Along Came a Duke (26 page)

“Who?”

“Barkworth. Grately. Her uncles. They all have much to gain from seeing this wedding go forward and will hardly be forthcoming.”

“No. If it is as you say, none of them are likely to be overly fond of the notion of Miss Timmons crying off,” Preston had mused.

“Exactly,” Chaunce had agreed.

“Then how would I discover the truth of the matter, short of taking Barkworth by the scruff of his neck and shaking it out of him?”

Mr. Hathaway had grinned. “While I would love to see that, you might be better served considering a saying we have in the Home Office.”

“Which is?”

“Go to the source.”

“The will!” Preston had grinned, because he'd been able to see from the sly tip of Mr. Hathaway's smile that he already had a notion as to how to do just that.

Roxley had chosen this moment to come stumbling back to the table, grinning from ear to ear. “Collected from Osbourne. Wily fellow. Nearly gave me the slip.”

“And now you can repay me,” Preston had suggested.

“Hardly.” The earl had waved off the notion. “'Sides, already put it all down on a wager over some engagement. They say Grately is going to announce it night after next.” Roxley had reached for an empty glass and filled it from the bottle on the table. “As if any woman of sense would agree to marry his nephew.”

“Roxley, you demmed fool,” Preston had said, shaking his head. “They are wagering on Miss Timmons and Barkworth.”

The earl had glanced from Preston to Chaunce and then back at Preston. “Good God! I'm done for. I wagered the chit would cry off.”

Preston had turned back to the matters at hand. “You have a plan?”

“Yes.” Chaunce had nudged his cup forward. “One of the advantages of having a busybody sister with an excellent memory is that she ferreted the name of Winston Ludlow's solicitors out of Sir Mauris, hoping that I might discover something to save Tabitha.”

“Sounds like Harry,” Roxley had added, waving his glass in a sloppy fashion so that the brandy had nearly topped the rim. “Bossy bit of muslin. No offense, Chaunce.”

“None taken.”

As for Preston, he liked the Hathaways more and more, especially when Mr. Hathaway had continued, “As luck would have it, I have a good friend who works in the law offices of Kimball, Dunnington, and Pennyman. And better, he owes me a favor.”

This time it was Roxley who had sat up. “Are you two plotting to keep Miss Timmons from marrying Barkworth?”

Preston had shaken his head. “Whyever do you think you introduced us?”

“Ah, yes,” Roxley had said. “Demmed convenient now that I've got a monkey wagered on all this.”

“You'll help?” Preston had asked Roxley's friend.

Chauncy Hathaway had laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Your Grace, you obviously haven't a sister.”

“No, but I have an aunt . . .”

“M
y aunt is going to be in ill humor if she discovers I am helping you meddle in Miss Timmons's affairs,” Roxley said, his hand still pressed to his forehead as if he could stem the effects of the previous night.

“Thought you wanted to win your wager,” Preston reminded him, scanning the expanse of the park for any sight of Tabby.

“I do,” Roxley conceded. “But I have to consider whether it is worth winning five hundred pounds only to suffer my aunt ringing a peel over my head for the next year . . . or two.”

“You'll manage.”

“I still don't see how Miss Tabitha's future happiness is your concern,” the earl pointed out, his hat tipped low over his forehead, his arms folded over his chest and his legs stuck out in front of him. “Not unless you've fallen in love with the gel.”

“Nonsense!” Preston shot back, a little too quickly, a little too emphatically.

Wisely, Roxley said nothing more, slanting a glance at Preston, then giving a small shake of his head, as if the surgeon had just pronounced him on his last legs.

Preston straightened the reins. He didn't love Tabby. Not in the least. But he could no more force that denial past his lips than he could have stopped himself from coming to the park today.

And he hadn't sent her those demmed bluebells—which he'd ruined his best pair of boots tromping across a ditch to gather—because he cared. No, he'd sent them because he knew Barkworth wouldn't.

No, he had to see her for an entirely different reason. He'd promised to be her friend, vowed to help her—even if she was hardly appreciative of his “meddling.”

As her friend, he had to tell her that she might not have to marry her Mr. Barkfool. That if she, the woman who had disavowed ever getting married, was going to change her mind, she better demmed well be doing it for the right reasons.

Because she loved the man beyond all reason.

And there was no way that his Tabby, his determined, headstrong, opinionated Tabby, would ever fall in love with the likes of Mr. Reginald Barkworth.

He glanced over at Roxley, who was staring at him with a droll, knowing expression.

Demmit! He was not in love with her, he wanted to tell his friend.

“Since you are going to persist in this folly, you might want to look over there,” Roxley said, pointing a finger in the direction of one of the far paths. “That appears to be your quarry, pinned between her intended—which, if you haven't forgotten, means the man she will be marrying—and . . .” Roxley sat up, then leaned forward, squinting at the matronly figure beside Tabby. “Lady Gudgeon.” He shuddered. “I daresay Miss Timmons could desperately use your influence—the company she currently keeps is deplorable.”

