Along Came a Duke (2 page)

“I hope not. I fear I would disappoint my family utterly if I turned up one day all stodgy and straitlaced like your brother Quinton.” He laughed again, then glanced over at Tabitha and Daphne before giving Harriet a pointed look.

Remembering her manners, Harriet said quickly, “My lord, may I present Miss Timmons and Miss Dale.”

“You most certainly may,” he said.

Tabitha gave the man some credit, for though she'd heard his character lamented over and over again by his great-aunt, Lady Essex, he made an elegant bow as she and Daphne dipped into proper curtsies.

“And who is this?” he asked, reaching out a hand to give Mr. Muggins an amiable pat on the head.

The large dog replied with a low growl.

“Noble beast,” Roxley managed as he drew his fingers back warily.

“I am so sorry, my lord,” Tabitha rushed to say, “I fear he is uneasy around strangers.”

“'Tis the feather in your brim,” Harriet told the earl.

“The what?” he said, eyeing the full-grown beast, who was now watching him like a wolf might a lost lamb.

“The feather in your hat,” Harriet repeated, reaching up and plucking the white quill from his brim.

“Hey, that's my souvenir—”

But whatever its meaning, the feather was gone as Harriet quickly dispatched it, tossing it to Mr. Muggins, who caught it deftly and looked up at his mistress with an overly proud expression in his eyes at having caught his prey.

“You can thank me one day,” Harriet told Roxley, as if that was enough of an explanation.

“Whatever happened to your carriage, my lord?” Tabitha ventured, changing the subject.

“Not my carriage, Miss Timmons. 'Tis Preston's.” The earl waved his hand over toward the smithy. “I warned him not to take the corner by the great oak at that speed, but would he listen? As ill-mannered and stubborn as your dog.” He shrugged and grinned as if their dangerous and foolhardy misfortune was a badge of honor.

Harriet laughed. “My brother George did the same thing last spring. Hell-bent he was, my father says.”

“Harriet!” Daphne gasped. “Remember what Lady Essex said about language! She'd double her lessons if she were to hear you say such a thing.”

“No, Harry!” Roxley lamented, glancing from Daphne back to Harriet. “You aren't letting my aunt ruin you?”

“Not ruin, my lord,” Harriet told him. “Just round me out. My mother has given up. But Lady Essex is determined. She has plans to bring me to Town next month.”

“To Town, you say?” Roxley asked.

“Yes, didn't she write you?”

“Never does,” he told her. “Just shows up and bedevils me for weeks on end.” He grinned at her. “Now I am forewarned and in your debt.”

“Yes, well you can dance with me at Almack's.”

“Never!” he said with a shudder. “I shall be away all next month. Yes, away. Hunting.”

“It isn't the season for hunting,” Harriet told him, folding her arms over her chest.

“It is somewhere,” he teased back.

“If you are so resolved to avoid Lady Essex, whatever are you doing here in Kempton?” Harriet asked.

“Racing! We're trying to beat that coxcomb Kipps back to London, and I told Preston that we could use the Kempton road as a shortcut. Bet Dillamore a monkey we'd get to Town first.” He raked his hand through his dark hair and looked again at the lopsided carriage. “Warned Preston about that corner by the oak,” he said with a rueful shake of his head.

“Dear me,” Tabitha said. “Five hundred pounds?”

Daphne's eyes went wide at the amount. “I do hope Mr. Thury knows how imperative it is that you get your wheel repaired.”

“Oh, he does,” Roxley told her. “Preston has even pitched in. Prestigious fellow that he is. Though might be 'cause he's got twice that wagered and he'll be in the suds with his dreary uncle if we lose.” Lord Roxley craned his head toward the smithy's forge and called out, “We'll beat Kipps yet, eh, Preston?”

There was a low growled muttering from behind the forge where a bent-over figure worked.

The earl shrugged, a rather apologetic motion. “He's in ever-so-foul a mood. Ho, there! Preston! Come meet some of the local ladies. There are few gentlemen in these parts and we are considered a rarity.”

On that, Roxley had the right of it.

