfect London gentleman, the sort of counterpoint to Preston's fierce, sharp-edged countenance. The sort of man whose apparent strict adherence to propriety would keep her from being ruined by Preston's plots.

Oh yes you are,
she thought wryly, glancing over her shoulder ever so slightly to see if Preston had witnessed her triumph.

But he was nowhere to be seen.

And much to her chagrin, when she looked back at Mr. Reginald Barkworth, the man her Uncle Winston had singled out for her future, she couldn't help feel a twinge that something very important was missing in all his perfect wrappings.

Chapter 9

I
t took Preston all of about two seconds to notice Tabby standing on the opposite side of Lady Knolles's ballroom.

Getting himself extracted from Hen took a bit longer.

So while his aunt nattered on about who was attending the gathering, who wasn't, and her list of candidates, he did his best to appear that he was hanging on her every word while he gazed across the room.

He'd nearly forgotten what Tabby's hair could look like when it wasn't knotted up behind her head. Though he knew exactly how that tempting array of curls—the sort that begged a man to find the pins holding them up and tug them free–was best viewed: tumbling adrift down her shoulders, free of restraints.

Lady Juniper prodded her nephew out of his woolgathering. “Are you listening, Preston? Two dances with Lady Pamela. Nothing else. I am most adamant.”

“But of course,” he replied, knowing full well that the real scandal of the night was standing right across the room.

Tempting him like no other miss ever had. But no, he wasn't going to cause any scandals with Tabby, er, Miss Timmons. He merely wanted some answers.

Like how the hell she had neglected to tell him she was betrothed when she'd stolen his heart.

“Preston, do not try my patience,” Hen warned.

“I never try,” he told her. Though he could hardly say the same thing about Tabby.

“Bah! You encourage these flirtations of yours,” Hen shot back, all while maintaining a perfectly serene countenance. Hen was her mother's daughter to the bone. Generations of lofty bloodlines flowed through her veins, and thus with a composed air of disdain, she also possessed the capacity to weather the stormiest social squalls, the most raging of scandals.

Even his.

Still, he raised a defense. “You know demmed well those triflings were not of my instigation.”

“That might be true, but you certainly have a way of finishing them.”

Preston withheld any further comment. With Hen, he'd only lose. Or bury himself, as Henry liked to point out. Instead he followed her deeper into the ballroom, ignored how the matrons gathered up their daughters and tucked them out of sight as if to prevent his predator's eye falling on their hapless lambs.

He would have told them not to bother for there was only one woman in the room tonight who held his attention.

Tabby. And with each step closer, he longed to see more of her, not just her striking Titian hair.

Yet it wasn't until a large woman with too many feathers in her turban dodged out of his path that he finally had a clear view across the room.

Preston shook his head. Oh, good God! What had they done to her? Everything he'd feared that night at the inn.

She was every stitch
Miss Timmons,
society heiress and pending bride.

He shuddered as he tried to reconcile his Tabby with this sophisticated vision.

His strident and prim daughter of a vicar was now properly gowned and elegantly clad, presenting a temptation from on high. Worse yet, she was being dangled before the assembled
ton
so that by tomorrow, Miss Tabitha Timmons would be society's newest Original.

This regal creature, in her scandalous gown—Good God, were those her ankles?—would leave every man in the room as overcome with desire as the spinster version had left him undone.

When his gaze rose up from her scandalous hemline, he found Tabby gaping at him. And from her wide-eyed expression of horror, he knew without a doubt she wasn't overly delighted to see him.

Which could only mean she now knew who he was.

No indeed, one could even speculate she was furious with him. With him? Whatever could have her furious with him?

That you let her assume you were a low and common rake who kisses the ladies and leaves them.

Well, there was that. Not that he was likely to prove how rakish he could be, for suddenly he remembered what her friend—she would be friends with a Dale, of all people—had said in the park. Truly, how could he forget?

“Her betrothed is a most excellent gentleman.”

As if one could trust the word of a Dale! He'd have to talk to Tabby about the company she kept.

Speaking of company . . . Preston straightened. If Tabby was here, that meant the lucky devil was somewhere afoot.

Her “most excellent gentleman.”

