Along Came a Duke (8 page)

Not so for Preston. Tabitha glanced quickly over at her host. Such improper assignations were probably so commonplace for the man that this night was barely worthy of note.

Oh, if only she wasn't so hungry to the point of being beyond reason . . . at least that was what she told herself, for when she looked at Preston and that handsome visage of his, the twinkle of mischief in his eyes—dark like raisins in a tart—she felt an entirely different sort of hunger.

Tabitha drew a deep, steadying breath. As it was, she'd spent the last fortnight telling herself that her memory of the man—how handsome he was, how the sight of his muscled frame, so broad and powerful, had left her breathless—had been naught but foolish fancies.

Yet here he was again, as handsome as ever. Though thankfully, with a shirt on. And a waistcoat. His jacket lay negligently across the back of a chair. His voice still held that deep, sinful tone—as if it could whisper across one's skin, carrying all sorts of scandalous notions in its wake.

And there was his promise—
I have no intention of ruining you, Miss Timmons
.

Certainly that counted for something.

Worst of all, the well-filled platters on the sideboard and the one on the table told the truth; the kitchen staff
had
emptied the larder for Preston's consumption. She'd be lucky to find a crust of bread. Let alone a tin of tea.

That is if she could even rouse that surly maid.

So, it was this or nothing.

And Preston was right about one thing, nothing was worse than a cold supper. Or dining alone. She'd done that enough since her father had died.

So against her better judgment, she sat down in the lion's den.

P
reston knew better than to invite some innocent miss to dine with him. Alone. In a dark, cozy inn. Hen would flay him alive if she were here.

Then again, if Hen were here, he wouldn't be in this predicament.

For the truth of it was that he truly hated dining alone. Detested it. So much so that the very thought of Hen and Henry moving out and leaving him to potter about No. 6 all by himself with no one but the servants and his butler, Benley, to keep him company had him doing his best to keep his name out of the scandal sheets.

So there it was. Have to dine alone (dreadful notion) or risk scandal by dining with Miss Timmons (dreadfully dull notion).

Preston took a glance at the lady in question. Certainly, she wasn't the marriage-mad type who had plagued his very existence this past spring. No, given the set of her jaw and the furrow of her brow, she certainly showed no signs of being one of those wily Bath misses who would do her demmed best to lure him into some scandal, if only in hopes that he would then be induced to marry her.

No, this Miss Timmons had absolutely no charms about her. Skinny and wearing an ugly, ill-fitting dark gown, she frowned too much, eyeing him with a wary disdain.

Better that, he reasoned, than the covetous glances she tossed at the roast beef.

Nay, there was no risk of him being lulled by soft glances and fluttering lashes from this miss.

In fact, it was probably to his advantage that Miss Timmons thought him no more than a nefarious gambler, the worst sort of ruin. Nor would she arrive in London and start nattering on to anyone who would listen that she'd dined privately with some ne'er-do-well roisterer of no consequence.

Not her. Not a respectable vicar's daughter.

He sat back in his seat as he came to a stunning realization: perhaps he had discovered the perfect dining companion. Well, mayhap not perfect, but decidedly better than Roxley, who tended to drink all the wine and take extra helpings of the Yorkshire pudding as if it were his due.

No, if Preston were inclined to be honest, he might admit he rather liked her disdain and her lack of fawning obeisance. Right down to how she addressed him in that voice dripping with haughty scorn.

“Mr. Preston.”

Preston only wished he would be able to see the expression on her face when one day—very soon if she was indeed going to London—she learned the truth. In the park or at a ball, someone would nudge her and point him out—for he saw the looks and finger wagging that the matrons and misses of London cast in his direction.

“That, my dear, is the most ruinous man in London. The Duke of Preston. Avoid him at all costs.”

She'd look once, perhaps twice, and then come to the stunning realization that she'd been a hoity-toity little snob to none other than the Duke of Preston.

Not that she'd be able to tell anyone—for then she'd be ruined.

