Along Came a Duke (31 page)

“Then we will have to make sure this doesn't turn into a great dustup. Just enough to give Barkworth a case of cold feet.”

“I don't know,” she said, shaking her head.

“This from my perpetual damsel in distress.” Preston circled her, looking her up and down.

“Whatever are you doing?”

“Wondering why you wore that gown.” He eyed the white embroidered muslin with the gold silk overskirt.

“Whatever has my gown to do with getting me out of this betrothal?”

“Everything,” he told her, digging into his coat pocket, “but we will get to that in a moment.” He held up a piece of paper covered in a scribbled hand.

“Is
that
a copy of Uncle Winston's will?” It was dog-eared and barely legible.

He nodded. “I fear Mr. Hathaway had to jot down the particulars in great haste.”

She laughed and rushed back into his arms.

“I hate to say it, but your admiration should be directed at Mr. Hathaway—he was able to procure this,” Preston told her, though he didn't let her go. “Though perhaps in his case, an enthusiastically worded note of appreciation will suffice.”

“Yes, but you made it happen,” she replied, ever so happy he was her knight-errant. “Is it true? As Harriet said, I need only get Barkworth to cry off?”

He nodded and guided her over to the table, where he lay the paper down. He caught up one of the lamps and held it aloft.

“There's hope?” she whispered, gazing at the piece of paper, trying to decipher Chaunce's dashed cipher.

“Tabby, there is always hope.” He stabbed one paragraph. “Here is your key to freedom.”

Article 3, Section 1, If the designated party in Article 2, Section 5, declares his intention not to marry my niece, Miss Tabitha Timmons, or he is married at the time of my death, or he has departed this world, she shall inherit the entirety of holdings upon reaching her majority, to be held in a trust
. . .

The note ended there.

Tabby looked at him. “So it is true—if Barkworth cries off, I keep my fortune?”

“Indeed.”

“And I don't have to marry anyone else. My uncle doesn't have another such creature in line for my hand.”

Preston laughed, “If you don't want to marry—”

“I most decidedly do not want to marry—” She stopped herself as she looked up at Preston, for she feared what would come tumbling out.

No, not Barkworth. Especially not Barkworth.

But if she were ever to dream of a husband, then he would be just like the man before her. Willing to wade in and catch her when she was falling—or even after she'd tumbled. Willing to share the last piece of apple tart.

A man whose kiss kept her awake at night wondering if it had been real.

And more so, what would happen next if ever Preston kissed her again . . .

As she gazed up into his handsome features, into his endless blue eyes, she dared to suspect that he might . . . Oh, it was too much to believe. Too much to dare consider . . . But what if . . .

In an instant, he tore his gaze from her, and an odd, awkward silence filled the room, as if they'd been overly conscious of the intimate moment that had just passed between them.

Tabitha coughed a little and stared down at the paper, while her mind could only think of one thing.

Perhaps Preston cared for her.

No! Why, it was too ridiculous to believe.

Then he gave her every reason to hope.

“Do you trust me?” he asked. His fingers twined in a loose tendril of her hair and gently pushed it back from her face, sending shivers down her spine.

The answer came easily. “Decidedly not.”

“Excellent,” he said, grinning. “This is what we are going to do . . .”

Chapter 14

H
arriet had made her way to stand beside Lord Roxley.

“Hallo, Harry,” he said.

“Miss Hathaway, my lord,” she said, nose in the air.

“You'll always be Harry to me,” he told her.

She shook her head. “Can't you see? I'm no longer that child.” She held out her skirt and gave him her best all-grown-up-and-in-London pose.

He cast a sideways glance at her. “No, you aren't.” Folding his arms over his chest, he sighed. “And if you ever dance with Fieldgate again, I will inform your brothers. He is not good
ton,
Harry.”

“I found him charming,” she shot back. “And if you won't ask me—”

“I'm not one to stand in line,” he told her.

“And I am not one to wait.”

Her answer came out hot and testy, and it made Roxley grin. “You aren't going to floor me now, are you? Like the last time I refused you?”

“My lord! How can you bring up such a thing?”

“Because it isn't every day one gets a marriage proposal and a black eye.”

“How like you to keep bringing that up, my lord.”

“I keep hoping you will call me by something other than ‘my lord,' like you used to.”

“It isn't proper,” she said softly.

“Not even when we are nearly alone, as we are now?” he asked, turning toward her and hiding her from the host of guests.

And then, something changed. They were no longer children in Kempton—Roxley having been brought down to his future holding by his grandmother to visit Lady Essex, and the Hathaway children brought over to entertain the future earl.

Roxley gazed down at Harriet Hathaway and saw her all over again. “Given up on marrying me, have you, Harry?

Her lashes fluttered—actually fluttered, all coquettish and meant to stop a man cold. Where the devil had Harry Hathaway learned to do that?

“How many times can a lady ask before she gives up?”

The note in her voice haunted him. She was right. One day she would give up on him and find someone else. Like that idiot Fieldgate or, worse, some fellow who actually deserved her, was worthy of her.