Glancing around, he realized the room was filled with such dull paragons of virtue. Stuffed to the rafters, if he was being honest.

No wonder Roxley had yet to put in his promised appearance.

Excellent gentlemen
. Preston shuddered. How he found such mincing, prancing fellows annoying. The only ornaments most of these overdone Dandies were missing were a collar and a lead.

Dull sticks and hardly a match for that tart-tongued, overly opinionated and most fraudulent Miss Timmons.

He glanced over at her again and found that she was deliberately paying him no heed. He knew this for a fact because when she stole what she must have thought was a surreptitious glance in his direction, she flinched when he caught her at it.

But the real question was, where was this betrothed of hers, and who was he? He must be close at hand—that is if he wasn't a complete fool, considering the speculative looks Tabby and her hemline were garnering.

Even with this staid crowd. But still, where the devil was the fellow, and why wasn't he staking his claim and ensuring that nothing untoward happened to her?

Then again, with a room filled with excellent gentlemen, the only man attending Lady Knolles's ball capable of ruining Miss Tabitha Timmons was most likely him, the notorious Duke of Preston.

He didn't know whether to grin or chastise himself.

Truly, he had promised Hen no scandals. But then again, he would never have made such a vow if he had known
she
was going to be here.

“Ah, there is Lady Pamela and her mother,” his aunt was saying.

Hen's prodding tugged him out of his distracted reverie. “Which one?” he managed to ask.

“The lovely girl in puce.”

If ever there was an oxymoron, that was one. Gazing over at Hen's choice of perfect bride, Preston knew in an instant that Lady Pamela would most definitely laugh like a mule.

“Hee-haw,” he muttered under his breath.

“He what?” Hen demanded. When he had no answer, having been caught out, she continued unabashedly, “Preston, I swear if you are planning on ruining this evening—”

“Hen! Will you stop fussing about like one of Roxley's aunts? I have no intention of doing anything other than as you bid. Ask. Dance. Leave.”

Most importantly leave,
he thought, sparing a glance over at Miss Timmons. For the Fates were taunting him, tempting him to risk everything for one more taste of Miss Timmons's pert lips . . . one more moment of . . .

“Ahem!”

Now it was Preston's turn to flinch—nearly—for Hen was studying his features ever so carefully. But he wasn't the duke for nothing. He returned her icy gaze with one that could freeze the Thames in the heat of summer.

He only wished he could do the same for his insides, for right now they were boiling like a blacksmith's forge.

“As for the other ladies on my list?” she asked, her fan tapping impatiently against his sleeve.

“Memorized.” Rather like one might recall the steps up to the gallows. One after another, all of them leading to the same end.

Hen's brows rose in an arched bow. Of course she didn't believe him.

To prove the point, he recounted them for her. “Miss Hollings, Miss Corble, and Miss March.”

Of course he didn't add his own description of the lot: the plow-footed offspring of a penniless baron and the grasping daughters of two newly elevated knights.

Preston heaved a sigh. His boots were going to be a ruin by the evening's end. Trod upon and scuffed by nervous young ladies whom Hen had probably promised vouchers to Almack's or some other lofty denizen far above their social reach if only they would dance with her errant nephew.

A dull, lowering evening having to be done under Hen's watchful gaze . . . and now made worse, for it would also be witnessed by Miss Timmons.

He still could hold out hope that Tabby would find him and give him a good set down. That might liven things up a bit.

Besides, he had a few choice words for her.

“You needn't look so put upon,” Hen chided. “All you have to do is ask to be presented, dance and then make your bow.”

“By God, Hen, do you really think I need to be told all that?” He'd been making his bow in public since he was nine.

“Yes. I fear you do,” she replied.

Looking once again at Miss Timmons, Preston had to give his aunt credit.

She was utterly correct. For despite his better judgment (which, contrary to public opinion, he did possess) and Hen's omniscient presence, the sight of Miss Tabitha Timmons, standing there and doing her demmed best to ignore him, was inciting a host of rebellion inside his stormy heart.

F
or all Tabitha's concerns that Barkworth would appear like some character from a bad novel—oiled hair, short of stature, perhaps even bald, cross-eyed and with a speech impediment, she found herself face-to-face with the handsome visage of her future spouse.

