Along Came a Duke (20 page)

But then again, this lady of note and breeding was the sort who did marry a duke.

Lady Pamela would never have dined with Preston in the private confines of a lonely inn. She wouldn't have wagered with him. Would never have kissed a man she believed to be no more than a rapscallion and a rogue.

Tabitha trembled. So why had she?

She was just as proper and well bred as this Lady Pamela—heavens above, her father was a vicar! Yet why had she, Miss Tabitha Timmons of Kempton, let that dangerous, roguish Mr. Preston pull her into his arms and kiss her, alighting every nerve in her body with his lips, tease her into a passion with his skilled touch?

And why couldn't she forget?

Despite her best efforts, she could not tamp down the memories of those moments, as boisterous as an uncorked bottle of champagne, whose restless, anxious bubbles refuse to stay entrapped, rising to the surface and exploding in the most unexpected ways.

Yet this man who held her now wasn't her Preston any longer, any more than she was his Tabby.

“Why didn't you tell me?” she asked.

“Tell you what?” he said, waving away her question only because he knew exactly what she meant.

“Who you were,” she insisted. “You let me think—”

“I rather liked what you thought,” he teased. “You were quite convinced I was . . . was . . .”

“You gave me little evidence to think otherwise,” she said in her defense.

“Oh, don't deny it,” he said. “You rather enjoyed thinking the worst of me.”

“The worst of you? How utterly arrogant. You made a fool of me,” she shot back. “You thought it a great lark to let me believe—”

“No, not in the least.” He glanced around the room, his gaze moving in a grand sweep, his expression bland, as if he didn't see how all eyes were turned on them. “I enjoyed that you gave me no quarter, allowed me no liberties.”

Other than the ones he'd stolen with his kiss. Even then, she could hardly call his actions thievery.

She'd wanted him to kiss her. She'd wanted more . . .

That was the worrisome part. The
more. . .

“Let us leave all that in the past,” she told him, though it was mostly for her benefit.

“Pretend we are naught but vague acquaintances?”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “Proper and respectable.”

He nodded and struck up a more taut position, holding her slightly out from him. “However do you like London, Miss Timmons?”

Apparently this was the safest question he knew.

“Not at all,” she replied.

He leaned closer. “That was not the proper response.”

“I suppose not,” she admitted. “But I miss home.”

“Truly?”

“Of course,” she told him, ignoring the fact that she wasn't supposed to be on such easy terms with him. But whenever this enigmatic man turned his full attention on her, she tumbled toward him headlong. “The bluebells had yet to bloom when we left . . . and now . . .”

“You'll have missed them,” he said, surprising her with his insight. “However, there are gardens aplenty in London.”

“Oh, proper, perfect gardens,” she said with a sniff. Her aunt had been horrified to find her just the past week in the garden behind the house and
not on the path
. What was the point of a garden if one couldn't get up close to the blossoms and smell them?

Preston, meanwhile, was laughing at her haughty disdain. “You do speak your mind.”

“With you,” she admitted.

He studied her for a moment. “Bluebells, eh?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“The color of your gown, I imagine.”

“Preston,” she said, trying to sound severe.

He grinned, turned her with a great flourish and then pulled her impossibly close.

So close it was hard to breathe.

More. . .

And now, oh, good heavens, being back in his arms, with his strong, broad palm on the small of her back, his fingers wound around her other hand, standing so close her skirt brushed against his trousers as they turned to and fro, his wide chest so very close, where she knew if she were to pluck off her glove and slide her hand beneath his jacket over the cool, crisp linen of his shirt she'd find the steady, pounding beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin invading her fingers like a fire that would spread through her limbs.

Like a fever of unbridled desires.
Preston, I . . . Please, Preston. . .

Here in his arms, she was Tabby once again. In front of everyone, in front of . . .

She stole a guilty glance over at Barkworth and found him watching her—no, not her but Preston—with a disapproving furrow to his brow.

