Along Came a Duke (25 page)

All of which were sensible, reasonable reasons, ones she had agreed with when she'd come to London for the single purpose of making this match.

At least it had all made sense until Preston had come along. Now she found the heels of her boots starting to dig in with all sorts of objections.

“What about a house in the country,” Tabitha suggested. “It would be ever so economical and give your mother all the room she longs for.”

As in a cottage at the far end of the estate
, she could almost hear Harriet say.

“The country? The country, you say? Oh, Miss Timmons, that would never do,” he said, shaking his head emphatically.

“But Mr. Muggins would be much happier in the country, as well as I. I do so miss my garden and—”

“Oh, Miss Timmons, how you like to tease! Next you will be suggesting that we live out in the wilds. Wherever is it you are from?”

“Kempton. The village of Kempton,” she said, wishing for a moment she could whisk him off to the
John Stakes
for a pint of ale. And a few cautionary tales about marrying a local girl . . .

“A village? I thought from my aunt's description it was naught but a wayside.”

Tabitha bristled to hear her beloved home so maligned, but she again gave Barkworth the benefit of the doubt, since it seemed he had never lived anywhere but London.

And she was correct.

“I have never much cared for the country,” he said. “Far too . . . oh, what is the word? Rural! Yes, that is it. The country is far too rural.”

“But I rather like the country,” she said. “And Mr. Muggins will be much happier there.”

“Then it is probably best that he return there,” Barkworth told her, eyeing the great terrier with nothing less than suspicion. “For as you saw earlier, Mother has a great fear of dogs. She much prefers cats—she has four at the moment.”

Four cats? In a tiny house. With Mr. Muggins chasing them about all day and Barkworth's bland smile to greet her each and every morning.

Oh, this marriage was becoming more and more intolerable with each passing moment.

If it lasted,
she mused, thinking of Agnes Stakes and how her wedding night had ended.

Tabitha couldn't help herself; she smiled up at Barkworth.

“Whatever had that animal in such a fever earlier?” Barkworth commented. “He appears quite amenable now.”

“Feathers.”

“What?”

“Feathers,” she repeated. “Mr. Muggins deplores feathers. They quite drive him mad. And Daphne was wearing her feathered pelisse.” Tabitha paused for a moment. “I daresay she forgot.”

“My mother has no love for this fashion of putting feathers on everything.”

“Then she and Mr. Muggins will get along famously.”

The man looked down at her, his brow furrowed once again. “But I thought you quite understood. Mother does not approve of dogs.”

She had meant her breezy words as a jest, but from Barkworth's puzzled expression she could see it had quite passed him by—like a feather on the wind.

Oh, dear, this was not going well at all.

How pleased Harriet would be and how crushed Daphne would be after all her noble efforts.

Still, Tabitha persisted. “Wouldn't we be able to spend part of the year in the country and part in London, like so many other families do?”

Barkworth shook his head. “I could never be so far removed from my uncle.” He continued on, “By the time you are my marchioness and we move into Number 5, you will find its grandeur your due and all thoughts of the country gone.” He paused for a moment. “Not that I long for my uncle's unfortunate passing, mind you.”

“No, of course not,” she said as gravely as she could manage, all the while her lips twitching traitorously.

“But one must always be braced for the unfortunate day, which will sadden so many,” he said in a manner that sounded as if it had been repeated too many times to make it truly meant.

They walked along in silence for a while, Tabitha musing silently to herself.
Give him a chance.

Make a list of his qualifications,
Daphne would suggest.

Tabitha started right in.
Well, he's mannerly. Attentive. Handsome. Well turned-out.
She snuck another glance at him—all done up in the first stare of men's fashions, from his high collar points to his grand cravat.

Perhaps too well turned-out.

He walked in a rather straight, uncomfortable fashion, as if he were trussed. In a corset. Like the one Aunt Allegra wore.

Tabitha closed her eyes for a moment and did her best to scrub that image off her list. Then she went back to the first entries.
Mannerly. Attentive. Handsome.

