Along Came a Duke (7 page)

“Miss Timmons,” she reminded him, repressing the shiver that threatened to leave her quaking before him.

“Ah, Miss Timmons,” he replied, “if I had truly accosted you, you wouldn't have escaped.” That rakish grin of his spread from his lips and lit his eyes with a wolfish gleam. “Nor would you have wanted to.”

No, you wouldn't have
, something inside her agreed.

Tabitha took another step back and bumped into the wall, which kept her from toppling over. Thankfully. That rakish look in his eyes had her knees wobbling again. “Oh! You are a—”

Her scolding admonishment was interrupted by another. “Miss Timmons! Did I hear you say ‘Miss Timmons,' Preston?” Inside the room, a tall, athletic figure rose from a chair near the fireplace. “Why, it is you!”

“Lord Roxley,” Tabitha said, not surprised to find the earl in this man's company, but ever so thankful to see him.

“Good heavens, what are you doing here?” he asked, coming forward and taking her hand. “How is it you are so far from Kempton?” The earl led her into the room, sweeping her past Preston, whose arched gaze followed her every step.

Right now she would have wished herself back in Kempton and well away from this devil's snare.

“Your aunt, Lady Essex, is bringing me up to London,” she said in a rush, but not so much of one that she finished that sentence. . . .
to get married
. For she well remembered her last encounter with Preston.

Sir, I will have you know, I never intend to go seeking a husband and am quite content with the notion.

How her life had turned upside down since she'd declared those fateful words.

She'd meant them then and would mean them still if it hadn't been for Uncle Winston's will.

“My aunt?” Roxley echoed, glancing at the doorway as if he expected Lady Essex to come barreling into the room.

As it was, the poor earl nearly leapt out of his skin when someone did—at that moment—come through the door. “Good heavens, I'm done for,” he declared, closing his eyes.

“Oh demmit, Roxley, shore up your reserves,” Preston told him. “'Tis only the maid.”

Roxley cracked open one eye and then sighed with relief at the sight of the kitchen girl—the one Preston had been on the prowl for—arriving, large tray in hand. Behind her came a serving lad with an equally laden tray.

“Is there anything else you'd be needin'?” said the girl—well, she was hardly a girl, Tabitha realized, as she tossed an obvious glance at Preston, her hips swaying like a saucy cat in heat.

“No, the meal looks excellent,” Preston said, tossing coins to both of them. “Thank you.”

The boy caught his deftly, grinned and departed. The maid caught her coin just as easily but lingered a bit longer.

Remembering what Daphne said about speaking up, Tabitha managed to get her request in. “Please, I would like a tray brought up to my room, if that is possible.”

The girl slanted an assessing glance at her and obviously found her sadly lacking. “Sorry, miss. That's all there is left,” she said, tipping her head toward the trays. “Until morning.”

Morning? Tabitha glanced over at the bounty they'd brought in and discovered that without so much as an “if you don't mind,” Preston had begun filling his plate, the maid, Roxley and Tabitha all but forgotten.

The maid huffed off, most likely going to seek her bed and certainly not a supper tray for Tabitha.

Meanwhile, Roxley had evidently forgotten any thoughts of dining, what with the news of his meddlesome relation so close at hand. “Are you saying that Lady Essex is
here
?” The note of panic was impossible to miss. “In this inn? Under this roof?”

“Yes, my lord,” Tabitha replied, trying to focus on the earl even as the enticing smell of roast had her reeling much as Preston's grasp had. “She's upstairs—asleep. But I assure you, it is unlikely she'll rise before morning.”

“If my luck holds until then,” he muttered under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. After a few moments of silence, he shot a worried glance in her direction. “Did you say she's coming to London?”

“Yes. I believe she intends to stay with you,” Tabitha told him, a bit distracted by the vision of Preston heaping his plate with roast beef . . . and yes . . . a second generous portion of Yorkshire pudding.

Even Mr. Muggins had noticed, having moved over to the table and sitting perfectly still, exhibiting a rare feat of manners—for which he was rewarded when Preston tossed him a piece of the roast.

