Along Came a Duke (28 page)

“Oh, aye. The king's boot catchers is what they are. The entire lot of them. A pack of supercilious, obsequious, fawning sycophants.”

“Truly?” Tabitha glanced over at him. “This coming from a Seldon.”

“Leave your Dale friend's opinions out of this. You won't find a Barkworth listed at Hastings or Agincourt, or Flodden, I can tell you that!”

“And the Seldons?”

He grinned. “In the thick of it. Always. How do you think we came to our many titles?”

“And how many would that be?”

He rubbed his chin. “Eight at last count.”

“Eight?”

“You don't believe me? Shall we head to the nearest lending library and check out a copy of Debrett's?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “That won't be necessary.”

“Then you've already looked me up.” He waggled his brows at her, puffed up with his own importance.

She rather delighted in deflating him. Glancing down at her gloves, she said, “Actually, I haven't.”

He glanced at her. “Truly?”

“Honestly,” she said. She raised her hand as if giving an oath. “I've never read a single entry in that esteemed chronicle.”

He whistled. “You are a singular woman, Tabby. An extraordinary one.”

“That being the case,” she said, “enlighten me.”

“As to?”

“Your titles. If I am to be impressed by your lofty status and judge it against the Barkworths', I would hear a recitation.”

“The dukedom of Preston.”

“Duly noted.”

“The marquesates of Wallington and Brinsley,” he told her. “Two marquesates, not merely one, as Grately holds.”

“What did you say about preening earlier?”

Preston waved her off. “Never mind that. Then comes three earldoms, Kirkburn, Danthorpe and Dimlington.”

“Dimlington?” Tabitha giggled. “You are the Earl of Dimlington?”

“One does not giggle or question the titles one's king bestows.”

“I suppose not,” she admitted, having never considered such a thing. “Proceed.”

“And finally, I hold the titles to four baronies.”

“Only four?”

He shrugged. “Cartworth, Castley, Dewsbury-Poole and Rylestone.”

She paused for a moment. “Wasn't that five?”

“Dewsbury-Poole is hyphenated.”

“Thank goodness,” she teased. “Think how overbearing you would be otherwise.”

He snorted.

As she went through the titles silently, tapping them off on her fingers, Tabitha paused. “No viscountcy?”

This time the duke appeared affronted. “Do I appear to have come from shopkeepers?”

“Only around the edges,” she informed him.

“Miss Timmons, you wound me. You are Tabby no more to me. I should put you down on the curb immediately.” He went to pull the horses over.

“Don't you dare! I haven't the least idea where I am and haven't naught in my reticule but a—” She reached over and caught hold of his hands and the reins, turning the horses back into the traffic. For a few precious moments, they sat there, her hands covering his, Preston grinning rakishly at her and she not knowing what to say.

Let alone how to let go.

Oh, this was madness. It was the night at the inn all over again.

“Do you know how to drive?” he asked softly, his gaze still fixed on hers. She had the sense he wasn't talking about carriages and horses.

“Not at all,” she admitted, feeling the warmth of his hands beneath hers, the easy, solid strength of his hold on the reins.

“Let me teach you,” he said softly, winding the ribbons around both their hands, entwining them together.

“Haven't you taught me enough?”

“We haven't even begun,” he said, but to her ears it sounded more like a promise. Glancing up at the horses, he tipped his head to hers so he could guide her. “The first rule is they must know what you want—just let them feel it. Gently, but firmly.”

Tabitha shivered. “Are you talking about driving and horses?”

“But of course,” he said, leaning closer, his lips blowing softly over her ears. “Tabby, what do you want?” He moved his hands so hers curled around the reins and his fingers wound around hers. Warm and sure, guiding her, prodding her to take hold of something just out of reach.

She glanced up at him and found herself nearly nose to nose with him. It was like the night in the inn . . . just before he kissed her.

What did she want? Oh, she didn't dare say it. For right now she wished he would kiss her. Devour her.