Preston pulled the horses to a stop and gazed across the park. Yes, Roxley was right. There was Barkworth, as well as Lady Gudgeon.

But in truth, his gaze only flitted over these others, for there was Tabby. His Tabby.

Not that he was in love with her. Not in the least. He sat back and guided the carriage over to a spot where he would be out of the way.

“Preston,” Roxley said, nudging him out of his reverie—quite literally, for the earl was jabbing him with his elbow. “It appears your Miss Timmons has need of you.”

The duke glanced up. “Why do you say that?”

The earl nodded across the park to where Tabitha's unruly mutt was now chasing after a surprisingly fleet-footed Lady Gudgeon.

Woof, woof, woof,
the beast bellowed as he practically danced after the matron in great, bounding leaps.

And not far behind dashed a familiar figure, hat askew, a lead dangling from her hand.

“Ah, Preston, if I do say so myself, I think Miss Timmons might be your perfect match.”

“Why do you say that?” the duke asked, sitting up and tugging at his cravat. Suddenly his hastily tied Mailcoach had gotten too tight. That, and it appeared he was going to have to make a dash for it.

Roxley laughed. “She appears as prone to scandal as you are.”

Preston ignored his jest. Instead he shoved the reins into Roxley's hands, then jumped down from his seat. Surveying the scene, he said, “Where the devil is Barkworth? Doesn't that fool see she needs help?”

Roxley rose up in protest. “Whatever for? That's Lady Gudgeon being chased by one of hell's hounds.” He grinned. “Always wanted to see that gossipy goat get a bit of comeuppance.”

“Roxley—” Preston scolded as he started off.

The earl was not finished. He called after his friend, “When you do catch her, Preston, will you do me a favor?”

Preston paused and glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

“Ask Miss Timmons where I can get a hound just like that one. Might keep the aunts at bay.”

Chapter 12

T
here is always a moment in one's life that is played over and over in the mind, filled with “if only I had—” and “why didn't I—”

The day Lady Gudgeon went running headlong through Hyde Park, screaming bloody murder as Mr. Muggins gave eager and well-meant chase, was one such moment for Tabitha.

It wasn't but a blink of an eye between the time Tabitha spotted the feathers in the woman's bonnet and tightened her grasp on Mr. Muggins's lead, and the Irish terrier, keen of eye and determined of spirit, spotted his quarry atop Lady Gudgeon's head.

The first delighted
woof
brought the lady's endless chatter to a stop. Then Mr. Muggins, a sporting dog if ever there was one, lunged forward.

It could be argued that he'd warned the old girl.

Tabitha hung on and pulled as hard as she could, yanking Mr. Muggins back, but the lead snapped and Mr. Muggins lunged forward even as Tabitha fell backwards, slamming hard into Barkworth's chest. The man, in his tight breeches and even tighter jacket, hadn't the nimble freedom to keep himself upright, let alone both of them, and they fell into a tangled heap.

After a few moments of shock, with Barkworth gaping up at her and she down at him as she lay sprawled across his chest with their noses almost touching, her nearly betrothed unceremoniously shoved her off, sending Tabitha rolling into the grass.

Meanwhile, the dog didn't waste any time. He whirled left and then right, then, finding his quarry, once again gave her loud warning.

Woof, woof, woof
!

Lady Gudgeon took the dog's barking to heart. She turned and fled, scurrying away in all haste.

Tabitha sprang up and watched in horror as a delighted Mr. Muggins set off in hot pursuit, nipping at Lady Gudgeon's heels and leaping in the air in the off chance he might snag his feathered foe from atop her head.

Didn't this foolish woman have any idea of the danger she was in?

“Oh, no! No, Mr. Muggins! No!” Tabitha shouted to no avail.

Lady Gudgeon, for her part, put up a merry chase.

Tabitha gave the lady some credit. She could run.

And run the old girl did, dashing to and fro up the crowded path and then loping across the grass, darting through flower beds and around trees.

Not that she had any hope of escaping Mr. Muggins. The wretched terrier could chase after feathers until the cows were brought home.

“Get up, Barkworth!” Tabitha snapped. “We must stop Mr. Muggins.”

Her esteemed almost-betrothed still lay on his back, his arms and legs pedaling in the air like those of an overturned beetle. “Ruined! Humiliated! Done for!” he complained as Daphne's maid struggled to hoist the man to his feet.

Giving up on him—good heavens, whatever had Uncle Winston been thinking in his choice?—Tabitha dashed off in pursuit, pushing through the gathered knots of ladies and gentlemen who had stopped to watch the spectacle.