Preston perked up. Good heavens, this made Miss Timmons with her impertinent remarks and baneful glances entirely perfect.

“Believe me, I am no more happy to have your company than you are to have mine,” he told her, feigning indifference and enjoying it all that much more as her brow furrowed even deeper, “but I am afraid you are stuck with me and my offer for supper.”

She had sat down with a thud and now surveyed the table like one might the choice of pistols at a duel.

“Come now, whatever is the matter?” he asked, settling back in his chair. “They've set an excellent table.”

“Everything looks delicious. It is just that—” She fidgeted in her seat and glanced away from the table.

“Just what? Whatever could be wrong?” He looked over the platters, thinking he might have missed something.

Then she looked him squarely in the eye. “I've never dined alone with a man. Well, other than my father. If it were to become known—”

So that was it. Her reputation. Most likely it was all she possessed.

Poor bedraggled kitten, he mused, and even as he thought it, a familiar pang twisted in his chest. The same one that had him bringing home flea-ridden mutts or that litter of kittens Hen had viewed with horror.

His Achilles' heel, and damn Roxley to hell, for he'd played on those sympathies when he'd urged Preston to feed her up a bit.

Preston took another glance at the lady.
She is rather skinny
, his conscience prodded.
No one is looking out for her.

He dug into his dinner and fought back the urge to overfill her plate.

This chit was not his bloody responsibility.

“What? No witty remark? No scoffing jest?” she posed as he realized how long he'd been sitting there mute.

“No, none of that. It is just that I have never dined alone with a vicar's daughter, so I suppose we are even.”

This didn't seem to appease her either, only furrowed that brow of hers into an even deeper crease. How unfortunate she'd never learned to smile.

“Miss Timmons, since you have no intention of ever marrying,” he told her, forking a piece of roast and sliding it onto the plate in front of her, then selecting servings from the other platters until her plate was quite full—for perhaps her ill manners were nothing more than a case of being overly peckish—“then you needn't waste your time being concerned about your reputation.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off, continuing quickly by adding, “You can count on the fact that I will not be relating this evening to my compatriots or the scandal sheets. Dining with a vicar's daughter, indeed—why, they'll think I've gone round the bend.” He shook his head and helped himself to another piece of roast beef.

“I don't know whether to be insulted or relieved, sir,” she replied, her gaze taking in the heaping plate before her.

“I would say, since this is a very good joint of beef, you might try ‘relieved' and eat. Besides, you are not a typical miss, and I doubt you have ever been confined by what is expected of you.”

Her eyes widened beneath her furrowed brow. So she'd gone with insulted.

“Oh, don't go all miss-ish on me,” he told her. “I meant it as a compliment.” And to add a stamp of approval to her company, he poured her a glass of wine, ignoring her earlier protestation that she didn't imbibe. “Please, Miss Timmons, eat your supper. The roast is most excellent.”

She picked up her fork and knife and tentatively cut a small bite. Once she tried it, she returned with gusto, eating her supper as if she hadn't eaten so in years. The next time he glanced at her, she'd nearly cleaned her plate and was reaching for another portion of the Yorkshire pudding.

And took the largest piece, putting even Roxley to shame. Preston couldn't help himself. He grinned and tucked into his own plate.

How utterly refreshing
, he realized. Spinsters! Good heavens, why was it that no one else had discovered their appeal? If London was filled with them instead of all those marriage-mad minxes, he wouldn't be in the suds with his aunt and uncle all the time.

He glanced over at her dog, who was watching the table like a sharp-eyed chaperone, and tossed the large red terrier another piece of beef.

Preston always made it a point to charm the chaperone so when the time was right they would turn a blind eye to his misdeeds. “Does that beast have a name?”

She glanced up and blinked, as if she'd forgotten he was there. “Mr. Muggins.”

“Mr. Muggins,” he echoed, nodding at the dog and tossing another cut of meat at the creature. “Unusual breed,” he said. “But he has a sharp eye about him.”

