Along Came a Duke (19 page)

Oh, he knew.

Tabitha tried to come up with a set down that would cast the duke on his merry way, his tail between his legs like the dog that he was . . . And while she could think of quite a few, none came quickly enough before Preston was at it.

Again
.

“Ah, Barkstone, my good man,” Preston said, throwing his arm over Barkworth's shoulder and steering him so they both faced Tabitha. “I daresay even you'd agree that your betrothed is the most beguiling creature in the room, wouldn't you?”

Barkworth's mouth fell open, but nothing came out, as if the notion hadn't even occurred to him. And when some morsel of reason did finally dawn in his thoughts, he shook off Preston's arm and stalked back to stand between his mother and Tabitha.

Preston continued blithely on as if they were all old friends. “No wonder you haven't had her out on the dance floor. I thought it odd at first, and then I realized you are a cagey fellow. Not wanting to have her ankles on display for all to see. Promising pair, don't you think?” Then he leaned back and sighed as he gazed at the enticing space between Tabitha's hemline and slippers.

“I do say—” Barkworth began to sputter.

The duke shook his head. “You were saying? Oh, yes, not dancing. Wise decision.”

“I have not danced with Miss Timmons because I prefer not to dance.”

“Not dance?” Preston asked, glancing around at the others for confirmation. “Criminal! Tabby should be danced with and danced with until she is exhausted with pleasure.”

No! She must have misheard him. Tabitha closed her eyes and hoped she had. Though when she stole a glance through her lashes at Lady Ancil, the lady's apoplectic features confirmed the worst.

She hadn't.

“You know this man?” Barkworth asked, turning his full attention to Tabitha.

“No,” she said shaking her head. “Not in the least.”

“Tabby, you are shameless! Of course we know each other. We are old friends. Tell them, Roxley. You introduced us.”

Roxley made a strangled sort of stammering reply. “I . . . that is . . . I never . . .”

“See, there you have it from the man himself,” Preston said, as if the earl's answer had been as clear as day. “We met in Kempton, what was it? A month ago. And then again this morning in the park. We are old friends now, wouldn't you say, Tabby?”

“No, I would not,” she told him coldly.

To his credit, he'd left out their other encounter. The one that had brought them to this state of detente.

“While I make it a rule never to disagree with a lady—just ask my aunt—I say we are. Especially after I spent our entire time together this morning listening to Tabby regale me with tales of her Barkshire. Mr. Barkshire this, Mr. Barkshire that. I quite expected to meet a man of Adonis proportions and Solomon's wisdom.” He glanced at Barkworth as if he still wasn't convinced he had met the right man. “You're Grately's heir, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Heir presumptive,” Preston said in a tone that implied the man's inheritance wasn't the only thing he was waiting around for.

“Yes,” Barkworth ground out, his face growing red with either embarrassment or fury. “Sadly, his unfortunate passing will provide me with his noble holdings.”

“A marquisate, isn't it?”

“Yes,” her nearly betrothed replied, his handsome features now pinched with annoyance.

“That would be worth hanging about a man's coattails, now, wouldn't it?” Preston posed, giving Barkworth a friendly nudge.

Oh, good heavens! How many insults could the man take before he was willing to do something, say something cutting and witty enough to send the duke packing?

And then Barkworth did. Or at least he tried.

“Your Grace, it is well known that you are not received.”

She nearly groaned. That was it? That was his set down? “
You are not received”
?

Not that she expected Barkworth to demand seconds and put a bullet through Preston's arrogant chest, but something just below that and well above “you are not received” would have stirred a little more confidence in her.

Preston, instead of being insulted, laughed loudly and clapped Barkworth on the back. “You didn't tell me he had a sense of humor, Tabby. But of course I am, my good man. I'm here, am I not?” He grinned at Barkworth, looking the man up and down and finally declaring, “Truly, sir, I don't know how it is we haven't been introduced before.”

“I keep a respectable circle of acquaintances,” Barkworth said, his shoulders taut, his nose tipped just so.

“Oh, so you don't entertain much, then, do you?” Preston acknowledged.

Barkworth straightened a bit more—so much so that Tabitha feared for his shoulder seams. “No. I am a bachelor with only my mother to keep my house,” he said, having utterly missed the point of Preston's slight yet again.