Looking into those emerald green eyes of hers, the invitation in them so very clear, it was all he could do not to lean over and kiss her.

Oh, good God! Kiss Harry? What the hell was he thinking? Never mind the fact that her brothers would kill him for such an affront—five times over.

Roxley pulled back, the very thought of a firing squad of Hathaways enough to cool his ardor. “I'll continue to refuse you, imp,” he said, turning around so he stood next to her, his back to the wall. “You would deplore being married to me.”

“Yes, most likely,” she replied.

He glanced over at her. Well, she needn't sound so sure of that.

“How long have they been in there?” she asked with a nod toward the foyer and a quick change of subject. “The timing needs to be perfect.”

“You aren't just getting rid of Barkworth, are you, Harry?” Roxley glanced down at his gloves, trying to put up the appearance of being bored out of his mind. “Matchmaking, are we?”

Harriet ignored him for as long as she could manage before she turned to him and demanded, “Whatever would be wrong with that?”

Roxley grinned. Ah, so Harry's fire hadn't been extinguished by that proper silk gown and all her Town manners. “Nothing.”

They stood there for another few minutes, watching the clock as the hand slowly made its trek up toward midnight.

“How long does it take to ruin a lady?” she asked as one might the directions to Hyde Park.

He coughed and nearly fell off the wall. “Depends on the gentleman . . . “ Then he took another long, sideways glance at Harry. “And the lady, of course.”

Much to his chagrin, Harriet wasn't looking at him. “They've missed her,” she said, nodding across the ballroom toward Miss Timmons's relations. “Dash it all, I think they need more time.”

“I promised Preston I would arrive at the stroke of midnight,” Roxley told her.

“Couldn't we give them just a little more time?” Harriet pleaded, and demmit, if she didn't do that thing with her lashes that left him all tangled up inside. Made him nearly forget who she was and the devil's load of trouble he would be in if he ever did overlook that.

He managed to nod. “Yes, if you insist.” Better to give in to her demands than to give in to what he suddenly desired more.

Probably always had if he was being honest.
Can't have her, Roxley. And you know it.

“You go divert the ladies,” he told her, sending her across the room, “and I will take care of Barkworth.” Who was, even now, striding toward the foyer, right past Roxley.

Trying to think of some way to delay the man, Roxley did what he always did best. He improvised.

“Ah, Mr. Barkworth, a word with you,” he called out.

“Not now, my lord,” Barkworth said, about to continue past.

Roxley shrugged and resorted to Plan B.

He stuck out his boot and sent the very respectable and always dignified Mr. Reginald Barkworth catapulting into the foyer.

“P
reston, I won't ruin you,” Tabitha told him. “There must be another way.”

He nodded at the door. “I could fetch Roxley to do the task.” He started for the door, and she anchored him by the arm.

“No!”

“Do you want my help or not?” he asked.

“Ever so much.” She was talking about his help, wasn't she? Tabitha slanted another glance at him and shivered.

How could she think of anything else with her gaze fixed on the masculine cut of his jaw, the hard line of his lips, the covetous way he looked at her that left her feeling like the last piece of apple tart—wanted, desired, enticingly delicious.

Her. Miss Tabitha Timmons of Kempton. Enticing to a duke. It was a heady, unbelievable notion that had her almost believing she was a beauty, like Daphne, or daring, like Harriet.

Oh, bother the man. He was distracting her from being reasonable. And he must have seen the hesitancy in her eyes.

“This is my decision,” he told her. “I want to help you.”

“Not even for my freedom,” she said, “will I sacrifice your happiness. I won't have you left alone just to save me.”

“It is my choice,” he told her. “Just as I long to give you your choices. Your freedom,” he confessed as he drew her into his arms, unwilling to hear any more arguments on the subject. He gazed down at her for the barest of seconds before his lips captured hers and he kissed her.

Tabitha melted inside the moment he claimed her. It wasn't just his kiss, but Preston. Holding her, pulling her up against him so she was pressed to his chest, his arms wound around her.

She was trapped, ensnared, delirious.

Then she discovered he had yet to work his magic.

His lips teased hers, whispered over hers, tugged at her. She opened up to him, surrendering beneath his eager assault. Perhaps she should have put up a better fight, but honestly? She was in no mood to protest.

Her body had ached for weeks for him to return to her, to awaken the lingering threads of desire he'd plucked to life before. And the notes, the music, the way her body tightened as he continued to kiss her, his tongue sliding over hers, tangling with hers, lapping and pulling at her desires like the persistent flow of a river.

Come with me, follow me, drown in me.

Drown she did. As he kissed her, as he touched her, one hand stroking her back, the other beneath her breast, gently cradling it, his thumb moving to her nipple, which tightened into a knot as he rubbed it, sliding his thumb over her again and again, waves began to crash inside her.

The tumult spread, careening through her limbs as his lips moved from her mouth. She could breathe, but only for a moment, as he dipped his head to the nape of her neck, just behind her ear and began to nibble and tease her there.

Tabitha gasped for air. “Oh, my! Oh . . .”