Then the others came.

Dull. Utterly without a sense of humor.

Far too attached to his mother,
she could almost hear Preston adding.

She abandoned her list in hopes that conversation might add some more useful items. “So once you've called on your uncle, what do you do?”

Barkworth's jaw worked back and forth as he labored over this question. “Attend my mother as she makes her afternoon calls—which, of course, you will do once our happy joining has been completed.”

Happy joining?
Tabitha repressed the shudder that threatened to run down her limbs, for when compared with the breathless desires that Preston had brought forth in her, “happy joining” sounded so lackluster.

So utterly dull.

She just couldn't imagine Barkworth taking her in his arms like Preston had, kissing her as if it were his right, his due, that he would stroke her into that mindless, panting oblivion . . .

Tabitha stopped herself right there. No, no, that wasn't helping in the least.

In fact, all she could think of was that with Barkworth as her husband, her life would be spent just as restrained as Mr. Muggins on his leash.

They came to Park Lane and waited for a break in the traffic to cross over to Hyde Park.

This close to the grass and trees, Mr. Muggins tugged at the lead, bounding up and down, ready to find more feathers to bedevil.

“Now whatever is the matter?” Barkworth asked, pushing her hand off his sleeve and stepping back.

“He misses the country,” Tabitha said by way of explanation, as Mr. Barkworth looked askance at Mr. Muggins's exuberance. “He is used to being allowed to freely roam.”

“I can't see how that would be a good notion,” he said, glancing around at the busy paths ahead. It seemed a good part of the
ton
was out taking the afternoon air.

“It is different in the country,” she explained.

“Apparently so,” Barkworth said, nodding at an opening in the traffic and eyeing Mr. Muggins with dismay as the dog leapt forward, towing Tabitha with him.

“There is no doubt that animal must be returned to the country when we marry,” Barkworth called out as he dodged his way through the traffic, his hesitation putting him between a freight wagon and a large barouche.

Tabitha had no chance to reply before they were interrupted.

“Ah, Barkworth, is that you?” a lady said, holding up a quizzing glass to examine them both. “And is this the lovely creature I have heard so much of today?”

“Lady Gudgeon! Yes indeed, it is. This is my soon-to-be betrothed, Miss Timmons. I daresay I can impose upon you to keep our pending engagement a secret?” Barkworth winked broadly at her.

The lady cackled with delight. “Barkworth, not a word shall pass my lips.”

They both laughed, and Tabitha suspected that it was because the lady could no more keep a secret than she could go out without her bonnet atop her head.

A bonnet, Tabitha noted, sporting a flurry of bright red feathers.

“D
o you mean to tell me that we are skulking about the park,” Roxley protested, “not to test out these nags as you claimed earlier, but in hopes of encountering Miss Timmons?” The earl blew out a large huff. “My good man, have you lost all your wits?”

Well, when Roxley put it that way . . .

“I just thought I might apologize—”

Roxley let out a loud guffaw. “Send 'round a note.”

Preston's jaw worked back and forth.
A note
. He'd thought of including one with the bluebells he'd sent over.

Dear Miss Timmons, I daresay the news of your engagement to that horse's rump made my behavior last night less than. . .

No, no, that would never do.

“Roxley, she can't marry that idiot,” he insisted. “You heard your friend last night.”

“My friend? Oh, yes, right, Chaunce. We went to White's . . . didn't we?” Roxley closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his forehead. “I'd nearly managed to forget.”

Preston hadn't.

Mr. Chauncy Hathaway had been a veritable font of information as to Tabby's situation.

That she'd only just met Barkworth. That the marriage was tied to her inheriting her uncle's vast fortune. That Barkworth's uncle, the Marquess of Grately, had borrowed heavily from Tabby's uncle, and in exchange for excusing the debts, had offered his nephew as collateral . . . if, that is, Barkworth managed to inherit.

Then Tabby could become the Marchioness of Grately. A lofty rise for a mere vicar's daughter.