“Not for long, eh, Barks?” Preston said, nudging the other man once again as if they were old friends. “No, I imagine soon your house will be filled with entertainments—balls, musicales, oh, and a host of card parties, I daresay. Nothing Tabby likes more than a good wager, isn't that so?”

“Oh, you are an odious fool,” Tabitha sputtered.

Preston grinned. “I knew on further acquaintance I would begin to win your favor, and here I have been elevated to an odious fool already.”

“Your Grace—” Sir Mauris began.

“Yes, yes, I can see from your face, my lord, that you want to know the purpose of my intrusion, and it is truly to extend my best wishes and happy felicitations to these lovebirds.” He smiled broadly at the pair. “That and to ensure that dear Tabby's most excellent Barkwell was everything she'd declared him to be.” He glanced over at the other man and frowned. “Do you ride, Barkwell?” Preston asked, again making a searching glance up and down the fellow, his face a mask of puzzled contemplation, as if he feared the answer.

“Barkworth,” the man corrected.

“Yes, yes, so you said,” Preston agreed. “But do you ride, Barkle?”

With hands fisted at his sides, he answered, “Every gentleman does.”

“Thank God, eh, Tabby? Wouldn't want a man who couldn't ride.” He leaned over toward Barkworth and nudged him. “She's a spirited bit of muslin, but I have a feeling you'll manage her.”

“Your Grace, you are referring to my betrothed,” Barkworth said, his words coming out from between clenched teeth, his manners stiff.

“Yes, of course. I think we all know that she's your betrothed,” Preston said, glancing around as if confused by Barkworth's furious tone. “Now as to the manner in which you will be keeping Tabby—as you can see, she has an eye for fashion. You have the necessary holdings and properties to support her?”

“I don't believe that is any of your business.”

“Oh, I see, rather not reveal that you are a bit thin in the pockets before the wedding.”

“Preston! That is enough,” Tabitha told him. “Please, leave off.”

He paused and looked at her, and she hoped he could see how humiliating he was being. “If that is your wish.”

“It is,” she told him.

“I am only looking after your best interests, Tabby.” His words carried a hint of truth, and she nearly believed him.

Only . . .

“I wish you would not.”

He leaned forward and looked at her. Just as if they were still in the inn and there was only the two of them. “But I promised that I would.”

She stepped back, nearly bumping into her aunt, for it was on the tip of her tongue to say the words.

Then save me, you devil
.
Carry me off and ruin me so I don't have to marry this fool!

And there it was. The truth. She glanced over at Barkworth, and despite such a short acquaintance, she knew exactly who, or rather what, he was.

Not the sort of man she wanted to marry. Yet those words, that plea—save me, ruin me—would land her in the briars.

She would not only lose her inheritance but she'd also be returned to Kempton (if Aunt Allegra would even take her back) to spend the rest of her days scrubbing the vicarage grates.

How could he not see that she had no choice? It wasn't like he was going to offer for her hand and truly save her.

He wasn't the sort.

Even worse, he took her silence to mean something else. “I concede to your sensibilities.” Preston gazed once again at Barkworth. “Yet I cannot get over why a Corinthian such as yourself, sir, would not want to dance with such a lovely partner.”

Tabitha had been thinking the same thing, waiting most of the evening for Barkworth to ask her to dance, if only so they could have a moment alone.

Well, as alone as one might manage in a crush like this one.

“I believe in an ever-present appearance of decorum.” Barkworth looked out over the smiling couples and lines of partners moving elegantly together and shook his head. “Dancing should only be done when it is done well.”

“A very good point, sir,” Preston said. He leaned over and deftly snagged Tabitha's hand out of Barkworth's grasp. “Then shall we show one and all how it is done well, eh, Tabby?”

And with all the presumption of a duke, he didn't wait for her aunt's permission or her betrothed's blessing but towed Tabitha out toward the newly forming lines of dancers.

She glanced back at Barkworth, who should be coming to her rescue, who should be protesting Preston's tyranny, but who stood mutely at the sidelines and allowed her to be carted off by this pirate of a nobleman like she was merely paltry booty that could be sacrificed or would eventually find its way home.