Her dance with Preston the previous night would have nothing on this
on dit
.

“Excuse me . . . pardon me . . . oh, do move aside,” she said as she pushed and shoved her way toward Mr. Muggins and Lady Gudgeon.

The poor lady had taken refuge atop a bench on a small knoll, and Mr. Muggins danced and barked in circles around her, having driven his quarry to ground.

Or rather, high ground.

Tabitha arrived, and she could swear her dog was grinning with pride.

“Help me! That beast has gone mad!” Lady Gudgeon pointed down at Mr. Muggins, clutching her reticule to her bosom with her other hand.

“My lady,” Tabitha said, reaching for Mr. Muggins's collar but not quite catching it as the dog leapt out of reach, “it is your hat.”

The woman stilled. “My hat? Why, it is of the first stare!”

“Yes, but it is what is making him misbehave.”

The lady stilled and glared down from her perch. “A dog with opinions on fashion? Now I've heard everything.”

“No, no,” Tabitha told her. “It is the feathers. He thinks you have a bird on your hat. He's an Irish terrier—they are known for flushing birds.”

“Irish!” the lady sniffed, looking askance at Mr. Muggins, who was now sitting—if you could call it that. His haunches barely touched the ground and he was all aquiver, watching her every move. “That explains the manners.”

“Yes, but if you would but remove your hat—”

“Remove my hat? In public? Miss Timmons, I would rather—”

Mr. Muggins rose up and growled, inching closer to the bench, as if he finally realized he could get up there as well.

“Yes, yes, my hat,” Lady Gudgeon agreed, plucking at the pins that held it in place. “I'll have you know, Miss Timmons, my opinion is highly regarded about Town as the final word in good standing”—
plunk, plunk,
came the pins—“and you have not gained mine this day. Quite the contrary.” Having issued her decree, she finished it with a grand flourish of her arm that sent her hat flying well away from Mr. Muggins.

A bit of wind caught the whimsical creation, and it floated in the breeze like a kite. Mr. Muggins's gaze fixed on it hypnotically, as if he had known all along that this odd bird could fly.

Tabitha used the distraction to catch hold of his collar. She was just about to snap the lead back on when Mr. Muggins took off, pulling her over the edge of the little hill so she went tumbling headlong into a final disgraceful heap of petticoats and exposed ankles.

At least she hoped it was only her ankles on view as she teetered into darkness.

“T
abby? Tabby?” came a voice from far off. “Wake up!”

Tabitha resisted the urge to move closer to those rich, deep, masculine tones. They were far too tempting and whispered of dark desires.

Which she knew was completely true the moment she opened her eyes and found Preston's concerned and ever-so-handsome features peering down at her.

“There you are. Thank God, you're alive,” he exclaimed, gathering her into his arms.

The warmth of his embrace, the all-too-familiar smell of his soap (which truly she had no right to be so familiar with) and that dizzy, heady desire that encircled her every time he held her came rushing to the forefront.

Nothing could have brought her round faster. Not even a dash of icy water or a cold compress.

Which was likely a more proper method.

But this was Preston, and he was brushing back her tangled curls and clucking his tongue over her disheveled state, leaving her with the desire to curl closer to his warmth and feign a continued state of drowsy disorder.

“Tabby, don't you dare close your eyes on me. Open them up and tell me that you are well!” he ordered, as if he had every right to hold her so, to bring her round to rights, to be his Tabby.

Which he didn't. Which she couldn't be. His.

His Tabby.

“Oh, no, you don't!” she exclaimed, scrambling out of his grasp and taking a defensive position in the grass just out of his reach. “Whatever are you doing?” She swiped her hair back and made a quick check to ensure her skirts were decent.

If only she could put her insides to rights so easily. They clamored and complained at being wrenched so savagely from Preston's grasp.

“What am I doing? Saving you, you ungrateful bit of muslin,” he said, sitting back on his heels and grinning at her.

She wished he wouldn't do that. It gave his sharp, handsome features a boyish, roguish appearance that could tug at even the hardest of hearts.

“I don't recall asking you to interfere,” she pointed out. “Quite the contrary, you promised me most faithfully that you would not interfere.”

“Unless I was asked,” he reminded her.

“Which I most decidedly did not,” she told him. “I wasn't even conscious.”

“Yes, but fortunately for me, your lips were moving, and I most definitely made out the slightest whisper,” he said. “Something like, ‘Oh, Preston.' Or perhaps it was ‘Kiss me again, Preston.'” He leaned forward, puckering his lips.

“Oh, you insufferable boor!” she said, throwing Mr. Muggins's lead at him. “I did not need saving.” Much to her chagrin, she went to get up and immediately collapsed in a pile. “Ow!” she exclaimed, reaching for her ankle.

And she'd been worried about it being exposed. A shock of pain wrenched through her, leaving her gasping.

