Along Came a Duke (18 page)

And once again, she thought of Preston. His kiss. The way her knees had trembled when he'd pulled her closer, how it had felt so thrilling, so delirious to be held by him, to have him gaze down at her with that hungry, passion-filled gaze just as he'd been about to . . .

Tabitha stopped herself right there. Certainly Barkworth, as handsome and well-formed as he was, could inspire such fervor?

She slanted a glance at her intended as he smiled blandly at her, he too waiting for her enthusiastic affirmation of their future together.

“Our betrothal is utterly advantageous,” he explained to her. “For you especially, and for me—a lovely compliment to my already esteemed standing. You shouldn't doubt you are most suitable, Miss Timmons.”

Suitable
? He found her suitable? Something very unfamiliar fluttered inside Tabitha's sensibilities. She should be pleased, thrilled that he found her so, but . . . Suitable? Truly? That was all he could manage?

Even Daphne seemed well pleased with Mr. Barkworth and his suitable declarations. She smiled broadly at Tabitha.

Harriet was another matter. Her dark Hathaway features, which were usually open and easygoing, were narrowed and masked.

Barkworth released her hand and turned to his aunt, Lady Peevers. “All that is left is to secure mother's blessing and then I'll go see the archbishop immediately about a Special License.”

“So soon,” Tabitha gasped. “What about the banns?”

“Wait all that time? You aren't getting any younger, Miss Timmons,” he said, smiling about her need for an expedient marriage as if it were a marvelous joke. “Ah yes, here is Mother.”

“Lady Ancil! There you are!” Lady Peevers exclaimed, fan fluttering. “Wherever have you been? You've quite missed the pair of them meeting. As I assured you, they are already infatuated.”

If Tabitha had misgivings about a life with Mr. Barkworth, the arrival of his mother only added thick, blotted underlines to those doubts.

“Mother, here is Miss Timmons—” Barkworth began, turning toward Tabitha, who had edged closer to Daphne, if only out of a rising fear and completely irrational suspicion that Lady Ancil had quite possibly eaten the rest of her young.

Lady Ancil looked first at Daphne, and her eyebrows rose noticeably. And not approvingly. Apparently the prospect of a daughter-in-law who was breathtakingly pretty did not appeal to the lady. Nose pinched, eyes narrowed, she regarded this matrimonial prospect with all the airs of a housewife finding a rat in her pantry.

“Oh, not me,” Daphne told the lady brightly, as if all too happy to step out of the lady's scrutiny. “This is Miss Timmons.” She pointed the way for the lady.

Traitor,
Tabitha wanted to whisper. Instead, she curtsied deeply and respectfully. “I am Miss Timmons, Lady Ancil. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Lady Ancil said nothing, her gaze fixed on Tabitha's gown. Especially the hemline.

“Mother, I was just telling Miss Timmons that we are going to dispose of the banns,” Mr. Barkworth said, catching his mother's hand and then Tabitha's, as if that might unite the two ladies in one smooth introduction, quite oblivious to the undercurrent of disapproval flowing from his mother like a spring runoff.

“Yes, but I would prefer to be married from Kempton,” Tabitha told him, suddenly feeling a desperate need for one thing: time.

Time to get to know Barkworth, time to be certain that marrying him wouldn't be a curse in itself.

Which was most likely why her uncle had written his will the way he had. So she must make this hasty match to a respectable man and not end up snared by some fortune hunter, some ruinous rake like Preston.

The Duke of Preston, she corrected.

Oh, bother. If only he'd turned out to be the penniless ne'er-do-well she'd thought him to be.

How like that wretched Preston to be so inconveniently rich! And a duke, to boot.

“A country wedding?” Barkworth remarked. “I daresay my esteemed uncle, the Marquess of Grately, would be most inconvenienced by such a thing.”

“Is it necessary he attend?” Tabitha asked.

“Necessary?” Barkworth shook his head as if he couldn't comprehend such a question. “My dear Miss Timmons, without my uncle's good favor, there would be no wedding. And until his unfortunate passing, at that time when I am to be raised to that lofty station which I am presumed to gain, I must always defer to his excellent opinion and favor.”