Gentlemen left this sleepy, forgotten corner of England for school as soon as they were out of short pants, and few returned—the lure of the army, the navy, and even the clergy offered far more exciting venues than the quiet meadows and green hills of Kempton. Hadn't all of Harriet's brothers—save George, her father's heir—hied off to the four corners of the world rather than remain in the place of their birth?

And they did so because they could.

Tabitha had to wonder at this friend of Lord Roxley's—for she knew well enough from his aunt about the earl's licentious character—what of this Mr. Preston? What sort of man would bet so much on a carriage race?

It was scandalous, but at the same time, Tabitha felt a frisson of envy that these men had the freedom to wager such staggering amounts and jaunt about the countryside at will, while she was . . . she was . . . trapped.

A few moments before she would have described herself as content—overworked, tired and slightly underfed, yes—but suddenly she chafed at the inequity of it all.

Yes, trapped. Trapped by her circumstances . . . by a lack of opportunities. Never before had she ever felt the lure of London, but looking at this swift carriage and the freedom it lent its owners, Tabitha's heart beat with a rare note of rebellion.

And while London was only a two-day drive, whatever would she do once she got there? Her relations in Mayfair would only send her back to Kempton.

Now Tabitha saw the real danger of men. They put the most impossible notions in a lady's head. For once she was rather glad that Kempton was not overrun with them.

“Preston, this will only take a moment,” Roxley was saying, still attempting to lure the man away from his labors.

“Yes, well, you needn't bother your friend, my lord,” Tabitha said as politely as she could. “We should be on our way. To our Society meeting.” Besides, who knew what sort of unsettling notions this Mr. Preston would inspire. “We would not want to keep you and Mr. Preston from your . . . your—”

Oh, bother, how did one describe a wager that was naught but foolish and a grand waste of time, money and effort?

“Oh, it is no trouble,” Roxley said grandly. “Would do Preston some good to meet some respectable ladies. His aunt is forever harping on about it.” Arms crossed over his chest, his boot tapping impatiently, the earl turned to his friend. “Come now, Preston! Make your bow or word will spread that I keep uncivilized company—Lady Essex will never let me hear the end of it.” The earl turned and waggled his brows at Harriet.

Tabitha suspected that Lady Essex would not be happy to discover them in the company of this “Preston” person, no matter how prestigious Lord Roxley thought him.

Prestigious, indeed. From all accounts, the man must be the worst sort of . . .

Then she spied him, this Mr. Preston, rising up from beside the forge, bellows in hand, and prestigious was not the word that came to mind.

Everything Tabitha suspected about him—that he was not fit company, that he was a scandalous, dangerous rogue—ignited like sparks from the hot fires, bright and sure one moment and gone the next.

Oh, Mr. Preston might well be a gambler and a rake, and quite possibly as rapscallion as they came, but much to Tabitha's greatest horror, he was utterly intoxicating to look at.

Sinfully so.

And no, the word that came to mind was definitely not prestigious, but rather something more simple and straightforward.

Ruin
.

He rose up, no ugly Hephaestus, but like a very Adonis. This she knew for certain, for Lady Essex kept a statue of this legendary hero in her morning room, one her father had picked up on his Continental tour so many years ago.

At least this version had the decency to keep his breeches, boots and shirt on—though barely. The white linen shirt that might once have been fashionable was open to his waist and plastered to his body, his smooth, muscled chest gleaming from his labors.

A gentleman would never appear in public so—without his cravat, without his gloves, without all the proper trappings. Why, this Mr. Preston was nearly . . . Dare she even think it? There was no other word to describe the man.

Undressed. Unadorned. Naked.

Not that he needed anything to gild his form—for it was perfect.

Tabitha pressed her lips together in shock. Good heavens, what was she thinking? Wasn't it bad enough her limbs burned as if she'd been dipped in the very flames of the forge? Her heart pounded with an odd twitter, and she knew she should glance away, not gape, not stare, and yet she couldn't . . . didn't want to.

He shook his head, and his tawny hair fell about his shoulders like an unruly mane. His dark eyes flicked a glance toward her, and for a moment, Tabitha had the rare feeling of being pinned in place—like one of her father's specimens—as if this man's very gaze could capture her. But his regard didn't last very long, for he all-too-quickly looked away, dismissing her as hardly worthy of his attentions.