Tabitha didn't even dare a glance at Lady Ancil.

They were separated for a moment as Tabitha moved around a circle and Preston went in the opposite direction. When they came back together he took her outstretched hands, and for a second, it felt as if the world stopped.

Fireworks came to life inside her as his fingers entwined with hers.

Their gazes locked and she could see a flicker of shock, nay amazement, in his dark, mocking gaze, as if he didn't quite believe it had truly happened.

“Why are you marrying him, Tabby?”

The truth tugged at her. But to do so . . . He'd never understand. “My reasons are none of your concern.”

“Do you love him?”

Love him? Good heavens, she'd just met the man! But she could hardly confess such a thing. Whatever would he think of her then?

Not that she should care. “Are you always so impertinent?” she said, poking her nose in the air.

“No,” he said. “Usually I haven't a care.”

“So why have I sparked this rare spate of concern?”

The moment she asked the question, she knew the answer. At least she thought she did.

No, it was a foolish thought. Hope. Wish.

Preston was concerned about her because he . . . Tabitha pressed her lips together. Ridiculous notion. She was naught but a game to him. An amusement.

“Because I promised you I would,” he replied.

“I don't recall agreeing to your interference in my life,” she replied.

“Our wager?”

The wager? “I won that wager—which you paid me for. There is no outstanding obligation,” she pointed out.

“I disagree.”

He would.

“You cheated,” he said.

“Hardly.”

Preston grinned at her. “Besides, I think you like my attentions.”

“Not in the least,” she replied.

“Liar. Just like you were that night when you told me you had no interest in marriage.” He swung her around the end of the line and pulled her close yet again. “Do tell me, though, how did your Mr. Barkhall change your firmly set opinions on marriage so quickly?”

“Barkworth,” she corrected.

“Yes, yes, but what secrets does this man hold on courtship that changed your mind?”

She glanced away, for what could she say? The truth? That she was marrying Barkworth to gain her fortune? That love had nothing to do with it? “It wasn't so much a courtship—”

“What?” Preston interjected. “No courtship.
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
”

“I don't expect a man to court me—”

“You should,” Preston averred. “You should be courted. Wooed. Enticed.”

Enticed.
Here was something on which Preston was apparently an expert. One look at his handsome face should have warned her of that.

He continued on, “A lady deserves to be courted. Otherwise the man is not worthy of her affections. At least that is what Hen avows.”

There was that name again. “Hen?” she ventured.

“My aunt,” Preston said, tipping his head in the direction of the beauty in black with whom he'd arrived.

“That is your Aunt Hen?”

“You needn't sound so disbelieving. But yes, that is my Aunt Hen. Or as she is currently known, Lady Juniper.”

“The one you and Lord Roxley hold in such horror?”

“Whatever led you to think—”

“You mentioned her that night at the inn.”

“Did we?”

“Oh, yes. But I thought she would be—”

“Older? She is, but only by six months. Hen likes to consider herself my conscience.”

“Indeed?” Poor woman, that sounded like a tall order. Tabitha slanted a peek at the lady. “She doesn't appear happy that we are dancing.”

Preston spared a glance. “You are not on my approved list . . . no, no, don't take that wrong, there is nothing improper about you . . . it has more to do with me.”

“With you, Your Grace?” she feigned.

“Very funny, Puss.” He shook his head. “My aunt is determined to see me become a respectable member of society.”

“Shameful notion!” Tabitha declared.

“Indeed,” he agreed. “And when Hen is determined . . . she's gone so far as to threaten to move out if I cause another dustup. Take Henry with her.”

“Henry?”

“Her brother. My uncle, Lord Henry Seldon. Her twin in everything, save a penchant for marriage.”

“She cannot move out,” Tabitha teased. “For who would you find to dine with you then?”

Her jab hit the mark, and she could see that she'd dug too deeply this time. “I didn't mean—”

“—no, no.”