“Get married all the way out in Kempton? Whyever for?” Lady Ancil asked. Nay, demanded, with a great shudder and a wrinkled brow. “Such unnecessary expenses when you will be living in London with Barkworth.”

“As well as Mother,” he added proudly, as if the inclusion of Lady Ancil only added to this burgeoning matrimonial bargain.

And if it was possible to believe, Tabitha's evening went downhill from there.

“R
oxley, who the devil is that popinjay?” Preston asked his friend, who had finally managed to make his bow at Lady Knolles's. The earl had ambled up in a cloud of rum, slightly in his cups—but it was ever so hard to tell with Roxley, who always looked a bit rumpled and worse for wear.

“Eh, which one?” the earl asked. “Demmed room is full of them.”

“The one in navy,” Preston said, but when that wasn't enough for his friend, he added, “the one with your friends from Kempton.”

Roxley wasn't fooled in the least. “You mean the fellow next to Miss Timmons?”

“Is he?” Preston feigned, tipping his head to study the tableau of guests. “Why, yes, the one standing next to her.”

The earl shook his head. “I told you—”

“Roxley, might I remind you that you got me into this mess . . .”

“Wondered when you were going to realize that and start calling in favors,” he admitted. He looked again across the room as if weighing the amount owed to what helping Preston might cost him. Then he looked over at his friend and gave way. “That's Barkworth, Grately's heir.”

“Grately? That lecherous old roué—”

“Quite so,” Roxley agreed. “Up the River Tick, or so I hear. If Miss Timmons is an heiress, she might be just the ticket to see that Barkworth doesn't end up inheriting a worthless title.”

“How convenient for Barkworth,” Preston muttered under his breath, taking a closer examination of Tabby's “esteemed gentleman.”

Barkworth.
Preston hated the man on sight. He couldn't quite put his finger on the precise cause of his dislike, perhaps the points on his collar were too high, his cravat overtied, the polish on his boots not quite bright enough.

If there was one thing he did know, it was that Mr. Reginald Barkworth was all wrong for her.

And if she couldn't see that, then someone needed to tell her. Immediately.

“Where are you off to?” Roxley declared, setting after Preston with the determined stride of a fox hound on the scent. The earl quickly plotted Preston's course. “Oh, no, you don't,” he said, catching the duke by the elbow and pulling him up short.

“Whatever do you mean?” the duke asked as he sidestepped his friend once again.

Roxley followed, fast and furious, which meant he wasn't entirely foxed, having had just enough to drink to be dreadfully annoying.

“I am merely going to wish Miss Timmons and her Mr. Barkworth happy returns.”

“You are not,” Roxley declared. “Demmit, Preston, you said this morning that the chit was a menace. That one had to be mad to dangle after her skirts.”

“That was before she wore that gown.”

This stopped the earl, who paused to take another glance at Miss Timmons. “Yes, well, I told you she was pretty—” Roxley stopped himself and shook his head. “Good God, never mind that! You need to stay away from Miss Timmons.”

“What, and be remiss by withholding my congratulations?”

“Preston, this will come to no good. Mark my words!”

“First that demmed curse you keep prattling on about and now this? Dire predictions of ruin? Really, Roxley, you need to start checking the vintage on the bottle before you imbibe. I am merely being well mannered.”

“There is nothing mannerly in what you are about to do.”

“Roxley, you wound me. If you don't believe me, then come along.”

The earl's jaw worked back and forth as he considered the suggestion. Luckily he'd had enough rum to ensure that reason played little part in his decision. “Just well-wishes and then we leave.”

“Precisely. And perhaps a dance with the lovely bride-to-be—” Preston added.

“Demmit, Preston! That goes beyond the pale. If Lady Juniper, or God forbid one of my aunts, suspects I have any hand in this—”

“Yes, yes. I know. I'll simply tell one and all you were an unwitting participant.”

“Always am,” Roxley muttered, running a hand through his hair.

“T
abby! Whatever are you doing here?”

Preston's voice booming right over her shoulder nearly sent her jumping out of her gown. As it was, she dropped her reticule, and he swooped over and picked it up, holding the delicate purse out to her, the tiny bit of silk nearly crumpled in his giant paw.