Something very feminine inside her ruffled with annoyance. How dare he! Not that she cared one whit as to his opinions, but whoever was he to think his regard was such a boon?

Nor was she the only one to witness his hasty rejection.

“Don't be such a curmudgeon, Preston,” Roxley complained, rocking on his boot heels, his hands now folded behind his back. “It is bad form. Besides, you're utterly safe from the advances of young ladies here in Kempton. Not one of these misses has a hope or prayer of ever finding a man to catch in the parson's mousetrap.” The earl winked at the ladies. “Cursed, the entire lot of them.”

Cursed.
This brought the man's gaze up, a flicker of interest in his dark eyes.

Tabitha, who was rather proud of the Kempton curse, nay tradition, suddenly felt rather embarrassed. Why, Lord Roxley made them sound like country simpletons, and nothing could be further from the truth.

“Cursed?” Preston asked, setting the bellows down, one of his dark brows tipping with amusement and his piercing gaze once again fixed on Tabitha. “Is that so?” He reached for a rag and began to wipe his hands clean.

“Very much so,” Roxley teased, winking again at Harriet. “Been that way for centuries. Can't find a man to marry a one of them. Not and live to tell you about it. Why, they still recount the tale of poor John Stakes, and he's been dead nigh on two centuries. Named the demmed public house for him after his Kempton bride—”

Tabitha could take no more. “My lord! No one puts any faith in those old myths.”

Daphne stepped forward and added, “Certainly not! Why, four years ago, Miss Woolnoth married Mr. Amison, and they were perfectly suited.”

Harriet's eyes widened, and she looked about to reveal the truth.

That Mr. Amison had drunk shamelessly and only married Miss Woolnoth because he had sought a cheaper means to buy her father's best ram. He might have gotten the sheep, but he'd also gotten a wife who'd nagged endlessly.

Worse, the Amisons' short-lived marriage only seemed to fortify the last remnants of the Curse's legacy that a marriage to a girl from Kempton would only end in tragedy. Mr. Amison had been found floating in the mill pond after a particularly merry night at the pub and a less-than-happy homecoming.

Not to say that Mrs. Amison had anything to do with his unfortunate accident, but this was Kempton, after all.

“Indeed, my lord. We are certainly not cursed,” Tabitha rushed to say. Tucking her nose in the air, she added, “We simply choose not to marry.”

Of course, the general lack of marriage partners in Kempton, the dowry to tempt one or the opportunity to gain a man's attention also factored into her bravado.

There was a moment of silence from the gentlemen, then Lord Roxley let out a loud laugh, which was grating to say the least, but it was Mr. Preston's reaction that set Tabitha's teeth on edge.

The man actually let out a loud snort of derision. As if he had never heard such nonsense.

“Ladies who choose not to marry!” Lord Roxley laughed again. “Ah, if only the females of London would adopt such forward thinking, eh, Preston? You might be able to attend a ball or a soirée without causing a complete stir.”

There was another snort from Mr. Preston, which only grated on Tabitha more so. And given what the earl had just revealed—that Mr. Preston was a source of scandal in Town—she knew him for the mean creature he was: the type of man who disavows marriage yet spends his time ruining young, innocent ladies of their virtue as a matter of course, robbing them of any future chance of happiness; the very lowest sort of beast.

“Mr. Preston—”

Roxley barked out a laugh. “Miss Timmons, you should know—”

“Now, now, Roxley, let the chit have her say,” Preston told him. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, Miss Timmons?”

Tabitha drew a steadying breath. “Sir, I will have you know, I never intend to go seeking a husband and am quite content with the notion.” There, she'd managed that much; it had been a long time since she'd spoken her mind, and, fortified by her first success, she continued unabashedly, “Marriage offers no benefits to a lady, save leaving her a servant to a man's fickle whims and his selfish demands.”

Her uncle would have apoplexy over such a brazen statement.

Much to her shock, this odious Preston looked more amused than put in his place, for he grinned at her, stalking forward like a lion, the king of the forest having discovered easy prey within his lazy reach. “Truly?” His gaze swept over her again, and when he finished his quick appraisal, one brow rose in an arched bow, as if poised to strike.