Tabitha wrenched her gaze away, managing to get back to the discussion at hand. “Yes, that is her plan. To stay at your house. If you recall, Harriet mentioned it when last we met.”

The earl paced back and forth, raking his hands through his hair. “Yes, yes, now I recall. Slipped my mind. Don't know how,” he confessed, pausing for a second. “But I am in your debt, Miss Timmons. Ever so much.” Roxley glanced over at the table, but apparently the decreasing amount of roast was the least of his concerns. “Preston, I need a place to bunk down, at least for—” Roxley glanced back at Tabitha. “How long does she intend to stay?”

“A fortnight, I believe.”

Roxley glanced back at Preston. “Do hate to impose, my good man, but I did take you in last year after Henry got back from Ireland.”

“Yes, yes,” Preston told him, waving his fork in the air. “But if the old girl comes looking for you—”

“I doubt she will darken
your
door,” Roxley replied, moving about the room and gathering up a coat, a hat, and other male trappings.

Preston paused, his fork and knife in midair. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Going into hiding. Must seek my room, my good man. Can't risk running into the old gel. If she finds me here, or worse, in your company, I'll never hear the end of it, nor will I be able to escape her for the next fortnight.” The earl shuddered. “She'll insist I escort her about Town—shopping, soirées, the theater.” He spared a glance at Tabitha, and then his eyes widened in shock. “Good lord, man, mayhap even Almack's. Best if we set out early—first light I think.”

Preston set down his knife and fork. “You can't leave now. You know I deplore eating alone.”

But Roxley was already to the door, having swept past Tabitha. “You aren't alone. Miss Timmons's arrival is more than just timely.”

Both the men turned their gazes toward Tabitha. Roxley's full of pleading and Preston's holding nothing but skeptical regard.

“Miss Timmons, if you would take my place—” the earl began.

“Dine with him?”

“With her?”

The two sparring partners glanced at each other and then turned their aggrieved expressions on the real culprit.

“Good God, Roxley. Where is your manhood?” Preston said, rising to his feet and tossing his napkin down on the table. “Fleeing from a decent meal on the off chance your maiden aunt rises from her bed?”

Roxley's jaw worked back and forth. “Hardly so. If anything, I think I am taking a cold.” He sneezed for good measure, but it was hardly convincing evidence.

Certainly not for Preston. “Roxley, this is ridiculous. She's naught but a spinster, and hardly leading a barbarian horde. Sit and eat.”

The earl hardly appeared chastened or insulted. “Shall I tell Hen what you were doing today gamboling about the countryside? I do recall we had to rise before daylight to escape her notice.”

Tabitha had no idea who this mysterious “Hen” might be, but the lady had the power to cow even the indomitable Preston. The man's brow furrowed darkly and he sank back into his seat. He waved off the earl. “Then scurry off and hide from Lady Essex, but leave Hen out of this. Oh, and I shan't forgive you for abandoning me.”

“Of course you will,” the earl said. “I am currently your only friend.” Then taking Tabitha's hands and squeezing them, he continued. “And thank you, dear Miss Timmons, for keeping Preston company for me. He'll be in an ill humor tomorrow if you don't stay, while I will be forever in your debt.”

Tabitha tugged her hands free before she found herself bound by some unspoken promise, even as her gaze flew about the private, intimate chamber. Just her and Preston? Alone? Dining? Vow or not . . .

She caught hold of Roxley, anchoring him in the room. “My lord, it wouldn't be proper! I am a respectable lady. The daughter of a vicar.”

“There you have it,” Preston pointed out. “You are leaving a lamb to be devoured by the Lion of Harley Street. You'll be held responsible.”

This threat glanced right off Roxley. “You should know by now, I'm never held accountable, Preston.”

Tabitha glanced from one man to the other. “I will not stay here alone with this . . . this . . .” Her finger wagged toward Preston, who had the temerity to appear affronted.

“Good heavens, I have no intention of ruining you, Miss Timmons.”

“He's quite tame once you get to know him,” Roxley assured her.

As if one could truly ever call a lion tame. Tabitha didn't trust the man in the least.