Oh, bother! If he wouldn't protest, she would.

“I will not dance with you,” she told the duke, digging the heels of her slippers into the floor.

“Yes, you will,” Preston replied, smug and arrogant to the end. “And you know why you will?”

She pressed her lips together. She wasn't about to bandy words with him.

He leaned down and spoke so only she could hear. “Because you've wanted nothing more all night.”

“I have wanted no such—”

He swung her into his arms and hitched her far too close to be decent. “Liar.”

“I think you are the most odious—”

“Yes, I know. Odious, arrogant, presumptuous . . . did I leave anything out?”

“Yes, several,” she told him, finding herself being skillfully and perfectly guided through the intricate steps. Oh, good heavens, this was just like the night in the inn . . . only better—for with the exacting lessons of Lady Timmons's dancing master, she could follow Preston smoothly.

It also helped that some devilish part of her longed to follow him . . . leaving her with nothing to do but bask in the warmth of his arms, the desire his touch evoked.

“Yes, well let me add one more thing to that list,” he whispered in her ear, his breath sending tendrils of desire down her spine.

“Whatever did I leave out?” she managed a bit breathlessly.

He leaned closer still. “The part about me being the only man here capable of stealing your heart.”

Chapter 10

W
hat had he just said? Not even Preston quite believed it. Here to steal her heart? Had he gone mad?

Preston blamed Miss Timmons entirely. There was something utterly dangerous about this particular miss that had him confessing his secrets, laying his heart open.

What the devil was she doing to him? Tempting him. Creating havoc on his good sense.

Which he did possess . . . he did. Occasionally.

Though apparently not around Tabby, as Roxley might point out.

Well, he would argue, she brought out the worst of his common sense.

Here he had promised Hen so faithfully that he wouldn't cause any scandals, yet what was he doing? Dancing with a lady not on his prescribed list and intimating to her betrothed a familiarity that should not exist.

Ah, but it did,
he thought as he looked down at her shocked expression. So his confession had left her as upended as it had him.

Good. Served her right. Coming into his life and forcing him to consider all sorts of preposterous notions.

Like opening up Owle Park.

He shook that thought off as quickly as it came to him. For it was not only preposterous but also impossible.

But when he looked into her brown, fathomless eyes (which right now were glowing with something he guessed might be a dangerous mix of fury and murder) the darkest regions of his heart began to ignite. Illuminating the possibilities.

And right now his heart pounded with the thrill of conquest, having rescued her from that booby of a betrothed—not that it had been so terribly difficult. Nor did that matter, for the end result was that he had her in his arms again.

A victory that left him unwilling to ever return her.

It was a medieval sort of feeling, something his ancestors would have understood—and acted upon—but in modern times, one couldn't abscond with any female who caught one's eye and claim ducal prerogative.

Though thankfully it did allow him to steal her away from her betrothed, if only for this one dance.

“Whatever are you smiling about?” she asked.

Preston glanced down at her and gave over to the truth. “Plotting how to get you out of here.”

“Don't be scandalous,” she scolded, only to his ears she hardly sounded unhappy with the notion.

“Scandalous would be to ask you to run away with me tonight,” he whispered, though he stopped short of doing just that . . . asking her to slip away into the night with him. Tempting though it was.

“From what I understand, Your Grace, and given your reputation, such a suggestion would hardly be scandalous,” she replied, “rather a familiar and well-trodden path you ought to have outgrown by now.”

“Ouch,” Preston laughed. “You've been listening to your Miss Dale.”

“And most of London society,” she added.

“Most of London society is comprised of idiots,” he offered, nodding to the prancing and mincing crowd around them.

“Are you saying the reports about your . . . your . . .”

“Wrongdoings?” he suggested.

“Yes, those,” she said. “The reports of your wrongdoings are merely the products of gossip?”

He shook his head. “No, I committed most of them.”

“Daphne says that as a Seldon you can't help but bring the worst out in people,” she told him.

“And in you?” he posed, remembering the fiery miss he'd held in his arms and kissed with abandon. And who had returned his kiss with a passion all her own. “Do I bring the worst out in you, Tabby?”

She glanced away, unwilling to answer.