Preston's head dipped further as his lips explored the tops of her breasts, his hands lifting them so he could nuzzle against them.

Tabitha rose up on her tiptoes, her thighs clenched together, for the twisting, aching desire that had settled there made her want to hold onto it and at the same time find some way to set it free.

He glanced down at her, his dark eyes smoky with desire. Without a word, his fingers slid inside her bodice, touching her. No longer was there the silk of her gown between them but the warmth of his bare fingers sliding over her trembling body.

His lips returned to that spot on her neck, the one that left her writhing with need, while his fingers were tracing a new path of desire.

“Oh, Preston,” she gasped, her legs beginning to give out. She didn't want to stand up anymore. As much as she didn't know about all this, her body seemed to understand.

She wanted to lie down . . . she wanted him to cover her . . . to ease this ache he was building inside her with his touch, with his kiss.

He looked up from his conquest and grinned. And she could have sworn he was about to sweep her off her feet when all of a sudden the clock in the hallway beyond began to chime.

The deep sound startled them, and they both took a step back, Tabitha's heart hammering in her chest. Almost immediately she was surrounded by the chill of the room as it scolded her heated limbs.

Yet for all the room was cold, she was still warmed through by his kiss, by his touch. By the fire he'd lit inside her.

“Oh, goodness,” Tabitha whispered. If anything, his kiss improved with time. Or she was getting better at all this.

At least he hadn't left the room in a blind rush. Thankfully, for her body was atremble with desire.

“Yes, my,” he said, straightening up and looking everywhere in the room but where she stood. “Yes, that ought to do the trick . . . you look . . .”

Tabitha stilled. She looked what?

He didn't finish, just gazed at her, his mouth slightly open, like the lion he always reminded her of—hungry and ready to devour his prey.

They stood there for some time, and finally Tabitha's patience began to wane. “The earl isn't here yet,” she said. “Perhaps we should kiss again.”

“If you insist,” Preston said, closing the space between them and catching hold of her in a heated rush.

P
reston had known desire for a woman, but he'd never known how ravenous desire could make him with the
right
woman. Their lips fused together and they kissed deeply, hungrily, as if the minutes apart had been a lifetime.

“Tabby,” he whispered into the nape of her neck. She smelled of wild roses, spicy and tempting, leaving him with the desire to inhale, to taste deeply.

He cradled her breast again, and this time he didn't wait to explore them, sliding her gown from her shoulder and pulling them free, her puckered nipples like ripe raspberries, begging to be tasted.

Taking one in his mouth, he grew harder as he listened to her gasp in surprise and then moan softly, her body rocking against him with that familiar, anxious cadence.

He teased the rosy tip to a tight bud and then kissed the other one, while Tabby, his insistent Puss, rubbed against him, purring like a heated cat.

Yet he was still hungry for her, desired so much more. He rose and kissed her, his fingers working the pins in her hair free so it tumbled down in a ginger veil. All fire, she was his siren temptress. No more the tart spinster.

Well, tart, perhaps, he mused as she kissed him back, insistent and hungry. Her hands slid over his back, down his hips and then moved to the front of his breeches. With one bold move, she touched him, tracing her fingers over his entire rock-hard length.

To hear her sighing with longing nearly left him undone.

How had he come to this ragged need?

At first there had been this slow rekindling of that fire that had sparked between them at the inn, but now having her this second time, he found himself combusting. Burning to lay her down on that narrow sofa and ruin her completely, utterly . . . until she cried out his name and he had claimed her thoroughly . . .

“Preston, please,” she whispered anxiously in his ear.

To him, her pleas were as intoxicating as her kiss. As her anxious touch.

He glanced at the sofa, imagining her there, her skirts thrown up, him burying himself inside her. He couldn't think of anything he wanted more. To claim her as his own.

But then his gaze strayed to the single door that any moment Roxley would be leading Barkworth through. This time he wasn't about to let that man interrupt them.

Never again. Because as far as he was concerned, she was his. For now. Forever.

So he set Tabitha aside and went to the door.

T
abitha teetered on her wobbly legs. Good heavens! Whatever was Preston doing? He wasn't leaving?

Not now!
her body clamored loudly.
Please, not now.

She rushed around him, as fast as she could move with her ankle, and threw herself across the closed door. “You promised.”

He looked at her. No, he gaped at her.

Tabitha glanced down and realized her most proper gown was off one shoulder and her hair had tumbled free from the pins. And she knew why. This man. This rakish, devilish man. He'd left her so utterly undone. She looked up at him.

“Yes, you do look properly ruined,” he told her.

Glancing over at the door, Tabitha bit her lower lip. “Whatever is wrong? Wouldn't it be more convincing if you were kissing me when we are discovered?” She tried batting her eyes.

He laughed. “Tabby, you are my undoing, aren't you?”

“You are the one who came along and insisted on saving me,” she pointed out.
Now save me. . .

“Agreed.”

She reached out and laid her palm on his chest. Beneath her fingers, his heart hammered. “And you said that Roxley would be here at the stroke of midnight?”