After having spent a good part of the evening staying well away from her—much to Tabitha's relief—now here he was, with all the appearances of a ravenous lion.

And she, the gazelle. The lame one limping at the back of the herd.

For a moment, their eyes met, and the mischief alight in his eyes spelled only one thing.

Disaster.

She snatched her reticule free of his grasp and drew a steadying breath.
Oh, bother this wretched man. Whatever does he want?

“Ah, Miss Dale! And Miss Hathaway as well,” he was saying, bowing before Daphne and Harriet before turning his full (and utterly unwanted) attentions on Tabitha. “Tabby, you wicked minx! How could you have failed to mention that you were coming to Lady Knolles's tonight when we were in the park this morning?”

Those few words—“when we were in the park this morning,” if one ignored the “wicked minx” part—fell like a cannonball on their little circle, leaving one and all speechless.

Except for Lady Timmons, who made a sort of strangled sound that suggested she had swallowed her fan.

“Come now, Tabby—” he continued.

Tabitha flinched.
Of all the presumptuous, arrogant—

“—I see you are furious with me,” he was saying, more to her aunt and Lady Peevers than to Tabitha, flashing his all-too-handsome visage at them. A look that might once have been enough to lure them into his charming clutches but no longer held any sway. Not with these experienced matrons, who regarded him with stony, upraised noses. Preston, apparently no stranger to matronly dismay, blithely stepped between her and Barkworth, effectively shouldering the man aside. “Dear Tabby, you should be able to guess why I nearly missed you—can't you?”

Dear Tabby
? He had not just called her that. No one called her that.

Especially not the Duke of Preston.

Meanwhile, Preston was glancing at the others as if one of them might be able to supply the answer. When no one spoke, he heaved a big sigh of exasperation. “That gown, you little minx!” He grinned and turned to Barkworth. “It has quite transformed her. I barely recognized our little Tabby until Roxley pointed you out—”

The earl sputtered in protest. “I did no such thing.”

Preston waved off his friend as if the man was being far too modest. “Personally, if I were your betrothed I wouldn't have let you out in that silk. You have caused a regular stir of speculation as to who you might be. I fear your Barkley will have competition by the morning. Speaking of old Barks, where is the good man?”

Her temper, having finally overcome her shock, managed to get a sentence out. “His name is Barkworth, Preston.”

“Oh, yes, but you know how I am.” Preston glanced around, his features a mask of innocence, and smiled broadly at the party. Then he thrust his hand out to Sir Mauris. “You must be Barkworth! Tabby was telling me all about you this morning, though I didn't expect such a mature match.” He turned to Tabitha. “No wonder I haven't seen you on the dance floor. Wouldn't do to send your betrothed aloft from too much exertion
before
the wedding.”

After taking another measure of Sir Mauris, the duke glanced over at Tabitha and shook his head, a motion that suggested he did not approve of her match. Not in the least.

Not that she cared what he thought, the odious wretch. More to the point, whatever was he doing?

Sir Mauris batted away the duke's hand. “I am Sir Mauris. Miss Timmons's uncle.”

Preston let out a breathy sigh. “Good news, that. But where is your most excellent gentleman, Tabby?” He looked back and forth and right past Barkworth, who was standing beside his mother. “I expected the man to be at your side all night, lest some ne'er-do-well discover you.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows, as if not one of them didn't know who the real villain might be.

Stepping out of his mother's shadow, her fiancé finally made his presence known. “I am Barkworth,” he announced, slanting a disapproving glance at Tabitha as he moved to her side, retaking his place.

About time,
a little voice chided silently inside her. Oh, and that wry bit of sensibility wasn't done.
Can you imagine Preston holding back to gauge a situation before wading in?

Not likely. The duke seemed quite happy when he was up to his neck.

Much to Tabitha's chagrin.

“And you are?” Barkworth asked coldly.

“Well, Preston, of course. I thought everyone knew that.” Again the flash of a grin and a wink at Tabitha.

A wink? And in front of Lady Ancil?

Didn't this insufferable . . . arrogant . . . wretched man know what he was doing?