Along Came a Duke (32 page)

“He was supposed to be,” Preston conceded.

Her other hand clung to the doorknob, unwilling to let go . . . to let him pass.

“Then it will hardly do for him to bring Barkworth here to find us arguing over whether or not we should be kissing,” she told him.

“There is no argument on that point,” he said, in a voice thickened with desire. “But if we continue—”

“You'll ruin me,” Tabitha finished. “Which is, I believe, the point of all this.”

He reached around her and Tabitha stilled, waiting for him to pry open the door and leave her to her ruin.

Alone. Anxious. Hungry. Did she leave out delirious? Yes, that as well.

“Whatever are you doing?” she whispered.

Preston leaned closer and said softly into her ear, “Locking the door.”

Tabitha stilled as his hand came out from behind her, holding the key.

Then, to her amazement, he pressed it into her hand. “It is your choice when to open it.”

Never,
she wanted to cry out as she looked down at the cold metal piece in her hand. She looked up into his eyes, where the fires still blazed, her fingers curling around the key.

The key to her virginity . . .

Outside the door, there was a bit of a hue and cry being raised in the foyer. It was only a matter of time before they would be discovered.

Time . . . choice . . . discovery. It all ran together in Tabitha's whirling thoughts with only one clear answer.

She tossed the key onto the little side table where the lone lamp illuminated the narrow room, and she stepped into Preston's arms.

The duke enveloped her in his grasp . . . and was it her, or did he let out a long breath as he did? Relieved that she'd returned to him.

What did it matter, for their lips fused together, all the more hungry. His tongue ran over hers and Tabitha's insides tightened.

She arched toward him, suddenly wanton. “Preston!”

He swept her into his arms and carried her over to the sofa.

“Tabby. My ruinous, beautiful Tabby.”

She sighed at his praise and felt exactly as he'd described her—beautiful—as he set her down, his eyes all smoky passions as he gazed down at her. He kneeled between her legs and kissed her. Her lips, her earlobe, her neck, the tops of her breasts.

Her nipples . . . Sucking them deeply into his mouth, one, then the other, until Tabitha stretched like a cat.

His hand reached down and edged her skirt aside, running his fingers up her calves, to her thigh, his fingers sending tendrils of desire through her already anxious limbs.

As he came higher, she had a moment of panic, her slippers digging into the carpet, her hands clinging to his jacket, a moment which subsided instantly when his fingers brushed over the curls there.

He stroked her slowly, softly, while he plied her lips with kisses, teased her tongue in a lavish dance, running alongside it, over it, beneath it. And when his finger slid inside her, it was at the same time his tongue teased over hers and she felt something so breathless that she rode up on his hand, if only to feel all of it.

She was wet and taut, and all she wanted to be was filled. Filled by him. Reaching for his breeches, she opened them, her hand going inside, and she curled her palm around him, lifting him out and running her hand up and down his solid, hard length, stroking him as he continued to tease her.

Dizzy with need, she looked up at him, then, easing out of his grasp, leaned back on the sofa so she lay on its length. “Please, Preston.”

He moved over her, and he caught hold of one of her legs and wrapped it around his waist, while he slid his other hand under her hip and hitched her up, even as the tip of his member came into her cleft, sliding slowly at first, in and out.

Tabitha gasped as he drove himself deeper into her, for he was long and thick, and she felt so very full. He continued to stroke her, kissing her as he moved deeper, and when he got to the barrier that said all too clearly that no man had ever had her, he paused only for a second.

Choices,
she could almost hear him saying.
You will always have a choice with me.

“Please, do this. Take me completely,” she gasped as she tried to arch up.

And he did, thrusting into her, finally and completely ruining her.

For any and all others.

Then Preston revealed his true profession, the one that was his calling, as he made love to her, slowly, quickly, gauging the fever in her eyes, in her soft, urgent cries. He built an anxious fire inside her, inside himself, she had to assume, for he too moaned, thrusting hard and quickly as the dance between them became a restless, greedy, driving race for one thing.