“What most of these people forget—especially your impertinent Miss Dale—is that a scandal takes two. If I were to suggest to you that you run away with me—”

“Which I beg of you not to do—”

“Tabby, I have only your best interests at heart. I have promised to help you, and you have only to ask.”

“I won't. Ask, that is.”

“Yes, well, you've made your point on that note,” he agreed as he took her hand and led her down the line of dancers, who all watched them ever so closely, as if waiting for some indiscretion. “But say I did and you refused.”

“Which I would.”

“Yes, so you say—”

She looked ready to protest, but he stopped her. “Miss Timmons, this is getting us nowhere if you continue to interrupt me, and I do have a point to make.”

“Then make it, by all means,” she told him as she circled around him and he took her back into his arms.

“I will.”

“Good.”

He laughed and continued on. “Since you have refused me”—he waited for her to argue the point, but she held her lips pressed together—“then my suggestion is merely ill-mannered and not scandalous in the least.” He leaned closer. “But if you were to come with me now and we finished what we started that night in the inn—”

Was it him, or had she just shivered?

“—then our behavior would not only be worthy of scandal, but set tongues wagging for the next two Seasons.”

“Then I am glad to have refused.” She poked her prim nose in the air. “Can you not see how it would ruin everything?”

“If that is the case, then what were you thinking dancing with me?”

They had come to the end of the line of dancers and were separated as Tabitha walked down one side and Preston the other.

He looked over at the woman he barely recognized and frowned. The artfully arranged hair, the coy curls running down past her shoulders and—worst of all—this demmed gown she'd been trussed up in, with its low neckline that left the tops of her breasts exposed, ending with a view of her trim, enticing ankles.

What the devil were her aunt and uncle, let alone her betrothed, thinking, letting her out in such a rigging?

“Now what is wrong?” she demanded as they came together at the end of the line.

Preston caught hold of her and resisted the urge to pull her scandalously close . . . again.

However, while he couldn't see her, he could feel Hen's gaze burning two holes into his back, so he maintained the appearance of decorum.

For now.

“I don't approve of your gown.” Preston shuddered. “ . . . or your hair . . . or any of it.” He waved a hand over her head, as if that could change her back into his funny little minx.

His Tabby.

“I don't believe my appearance is any of your concern,” she told him. Then, after a moment, in which her brow furrowed in a line over her stormy gaze, she went on, “And whatever is wrong with my gown? It is the first stare of fashion, I will have you know.”

“It is all wrong.” This he knew without a doubt.

She made that indelicate snort that he recalled from the night at the inn—the one that made her sound like one of Roxley's dotty and disapproving aunts.

For some reason, he found her disapproval irresistible.

“It was done by Madame Moreau, and she is one of the finest modistes in London,” Tabby told him.

“It doesn't suit.” His worst fears for her had been realized. “You look like every other Bath miss—prowling London like a fishwife casting her wares out in the open with the single hope of catching some unwitting fool.”

“I have no need of prowling,” she told him. “I am already betrothed.”

“More the reason to dress with a modicum of decorum.” Something he knew
so
much about. “I can't see how Barkling can approve of such a display.”

Instead of being insulted, a mutinous light went on in her eyes. “I would think a man of your predilections would approve of my transformation.”

“Usually I would, but not with you, Tabby.”

“What would you have me wear?”

“Here? Sackcloth.” Then he leaned forward and, God help him, gave in to his own scandalous reputation. “And in private, nothing at all.”

P
reston smiled blandly at Tabitha as they moved along the line of dancers as if he hadn't just proposed he'd rather see her undone . . .

Naked, indeed!

Good heavens, if her aunt had heard him make such an indecent confession—let alone Lady Ancil or some other gossip—she'd be ruined, sent home in the next coach, be it a mail coach or the local freight wagon.

Wasn't it bad enough he was feigning a state of familiarity with her that did not exist?

Oh, that kiss would say otherwise,
a wry little voice teased the back of her thoughts.
And the very fact that you wanted him to ask you to run away with him.

How was it that this man seemed to undo her in ways that no one else ever had? Inspired a dangerous treason inside her that had her delirious to cast off every bit of decorum she possessed, made her long for . . . for . . .

Oh, bother, she didn't know what she wanted.