At the sound of her distress, Mr. Muggins froze from his frenzied mauling of Lady Gudgeon's hat. The feathers forgotten, the terrier trotted quickly to his mistress's side, settling down beside her.

Mr. Muggins had only downcast brown eyes and a submissive tip of his red grizzled head for her before he leaned forward and tentatively, gently licked her gloved hand.

“You wretched, terrible beast,” she scolded, wagging her finger at Mr. Muggins and looking at Preston.

They both held that distinction as far as she was concerned, but never had she been so happy to see one of them.

“Let me see if it is broken,” the duke said as he leaned forward and pushed her skirt away from her shoe.

Tabitha again tried to brush away his touch, but he just ignored her, examining the bone with practiced hands.

“Merely a sprain.”

“This is dreadful,” she replied, trying to flex her foot and flinching. “Oh, bother! How am I to get home now?”

“Like this,” Preston said, rising up and towering over her like the Colossus she had first thought he might be when she'd seen him in Kempton.

Leaning over, he swooped her up into his arms and began to carry her across the park.

And if the sight of Mr. Muggins chasing Lady Gudgeon had sent the crowds into a glorious state of gossipy delight, it was all forgotten as Preston crested the hill with Miss Tabitha Timmons held firmly in his arms.

The knight-errant having rescued the lady.

More than one female spectator fluttered her fan approvingly, while just as many wore stony expressions of disapproval.

“Whatever were you doing in the park?” she asked. “Were you spying on me?”

Preston had the audacity to look affronted. “I was not. I have much better things to do with my time than skulk about after a vicar's daughter.”

“Such as?”

He tucked his nose in the air, assuming a ducal demeanor. “Only you would ask such an impertinent question, Tabby.”

“That's Miss Timmons to you, and it isn't a difficult question, Your Grace,” she said. “Whatever were you doing in the park?”

“I happened by.”

She made a “
Tut tut
,” not believing a word of it.

“I will inform you,” he said, “that I ride in the park nearly every day. So I might ask the same of you—whatever are you doing always hanging about the park when I am riding by? Someone might think you have set your cap to entrap me.”

She gaped at him. “Of all the insufferable—”

Preston shook his head. “I warn you, others have tried and ended in ruin.”

“Because Your Grace possesses no honor,” she pointed out.

“No, no, Tabby, not at all. It is because I will not marry a woman I am not passionately in love with.” Then he shifted her closer—scandalously closer—and continued to parade across the park with her in his arms.

Such a statement might have meant nothing if it hadn't been for the way his piercing gaze tore away any thought of arguing with him.

Mr. Muggins had watched this exchange with avid eyes, his head swinging from one to the other, and now his curious expression rested on Tabitha, as if he breathlessly awaited his mistress's reply.

But whatever could she say? Her heart hammered in her chest and left her lungs empty of air.

Never in her life had she wanted something so far out of her reach . . .

To be
that
woman . . . the one that Preston would claim. Would love. Passionately.

For she knew all too well of the passion he was capable of provoking.

Barkworth arrived just then, out of breath and flustered. “Your Grace! Whatever are you doing with my . . . my . . . ?”

“Your what, sir?” Preston stood his ground, his face stony with aristocratic bearing and Tabitha held firmly in his arms.

“My betrothed,” Barkworth told him, managing to rise up to his full height and look the duke in the eye.

“I haven't heard any announcement,” the duke replied. He looked to Tabitha for confirmation, but Barkworth didn't give her a chance to get a word in edgewise.

“It is a private matter and none of your concern. Now I suggest, nay, I insist, you put her down. Immediately.” Her erstwhile nearly betrothed pointed at the ground between them.

“I
f you insist . . . ” Preston did as ordered, tipping Tabitha gently onto her feet, and almost immediately she winced in pain. Having anticipated this, he immediately swooped her back up into his arms. “As you can see, Miss Timmons is injured.” He pushed past Barkworth—annoying fellow, truly—and continued to where Roxley and his carriage waited.

“As am I,” Barkworth called out, hobbling after them.

Preston threw a glance over his shoulder. “You look well enough.”

“Your Grace, you cannot mean to carry her all the way to her aunt's house? Why, it would be ruinous.”

Preston could have toted her all over London—she was still too thin from her relations' neglect. Mistreatment that left his insides boiling with fury.

“I am taking her to my carriage,” he told the man, his hurried pace eating up the distance.

Barkworth struggled to keep up. “Then you can give us both a ride. I would be most obliged.”

“Sorry, my good man. No room for you,” Preston said, winking down at Tabitha. “You'll have to catch up when you can.”

At this, Barkworth seemed to find a second wind and hurried to Preston's side, looking over at Tabitha with a mixture of frustration and anxiety. “I will not ‘catch up.' Miss Timmons is my duty, my obligation.”