They danced a few more steps before Tabitha waded back in. “Does Lady Juniper have any other choices of bride for you? Other than Lady Pamela?”

“Yes,” he shuddered. “And don't get overly used to calling her Lady Juniper.”

“Whyever not?” Tabitha asked, glancing over at the lady as if there might be some clue as to this idiosyncrasy.

“She's an incurable romantic and prone to getting married.” He sighed as if he couldn't understand such an affliction. “Another few months and she'll be out of her mourning period and the house will be once again overrun with suitors.” Preston shuddered. “Hen loves being courted—and then marrying the dolt who turns up with the best arrangements or sweetmeats or bit of poetry. Juniper won her hand with some bit of flirtatious nonsense.”

Flirtatious nonsense.
Tabitha glanced enviously over at the beautiful lady. She'd probably laugh at Daphne and Harriet's confessions that they, just once, would like to gain the attention of a man—even if it was merely an admiring glance.

A sentiment Tabitha shared but wouldn't have admitted for all of Uncle Winston's fortune. And especially not to Preston.

Instead, she held herself primly. “Courtship is overrated. Barkworth and I have an understanding that goes well beyond such—”

“Your Barkley is a fool, Tabby,” the duke said. “And if he hasn't even shown up with a single posy, then he isn't worth your hand.”

Tabitha bit her lips together. It would hardly do to admit that she had just met her intended. Instead, she remained firm in her defense of her nearly betrothed. “His name is Barkworth, and you don't know him.”

The duke stilled for a second as they paused in their steps, awaiting their turn to move down the line. “I wager that neither do you.”

Oh, bother the man. Did he have to be so perceptive?

Preston wasn't done with his lecture either. “What I find so utterly perplexing is why you, a lady so adamantly against marriage, a sentiment I can respect, suddenly decides to cast off her—what did you call it? Ah, yes—‘happy situation' to leg shackle herself to a looby like Barkton.”

“Barkworth.”

“That is beside the point,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “Truly, Tabby? That man has you tossing away your freedom?”

Her freedom indeed! When did a lady ever possess a bit of freedom? She straightened. “I have my reasons.”

He glanced down at her, eyes narrowed. “Roxley thinks you are with child. You aren't, are you?”

Tabitha nearly tripped over, but he held her fast and made it appear that he'd made the misstep. “Are you mad?”

Preston shrugged. “Your Barkey is the sort on whom a lady could foist off another man's by-blow and not have him be any the wiser.”

“Oh, that is beyond the pale.”

He ignored her outrage and continued on, “I suppose then I must assume you aren't
enceinte,
but that doesn't explain the why of it.”

“Are you going to continue disparaging my betrothed?”

“Yes,” he told her, glancing over her shoulder to where Barkworth stood waiting impatiently for their return. He looked down at her, and there was no more mischief, no puckish teasing in his eyes. “Why him, Tabby?”

“Perhaps he has won my heart,” she said, tucking up her chin and trying to outswagger him.

Preston dismissed her bravado immediately. “Not likely.”

“How would you know where my heart lies?”

“Because if you were truly in love with that imbecile, you wouldn't be out here with another man.” The music stopped just then and they came to a stumbling halt, Preston catching her before she stumbled over her own slippers. “So I suppose the better question is, why would you dance with me?”

T
he music ended and for a moment they paused, looking at each other, their gazes entwined, and Preston, the man who had flitted and flirted his way through London society, discovered that he didn't want to flit past this woman.

He didn't want to let her go. So he asked the question again. “Why, Tabby? Why me?” He wanted her to confess everything.

And then what?
something inside of him asked.
What the devil are you going to do about it?

He didn't know, but that thought stopped him short of pressing on to what he really wanted to know.
Why did you let me believe that you were different?

Why did you steal my heart?

For certainly his heart was pounding right now, hammering in his chest as he gazed down into her wide, brown eyes. Her lips pursed and opened slightly, like they had the night in the inn just before he'd kissed her.