“But whyever would her uncle force her into this?” Preston had asked the knowledgeable Mr. Hathaway as they'd sat in a secluded corner at White's. Roxley had wandered off once he'd caught sight of a fellow who owed him money, digging through his pockets for the vowel and muttering how the man's recent string of good luck would now be his good fortune.

“It all goes back to Miss Timmons's mother,” Chaunce had explained. “She was a great beauty, and when she came to Town, she had her pick of suitors. She could have been a duchess if she'd wanted. But she spurned them all—married plain old Reverend Archibald Timmons with his vicarage in Kempton and left London a happy bride, much to her ambitious brother's wrath.”

“That explains her uncle's motives, but whatever does Miss Timmons stand to gain from all this?” For what little of Tabby Preston did know, he had to suspect she took after her mother and would be more inclined to follow her heart than make an advantageous match for purely mercenary reasons.

“Escape,” Chaunce had said, draining his cup, which Preston had more than happily refilled. “With both her parents gone, she's at the mercy of her relations. None of them wanted her when she was orphaned, but Lord Rawcliffe, who holds the living, made it clear to her uncle, the Reverend Bernard Timmons, he could have the vicarage—a far better posting than the one he was holding at the time—but only if he and his wife took in their niece.”

“So she got to stay in her home.”

Chaunce had sputtered over his brandy. “Hardly a home. Oh, they kept her. But only because it saved them the cost of a scullery maid and the vicar the wages of a secretary. Poor Tabitha's done nothing but scrub grates and keep the vicarage records for the last three years.”

Preston had recalled her hands—how rough and calloused they'd been when he had pulled her to her feet for their dance that night at the inn. He'd noticed it then but had dismissed the notion, wary of wading in too deep.

A rather ironic notion now.

“Marriage to Barkworth—poor fool that he is—will be a vast improvement for her, though Harry doesn't see it that way. She wants Tabitha to cry off and come live at the Pottage.”

Preston had glanced up. “Harry? The Pottage?”

“Harriet. My sister. The Pottage is my father's estate.” Chaunce had paused for a moment as a tall man in a dark coat had passed the table, and he'd only continued once the fellow had been well past. Roxley had said Chaunce worked for the Home Office—which might explain his penchant for turning even an ordinary conversation into something resembling skullduggery. “Harry has been trying to convince Tabitha to come live with us for years. But she's too proud—Tabitha, that is.”

“Your sister has a good heart.”

Chaunce had laughed. “You wouldn't say that if she was your sister. She's an incurable busybody is what she is.”

“No, no, Miss Hathaway should be commended for looking out for her friends.”

“You are being polite. Harry is an impudent minx. Always has been a terrible handful. Much to my mother's despair, she's turned out like all the rest of those Kempton wags and sees no point in marriage.”

“The curse,” Preston had said with a nod.

“Utter nonsense,” Chaunce had said with a wave of his hand. “But try to tell the citizens of Kempton that their singular claim to fame is naught but superstitious rot.”

“Still, Miss Timmons could cry off,” Preston had posed.

“I don't think her uncles would let her. Sir Mauris and his brother have always wanted to extend their reach into society. Their niece being a marchioness will go a long way to improve their standings.”

“If she reaches her majority, which I assume she's nearly there, couldn't she take her inheritance and be rid of the lot of them?”

“Harry says she must marry Barkworth to inherit. At least that is what the will supposedly says,” Chaunce had said, his brow furrowed.

Preston had sat back and studied the man. “Supposedly?”

He'd shaken his head. “I'm a lawyer by training. Such a will makes no sense. Say she does cry off, or Barkworth sticks his spoon in the wall before he can marry her—where does the money go then? There has to be a contingency for such things. There is always a contingency when it comes to money.”

Preston had looked up from his glass. “What does the will say?”

Chaunce had smiled slightly, a sign that he'd approved of the duke's acumen. “That I don't know. And I would guess that neither does Miss Timmons. But I can guess who does.”