And what that was, Tabitha hadn't the least notion, until suddenly the waves, the river's flow that had pulled her along, now tossed her into a ravine, over the cascading torrent she fell . . . Fell and crashed over the rocks, unable to breathe, breathless as wave after wave swallowed over her.

Consumed her
.

She gasped and cried out, what she didn't know. Didn't care.

She clung to Preston and hung on, for he too was thrusting into her, crying out her name and filling her with his hot desire.

P
reston looked down at the lady in his arms and had never felt both so sated and so possessive in all his life. As if he had found his home. His heart.

No, it wasn't possible. And yet . . .

Tabby. Oh, Tabby. However did you do this to me?

This spinster had driven him over the edge. Left him without an iota of control, and now he'd made love to her at her own betrothal ball. It was beyond even his own notion of scandal.

Oh, dear God,
he realized. She hardly looked the penitent miss. Not with that starry look in her eyes—a light that burned there for him and him alone.

No, Miss Tabitha Timmons wasn't ruined.

He was.

Leaning closer, Preston kissed Tabitha, softly, gently, quietly, despite the tumult raging inside him. For when he kissed her, all those old fears, all those empty places seemed to glow with a light that seemed capable of chasing away the darkness.

A light that could guide him home.

“G
 et off the ground,” the Marquess of Grately barked at his nephew.

Barkworth scrambled to his feet. “I was tripped.” He glared at Lord Roxley.

“Tripped?” Roxley shook his head. “Yes, by the steps. Doesn't do to get so foxed at your own betrothal ball, Barkworth. One would think you didn't want to marry the gel.”

“I am not drunk. I'll have you know I never—”

“Oh, do shut up,” his uncle said, pushing past Barkworth and coming to face Roxley. “Where is Miss Timmons?”

Roxley gave them both his best wide-eyed, innocent expression. “How would I know? She's not my betrothed.” He glanced over at Barkworth, who was brushing off his pants and jacket. “Lost her already? Doesn't bode well if you can't keep her in hand, now, does it?”

“Roxley, I'll shoot you myself if you don't tell us where Miss Timmons is!” Grately thundered.

The earl stood his ground and mutely faced the irate marquess.

The older man's face grew even more red. “Where is she?”

“Well, I am rather at a crossroads,” Roxley replied. “Did you mean to say you would shoot me if I didn't tell you or if I did?” He glanced around at the growing party that now included Miss Timmons's aunt and uncle and a few others. “I'm utterly confused now.”

“Bah!” Lord Grately said, waving a hand at him. “Search the house,” he ordered Barkworth. “You as well,” he told Sir Mauris and Lady Timmons. And finally he turned to Roxley. “And don't you move.”

“I daresay I must,” Roxley told him. “I have a terrible itch right here.” He scratched his shoulder and sighed happily as his fingers dug into his jacket.

“Idiot,” Grately ranted as he began to climb the stairs, the entire party and every available footman trailing in his angry wake.

Harriet passed him and winked. “Well done.”

Roxley bowed slightly and leaned back against the wall opposite the footman's closet, looking anywhere but at the closed door across the foyer.

T
he search for Tabitha ranged through the Marquess of Grately's house, from the attics to the ground floor.

“Get a lantern,” the marquess ordered one of the footmen, “so we can search the cellars.”

Sir Mauris let out an exasperated sigh. “She wouldn't be in the cellars. She's escaped!”

The footman looked from one lord to the other and did as Grately told him, even if he privately shared Lord Timmons's assessment that this bird had flown. Yet when he went to the closet, the door was locked.

“Whatever is taking so much time?” Grately fumed.

The footman tried the door again, but the handle wouldn't turn. “The door's locked, my lord. It's never been locked afore.”

Lord Grately and Sir Mauris exchanged glances.

“Kick it open, you fool,” Grately ordered.

A
s Preston looked at Tabitha's tousled state, her swollen lips, her half-lidded expression of bliss, there would be no doubt to anyone as to what exactly had transpired between them.

Hen would never forgive him for this new scandal. Henry would take her side and follow his sister as she moved out.