But she did. She wanted the
more
his kiss had promised. She wanted to be his Tabby, his every desire.

And mostly, she wished he'd never come along, because if he hadn't, she would have met Mr. Barkworth tonight, sensibly determined him entirely acceptable and that would have been enough.

It had to be enough, because the alternative was ruin and poverty.

So Miss Tabitha tamped down the fire Preston lit within her untried heart, shuttered the passions he stoked and pasted the most proper, bland expression she could muster on her face.

The one that hid the tumult inside her.

Preston saw right through it. “Come now, you aren't going to get all missish on me, are you, Tabby?” He grinned at her. “I thought you were made of sterner stuff.”

Tabitha ground her teeth together, then glanced around to gauge if anyone was in earshot. “Stop calling me that,” she scolded when she saw her chance.

“Stop calling you what?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“Tabby, I haven't the least notion what you are nattering on about.” Bother the man if his eyes didn't sparkle with mischief as he made his denial.

“No one calls me Tabby.”

“But that isn't true,” he declared.

“Name me one person?”

“Me,” he said with all confidence, as if his insistence to name her so made it so. Then he tightened his hold on her and drew her closer.

“You do not count,” she replied, ignoring the rebellious desire running from where his hand enclosed hers, where his palm rested on her hip, and all points in between. “Nor does your opinion prove the point.”

He laughed. “You just proved my point, Tabby.”

“However did I do that?” Really, she knew better than to ask, but the question had slipped out of her lips before she could stop herself.

“Because Tabby suits you, you little minx.”

She closed her eyes for a second. Minx! Good heavens, that was worse than Tabby. “I am neither of those.”

Not to you,
she wanted to add.

She glanced up to find his brow arched and a slight smile on his lips. He quite thought himself the victor in this contest. Hardly. “You shouldn't call me such names. It isn't seemly.”

“Yes, I suppose you are correct.” His words, though contrite by definition, held not a note of penitential humility.

“You are making trouble for me. Deliberately.”

“Me?” he feigned.

“Yes, Your Grace, you.” She did her best to put on her most severe expression. “It is because you think it is your right.”

He grinned. “It is.”

“Not with me, Your Grace.”

“Ah, so we are no longer Preston and Tabby.” He shook his head and gazed at her as if searching for something.

For someone else.

Tabitha wanted to tell him that Tabby, his Tabby, had been naught but a product of too much roast beef, apple tart and French wine. Tabby was a dangerous, flirtatious minx and she was best kept bottled and trapped in the deepest cellar of Tabitha's heart. “We were never—”

He leaned forward and whispered, “We most certainly were.”

Tabitha shivered at the intimacy, the ferocity of his words, his confession. “I should never have dined with you.”

“However would I have taken that meal if you had not joined me?”

“You could have sat down and eaten it,” she pointed out.

“Ever the practical miss. And I would have been able to do so—as I had planned to share that meal with Roxley—until you came along and frightened him off with your bogey man tales of his aunt sleeping under the same roof.”

“Of all the ridiculous notions!” she said. “Now it is all my fault?”

“It was entirely a situation of your making,” he declared.

“And you are unable to dine alone?” she posed.

“Yes,” he told her.

“Why?”

A flicker ran through his usually mischievous gaze. It was the same poignant light that she'd spied the night in the inn. And when she'd tumbled into his arms today.

It spoke of something lost, of something ever so dear, something just out of reach.

He straightened. “I prefer not to.”

“Marriage would solve that,” she suggested, and at that, he nearly stumbled.

Touché.

Then he managed to return the volley and nearly upend her.

“Why do you think I am here tonight?”

Tabitha's gaze flew up to meet his. “You're to be married?” Her heart did a double wallop, the same sort of furious beat that it had battered against her chest when she'd spied him with his beautiful companion.

“My aunt believes Lady Pamela”—he paused for a moment, surveying the room and then nodding toward a tall, awkward-looking girl in the corner—“and I would suit.”

“The one in puce?” she asked.

“Apparently so,” he said, his nose pinching slightly.

“Not in the least,” Tabitha declared without thinking, something inside her wrenching the words from her throat.

Preston and this Lady Pamela? She stole another glance at this paragon his aunt had chosen.