“I quite simply deplore eating alone,” Preston declared as he sniffed the wine in the decanter. Apparently it met his discerning taste, for he poured himself a glass.

“That is hardly my concern,” Tabitha said, even as the smell of roast curled around her nose, leaving her stomach rumbling with an unladylike churn. Or perhaps it was his adamant statement that she was completely safe in his company that had her unnerved.

Whatever was wrong with her that he wouldn't count her in what she suspected was his long list of conquests?

Tabitha shook off that thought, because she certainly didn't want to be one of his conquests. Or any man's, for that matter.

She was intended for a respectable gentleman worthy of her unblemished virtue. If this wretched Preston didn't want her, that was most excellent news.

At least it should be.

“Miss Timmons, you are quite safe with Preston. He has given his word. Besides, it looks to be an excellent supper, and I have to imagine having traveled all day with my aunt, you are famished.”

She pressed her lips together, for he had her there. But to dine with Preston? Alone?

“Why, it would be ruinous,” she told the earl. At least it should be. Then she made the mistake of taking another glance at what remained of the Yorkshire pudding and felt her resolve crumbling.

Just like the crust would when she stuck it with a fork . . .

Meanwhile, Roxley had managed to work his way to the door in a quiet effort to take his leave, when he paused and added, “And you won't mind keeping my presence here out of my aunt's ear, will you?”

Tabitha's jaw worked back and forth, but the earl had the most engaging smile, and it was impossible to say no to the man.

A fact that Lady Essex declared on a regular basis—that Roxley, rapscallion that he was, would never be ruined in the eyes of society, since no one could naysay one of his pleading smiles.

“I won't, my lord, but if she discovers that I have lied to her—”

“It isn't a lie, Miss Timmons, not unless you are asked directly,” Preston remarked as he once again settled into his meal. Obviously he was also familiar with Roxley's persuasive powers and took it for granted that so asked, she would stay.

Not that he looked overly pleased at the prospect, that is until he took another bite of that roast beef and his expression changed to one of sated happiness.

Was it truly that good? She'd never know unless she . . .

“Miss Timmons, you know my aunt—” Roxley implored.

Oh good heavens, between her own pangs of hunger, the delicious odor of roast beef and pudding whiling at her senses, combined with Roxley's charm, it was nearly impossible to think straight.

“Not a word to Lady Essex,” she promised in a distracted state.

Roxley's relief was immediate, and he made a quick bow and fled, scurrying off to his room as if he were escaping a press gang.

Which, in a sense, he was.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Preston asked, grudgingly waving at the seat across from his.

So much for a mannerly and elegant invitation. Then again, she could hardly expect the manners of a gentleman from this rogue.

“You must be hungry,” he added.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because there is no other reason for you to be wandering about an inn at this hour of the night unless you haven't had your supper yet.” He paused. “That, and you don't look the type to tipple quietly on the sherry bottle when no one is looking.”

“Oh!” Tabitha gasped. “I do not imbibe. My father was a—”

“Yes, yes, a vicar, so you said earlier,” he said as he scanned the bowl of mashed ‘nips.

Unwittingly, she took a step toward the table. Oh, good heavens, there were turnips! However had she missed those?

She glanced up and found him staring at her, a wry smile on his handsome lips—for he had caught her out.

“Actually you look like you could use a good meal,” he said, before an odd look of dismay passed over his face. It was quickly extinguished and replaced by his usual stony expression. “Sit. It is still hot, and I refuse to stand on ceremony, especially if it only serves to let my supper grow cold.” Then he dug into the bowl before him, piling the mashed ‘nips on his plate and devouring his supper with all the gusto of a lion.

No, he certainly wasn't going to offer a kindly bow and a well-spoken invitation, or hold her chair and select the finest bits from the platters for her like a gentleman might.

Like Mr. Reginald Barkworth most certainly would.

Then again, Tabitha suspected the honorable and esteemed gentleman her Uncle Winston had chosen for her would never in his wildest moments suggest such an arrangement—dining alone with an unmarried miss in such an intimate setting. The notion that it was scandalous and quite possibly ruinous (no, truly it was entirely ruinous) would leave such a situation beyond the pale for her betrothed.