But the real disaster lay elsewhere . . . in his tattered and lonely heart. But before he could fathom this change inside him, the doorknob rattled ominously.

The rattle was immediately followed by a rumble as the door shook on its hinges, bringing them both to their feet in a frantic hurry to recover their clothing and some semblance of modesty.

Tabitha straightened her gown and sighed as she tried to tuck her hair back up into its elaborate waterfall of curls, even as he was tugging on his breeches and boots.

He couldn't even remember when they'd come off in the hurried, torrid rush that had been their lovemaking.

Neither of them spoke. What was there to say?

Too much,
he supposed. And neither of them knew the words.

Say what is in your heart
.

Preston stilled. No, that was too much. He'd vowed never to do that. There was too much to lose when one loved entirely.

Instead, he went over to the side table and picked up the key. “Ready?”

Tabitha nodded.

He pushed the key into the lock and turned it. The old lock gave a loud click, and he stepped back.

Which was fortunate, for the door almost immediately swung open.

Grately came through the door first, with Barkworth and Sir Mauris crowding into the narrow room.

Any hope Preston had of keeping this scandal to a minimum was quickly doused, for he could see that while the room's size prohibited a large audience, that didn't mean the grand foyer prevented any number of the
ton
's biggest gossips from elbowing their way into a front-row seat at the door.

For those who couldn't see in, there was Lady Peevers, who announced to one and all, “Good God, what has Preston done to her?” This was followed by a stunned pause, the time it took for the lady's jaw to drop and then find its way back up. “Oh! That!”

Yes,
that
.

“Dear heavens,” Lady Ancil began before stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth and breaking into sobs.

Impotent fool that Barkworth was, the man's lips flapped and fluttered, while no words came out.

Tabitha's uncle wasn't so encumbered. “Get away from my niece,” Sir Mauris ordered.

Nor was their host, Lord Grately, his face blazing with apoplectic fury. “You wretched bounder! How dare you! And in my house!”

Preston wasn't too sure if the man was mourning the loss of a wealthy heiress or that his name would now be tied to this scandalous scene. By tomorrow—given that Lady Peevers was the first witness—the story would be repeated across London and filling every gossipy letter leaving Town.

You will never believe what happened at Lord Grately's last night. . .

He glanced over at Tabby, her lips plump and rosy from his kisses, her eyes alight with passion, and he couldn't help himself—he grinned. He'd saved her.

From a wretched marriage. From her family's machinations. Even from her uncle Winston's carefully wrought provisions.

Or so he thought.

“I should have known how you would turn out,” Grately was saying, his dark gaze blazing into Tabitha. “Your uncle was an insufferable mushroom with no honor—thinking he could use my debts to blackmail me into agreeing to this match. I won't stand for it.”

“But Uncle—” Barkworth began.

“Don't ‘But Uncle' me, you sniveling, worthless reminder of what I don't have! An heir worthy of our family name. You'd have me welcome that devil's by-blow as yours?” Grately made a guttural noise that had Lady Ancil yanking her only child out of his uncle's line of sight. “Get out of my house!” the man fumed. “All of you!”

Sir Mauris crossed the room. “You foolish, stupid, girl!” He stopped in front of Tabitha and looked to be about to strike her, his hand rising in anger.

Preston moved faster, pulling her behind him and stepping up to the other man. “Harm her and you'll answer to me.”

But Sir Mauris wasn't easily cowed. “Bah! You're the one who should be answering for this. And you will, by God! I promise that you will—”

“Not here,” Lady Timmons said, having pushed her way forward, now that Barkworth and Lady Ancil had retreated to the foyer. “Do not add to this,” she warned both of them. Her ladyship caught hold of Tabitha, and, with a raised eyebrow, she dared Preston to naysay her.

He was going to protest, but he looked up and found Hen in the doorway, her face round with shock.

Preston bowed his head and let Lady Timmons take Tabitha. She hauled her wayward niece out of the room so quickly that he nearly missed the quick glance Tabby threw him over her shoulder.