More to the point, Mr. Reginald Barkworth was as elegant and mannerly as her aunt and Lady Peevers had claimed.

So much so that Tabitha considered that she might be dreaming.

Everything was as it should be, right to the way he'd gently taken her hand and brought it to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers.

This couldn't be true, this couldn't be happening. Arranged marriages never brought the bride a groom with sharp Roman features, the sort that lent the man a chiseled appearance—from the strong brow, past a straight nose, a pair of firm lips, right down to the deep cleft in his chin.

Oh, goodness heavens! He was utterly breathtaking.

“Tabitha, where are your manners?” her aunt prodded. “Say something.”

Mr. Barkworth laughed, warmly and smoothly. “Yes, well, Lady Timmons, I suppose it is natural for a young lady to be overcome in such circumstances. Give my future bride a moment to gain her composure.”

Then the moment of shock wore off, for this most excellent gentleman drew back—though still holding her hand—and gave her an examining look as one might when procuring a horse, or a fine hound, or worse, a good milk cow. His gaze swept over her lines with a quick approving sweep, just pausing at her ankles, which, like Lady Timmons, brought on a slight wrinkle to his brow.

But if he disapproved of her scandalous hemline, he had the wherewithal to brush those misgivings aside, for he announced to one and all, “Perfection!” Which was only made more mortifying when he winked at Sir Mauris, who chuckled broadly.

Lady Peevers and Lady Timmons fluttered their fans approvingly, both trying to hide grand sighs of relief.

She, Miss Tabitha Timmons, country miss and sudden heiress, had passed the discerning muster of Mr. Reginald Barkworth, of the Acornbury Barkworths.

Tabitha tried to smile but found herself shivering with a very odd note of panic. How could marriage be done like this? So quickly, with only the merest of glances? Without the least bit of common sensibilities?

Without even supper?

She forced herself not to glance at Preston, but that didn't keep the rush of memories from that night at the inn from crowding into her thoughts.

Of him serving her the extra bit of Yorkshire pudding, of her pouring his tea and discovering, with a small note of pleasure, that he took his Pekoe exactly like she did—two lumps and a large measure of cream.

Oh, bother! She shouldn't be thinking about that man. Just as she shouldn't know how he takes his tea.

Doing her utmost to forget, she smiled at the handsome stranger before her. No, her betrothed, she corrected. Certainly once she knew how he took his tea, if he shared the pudding willingly, or if he deplored Coleridge, then she would no longer be filled with a sense of dread, as if she were a Christian about to be tossed to the lions.

Looking over at Barkworth, she sought some sort of reassurance that all was well, that this rushed engagement was as disconcerting to him as it was to her, but Tabitha found—much to her horror—that he'd quite moved on, chatting with Lady Timmons and Lady Peevers about some
on dit,
utterly unaware that his bride wanted nothing more than to bolt for the nearest door.

Without even thinking, she took a quick reconnaissance of the room, her gaze hunting for a door, a balcony, any route . . .

Find Preston. He'll get you out of here.

Oh, good heavens, whatever was wrong with her? Thinking of Preston at a time like this. Thinking of him at any time when she was going to be married. To Barkworth. A respectable gentleman. She'd be Mrs. Barkworth, and well out of Preston's reach.

That thought should have been of some comfort to her, but yet . . .

“Miss Timmons, you are everything your dear aunt claimed. And more,” Barkworth proclaimed, more to the audience of onlookers than to her, smiling for Lady Timmons and casting another male sort of smirk at Sir Mauris. “Our betrothal makes me the happiest of fellows in London. Nay, England.”

Something about his overabundant joy put her into a pique. “Truly? We just met. I don't see how—”

“What my niece is saying,” Lady Timmons said, barging into Tabitha's protest before Barkworth had the wit to notice his bride-to-be's momentary rebellion, “is that she shares your shock over how happy this impetuous match has turned out.” She turned her sharp, crowlike gaze on her niece.

In fact, they all did. Lady Timmons, Lady Peevers, Sir Mauris, even Daphne. All of them staring at her and waiting.

Yet Tabitha felt this groundswell of mutiny rising up in her. Shouldn't one hope for so much more?