He must have been able to see the desire in her eyes, for he lowered his head, but just as his lips brushed over hers, they were jolted apart.

“Take it inside, you great toff,” a man yelled out.

Tabitha looked up to find that the horses had stopped in the middle of the narrow street and were blocking traffic, much to the ire of the beefy, ruddy-faced fellow in a low-slung cap driving a large delivery wagon.

Well, trying to drive it.

“What? Can't afford a place to take her?” the man asked.

Now it was Tabitha's turn to turn bright red.

Preston gathered up the reins and said, “Yes, well, the other lesson of driving is never take your eyes off the road. You never know what hazards you will find.” He gave the reins a flick and guided the horses around the wagon.

“My apologies, my good man,” he said as they rounded the wagon.

The man's reply was to spit in the roadway.

“Obviously he hasn't been out riding with a lady in some time,” Preston remarked in his usual smug manner. After half a block, he handed the ribbons back to her.

“I don't know where I am going,” she told him. That, and she'd never driven anything more than Harriet's pony cart.

“Neither do I, Tabby. This is uncharted territory for me.” He leaned back and kept a sharp eye on the traffic, reaching over only to correct her hold or straighten the ribbons.

“What? You've never kidnapped a lady before?”

“This was hardly kidnapping. A rescue of the first order. Roxley will back me up.”

“Lord Roxley?” She shook her head.

“Yes, well, I doubt Lady Gudgeon would be much of a reference,” he teased, turning and giving Mr. Muggins a good scratch on the head. “Dreadful trouble, mutt. You've landed your mistress in the briars.”

“He's not the only one,” she shot back, glancing at the pair of them for only a second. Driving took far more concentration than she'd ever realized. “Preston, I will be in ever so much trouble if I don't get home soon.”

“That bad, Puss?” he mused, reaching over and taking the reins.

“Aye,” she whispered.

“Where do your esteemed relations live?” he asked.

She gave him the directions and he turned the carriage at the next corner. They drove for some time in silence, until he asked, “Naught but what in your reticule?”

“What?” she asked, pulling herself out of a reverie where she was imagining that Uncle Winston's will had consigned her to marry someone else.

A man with a lion's mercurial nature and lips that could steal her breath away with only the promise of a kiss.

“Naught but what in your reticule, you were saying earlier?” he prodded, grinning at her. “A penny, perhaps?”

Tabitha pressed her lips together and looked away. She was of half a mind to take that penny out of her reticule and toss it in the gutter. “You think far too highly of yourself.”

“Well, when one possesses a vast number of admirable qualities . . .”

“You do?”

He grinned and leaned closer, puckering up his lips. “Would you like to discover my most popular one?”

She shoved him back. “Would serve you right to be given a viscountcy.”

“I don't believe they give out titles for excellence in kissing,” he told her.

“Perhaps that is how your ancestor was given the earldom of Dimlington.”

“For kissing a king? Now Tabby, that would hardly be proper.”

She giggled and blushed. “Preston, you are a ruin.”

“I try,” he admitted. Again they rode for a time in silence.

“Preston?”

“Yes, Puss?”

“Why is it that you don't like to dine alone?”

He shook his head. “ 'Twas a long time ago.”

“When your parents died?”

The duke nodded. “Not just my parents, Tabby,” he confessed. “My entire family.”

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

He looked away and told the story he'd done his best to forget. Cavorting his way through life in hopes that enough indiscretions, a reputation that lent itself to gossip, would keep everyone far enough at bay so as not to press too close to the truth.

“The fevers came so suddenly. Everyone got sick, myself included.”

“I remember how fast my mother succumbed,” she remarked.

“Yes, I was sick, lost in fever. I remember my mother by my side, and then she was gone. And my sister, Dove, replaced her, and then she was gone. And then it was my old nurse, and by the time I woke, there was no one.”

“No one?” Tabitha's eyes welled up with tears.

“No one alive,” he said. “I wandered through the house trying to find someone, anyone. I was all that was left. My parents, my brothers, my sisters, the servants. All of them either gone, or dead in their beds.”