“An Irish terrier. A tinsmith left him at the parish when he was but a pup, and I hadn't the heart to turn him out.”

Preston paused for a moment. To avoid any further consideration that they might have something in common, he tossed the dog another piece of meat.

Mr. Muggins edged closer and looked up at Preston with deep, dark, adoring eyes, head resting on his paws.

“He'll never leave you alone if you keep feeding him your supper.” Miss Timmons shook her head.

“I fear it is my charm coming through,” he replied. “I have a talent for attracting the incorrigible.” He winked at her, and she shook her head with a disapproving tilt that would have put even Hen to shame.

But Hen wouldn't have had that hint of a blush on her fair cheeks.

Truly, was Miss Timmons blushing at him?

He glanced again and this time decided that perhaps the color in her cheeks was from the wine. After all, she'd taken a few sips when she'd thought he hadn't been looking.

Certainly she wasn't blushing over him. No, no, that would never do. He glanced down at his plate and asked the first question that came to mind.

“Tell me about your village,” he posed. “This Kempton and its curse.”

It proved to be the perfect diversion, for it seemed the lady loved her village with all her heart, to the point that he almost envied her cozy, happy country life, her work with this Society of Spinsters or whatever it was she called it.

He even laughed at the antics of the Tempest twins and their continuing campaign to change the colors of a bunting and Lady Essex's staunch refusal to go against tradition.

Rather like Hen and her love of the Red Room.

He glanced down at his plate, thinking to add another slice of roast, only to find one already waiting for him.

Since Preston and Roxley had set out for only a day race, they had not brought their usual host of servants and valets and the like. Used as he was to having a footman adding to his plate with only a nod of his head or a flick of a hand, he might not have noticed, but he suddenly realized that as she'd been talking, Miss Timmons had been adding to his plate, refilling his glass, and without breaking her chatter, had efficiently and tidily rearranged the platters on the table so those dishes he preferred were right before him.

It was a cozy moment that reminded him of the suppers from his childhood when his mother and father and brothers and sisters would assemble for a noisy repast, with his mother or older sister tucking his favorites onto his plate from the platters around them. All that was missing now was the noisy chatter and the tug-of-war that usually happened between him and Felix as to who would find the sugar cube under the teacup—a game his father liked to play with them.

And if that sense of belonging to something more than himself didn't turn the tables on him, her next question certainly did.

“Where do you live, Mr. Preston?”

“Live?” he managed.

“Yes, as in reside,” she pressed, setting down her knife and fork and folding her hands in her lap as she awaited his answer.

“Why, London, of course.”

“Alone?”

“No, never,” he said far too quickly, trying to catch hold of the fleeting memories of those beloved suppers at Owle Park.

She glanced up at him, for the vehemence of his answer obviously hinted at something more to be discovered.

“With my aunt and uncle,” he amended. There—that ought to satisfy her curiosity.

Hardly.

“Do they approve of you gallivanting about?”

He laughed. “Not in the least.”

“So whatever do you do, Mr. Preston?” She sat awaiting an answer, her gaze continuing all the while to stray toward the last serving of Yorkshire pudding.

Oh, she was just like Roxley. Truly, he needed to cultivate companions who lacked a love of Yorkshire pudding.

“Do?” he repeated, picking up the platter and sliding the last bit of pudding onto her plate.

She smiled at this, a shy, surprised sort of tip of her lips that made her look more like a lady and less like some termagant spinster.

Actually the transformation was rather shocking. Tempting, almost.

Preston froze. Tempting? He glanced not at her but at his empty glass. Perhaps he'd had too much wine.

“Yes, do. For employment,” she pressed.

Employment? Good heavens, no one had ever asked him such a question.

She must have taken his gaping for a loss of hearing or a loss of his wits. “Employment? For income. You know, labor, to assist your aunt and uncle, since they have been ever so kind to take you in.”