She sucked in a deep breath.

“I didn't know what to do,” he confessed. “I went into the dining room and sat down in my father's chair. It hadn't even occurred to me that I was now the heir, for my brother Frederick had been the eldest, but I took the place because it gave me comfort.”

The image of the stalwart but frightened child in his father's chair broke Tabitha's heart. “How long were you there like that?”
All alone.

“Two days, or at least that is what my grandfather determined.” He looked over at her. “Someone had sent word that there was illness and he'd come at once, but it had taken some time for him to reach Owle Park. I remember the sharp sound of his boots as they crossed the marble floor in the foyer and how he flung open the dining room doors and gathered me up, brought me to London. He never said a word. And I haven't been there since.”

“Oh, Preston,” she said, tears falling down her cheeks. She dashed at them and took hold of his arm. “I am ever so sorry.”

“You shouldn't be. You're the first person I've ever told that story to,” he confessed.

Tabitha glanced around at her surroundings and realized they were getting close to her aunt and uncle's house. She wanted to say something, but she knew there were no words that could assuage his sorrow. Yet there was something she had been remiss to do, something she could say.

“Thank you for my bluebells,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder for only a second.

“Did they help?” he asked.

“They made me smile.”

He nodded. “Because they reminded you of home.”

Tabitha thought about that and shook her head. “No. Not for that reason.”

Preston glanced over at her, his face confused. “Why not? Did I pick the wrong ones?” He turned down the street and glanced around for the address.

Tabitha pointed to the one in the middle of the block. “No, not at all. They were perfect.”

“Then what made you smile?”

Smiling again at the memory of the crushed stems and the bent blossoms, she said, “I was too busy imagining what you looked like climbing across a ditch to gather them than to think about home.”

“What I looked like?” he laughed. “Like a bloody fool, that's what I looked like. Ruined my boots getting through that field. My valet will probably quit.”

She laughed as he held out his leg for her to examine. Indeed, his Hessians looked very shabby compared with his usually polished, enviable boots.

“Ruined!” he told her. “I hold you accountable.”

“You would,” she shot back as they came to a stop in front of Lord and Lady Timmons's London residence.

They both laughed, and in that instant, he reached out to cradle her face. “You, Tabby, astound me.”

“You surprise me, Your Grace,” she said, breathless to be held so. She couldn't help herself, she tipped her chin up.

So he could kiss her.

And once again, Mr. Reginald Barkworth showed her the one thing he excelled at.

Timing.

“M
iss Timmons!” Mr. Reginald Barkworth cried out.

Tabby froze, Preston's lips just a breath away. Oh, good heavens, she was ruined.

The duke sighed and winked at her, then made a great show of straightening her bonnet. “I deplore this fashion for wearing bonnets askew, Miss Timmons,” he remarked to no one in particular. He leaned back and eyed her. “Somewhat better,” he said, glancing up at their audience with such an innocent expression that it was hard to believe he was the same man with the wicked light to his eyes and the devil-may-care smile that could entice even a worldly bit of the demimonde to blush.

“Your Grace! Unhand my betrothed,” Barkworth said, nay, demanded.

Preston sighed. “However can I do that when I have yet to ‘hand' her?” He glanced at Tabitha and shrugged as if to say
do you know what he is talking about?

Tabitha shifted in her seat and turned to find not only Mr. Barkworth—frozen in place, his face a mask of horrified shock—standing on the front steps of the Timmonses' town house but also Lady Ancil, her pickled expression never seeming to change out of its universal state of disapproval, alongside her aunt and uncle and, back behind them, Harriet on her tiptoes, peering over the crowd to gain a peek.

She would have wagered anything that her cousins were peering out one of the windows, having not ranked a spot on the front steps but unwilling to miss one delicious moment of their cousin's fall from favor.

Barkworth didn't remain fixed in place for long. He dashed down the steps to the side of the carriage, thrusting out his hand toward Tabitha. “Come now, Miss Timmons, before this day turns to utter ruin.”