Along Came a Duke (9 page)

He set down his silverware. “Surely you jest?”

Miss Timmons sat up straight, like only a vicar's daughter could manage. “No, I most certainly do not.”

“No, I don't suppose you do,” he muttered, refilling his wineglass. No wonder her father had given her over to Lady Essex to take to London.

Her father . . . He caught hold of that notion and quickly changed the subject.

“What of your father?” he asked. “Will he miss you while you are away making merry with Lady Essex?” He'd meant to tease and regretted the question immediately, for she glanced over at the fireplace and he could see her already fair features go pale at the mention.

“He is gone,” she said softly. “He died of a heart ailment three years ago.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said. “And your mother? Is she accompanying you and Lady Essex?”

She glanced over at him and shook her head. “Mama died of the sweating sickness when I was five. The one that killed so many people. I don't know if you recall that year or not—”

Recall it? Preston's breath froze in his chest. He glanced at her and did the math, though he needn't, for he knew exactly what year she was talking about.

The same year that the fevers had killed his entire family. Taken his cheery childhood home, which had always been filled with laughter and love and happy servants, and taken them all.

By the time his grandfather had arrived at Owle Park, there had been naught in the house save him, the servants who hadn't sickened or died having fled.

“I am sorry,” she said, reaching across and touching his hand, her fingers warm. “I can see from your expression that you were—”

“My parents died of fever then,” he managed, and it was more than he had ever said about that fateful day when he'd gone from being merely Lord Christopher to being his grandfather's heir. And it hadn't been just his parents, but his brothers and sisters as well. Freddie, Felix, dear, gentle Dove, even baby Lydia. Lost. Gone.

He pulled his hand back, out from beneath the warmth of her touch, her kindness.

Instead of taking offense, Miss Timmons sorted the platters and added a few things to his plate. And to her credit, instead of pressing the matter, she said simply, “Papa always said that ‘life was meant to be lived, not grieved.'” She paused and looked up at him, adding, “But I do miss him, ever so much.”

“Yes, I don't doubt you would. He sounds like a wise man,” he agreed, getting back to the task of eating his supper. “You have other family in Kempton with whom you live?”

“Yes,” she said. “After Father died, his younger brother took over the vicarage. I live with him and his wife.”

“At least you had someone to care for you,” he said. “Circumstances could have been much worse.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” She glanced away and ignored her supper for a few moments.

Preston had the sense that he was wading into a mire. The last thing he needed to discover was that her aunt and uncle kept her locked in the attics and only let her out to scour the grates, but before he could change the subject, she pressed on with her original topic: that of his employment.

Or therein general lack of . . .

“What is it you do, sir? I don't believe you mentioned it before.”

After a few more moments of due consideration, he came up with the sort of answer that he usually tossed at Henry when he started nattering on about responsibilities. “As little as possible, if you must know.”

And like his uncle, Miss Timmons did not approve in the least. She sat back in her seat and scowled.

Preston made a further note never to introduce her to Hen and Henry.

“Not all men must labor, Miss Timmons,” he said in his defense. Truly, why did he even have to defend his life? He could just tell this minx exactly who he was, and then there would be no more of her impertinent questions and quelling glances.

Or her shy, tempting smiles.

Before he had time to tell himself that he was very much immune to her moments of levity, she lectured on and saved him the trouble entirely.

“A man should at the very least have something with which to occupy his time or he will . . . he will . . .” She blushed a bit and then settled her hands primly on her lap as she struggled to find the right words.

Probably trying to recall one of her father's more poignant sermons so she could recite from it. Before she went that far, he headed her off.

“Lead a life of sin and regret?” After all, he knew this lecture by heart.

“Exactly,” she said, reaching for her glass and taking a fortifying gulp. As she swallowed the potent Madeira, her eyes widened. Hastily, she set the glass back down.

Preston leaned forward and smiled. “Miss Timmons, I never regret a good sin.”

The lady gaped at him. When she recovered, it was with a sputtering, spinsterly reply of shock. “Well, I never! A good sin, indeed. Is there such a thing?”

“Miss Timmons, if you have to ask, then you haven't found the right one.”

Chapter 4

“W
hat a scandalous thing to say,” Tabitha scolded. “A sin is a sin.”

Her devilish dinner companion shook his head. “You will be out of step in London society if you cling to such country notions.”

“I am sure that decorum and a proper regard for manners are not ignored in all circles,” she told him.

He smiled kindly at her. “Perhaps.”

Perhaps
? Whatever did that mean? And why did he have to sound like he was speaking to a child, as if trying to convince her that there weren't banshees in the closet?

There
was
good society in London. Why, one had to look no further than her uncle and aunt, Sir Mauris and Lady Timmons. And her betrothed, Mr. Reginald Barkworth. Aunt Allegra said he came from one of the finest families in England and held himself to the highest standards of gentlemanly comportment.

Tabitha sat up and folded her hands in her lap. “Have you considered that your disregard for propriety may be a reflection of the company you keep?”

If she thought her lecture on values was going to pierce his wretched hide, she was sadly mistaken.

“Ah yes, Miss Timmons,” he said, waving his fork at her. “But any other company would be dull indeed.”

“Perhaps you could use a bit of dull, proper company.”

“No, thank you,” he told her, shaking off her suggestion. “Believe me, I have had more than my fair share of dull company of late. I much prefer Roxley and his ilk, and you, if you must know.”

“Me?” Tabitha sat back.

“Yes, you,” he said, leaning over the table and smiling at her in something that might be called flirtation.

She didn't know for certain. She'd never been flirted with.

But whatever it was, when he looked at her so, with that intense focus—as if she was the only woman he ever wanted to see across the table from him—her heart made a tremulous thump and her usually sensible thoughts scattered about like a drove of March hares.

Especially as he wasn't done there. “You aren't the least bit dull. Or proper.” He smiled at her. “You, Miss Timmons, shouldn't be allowed to mix in London society.”

Tabitha sat back. So much for her delusions of flirting. “Whyever not?” she managed. Truly, whatever was wrong with her?

“Because you speak your mind. You are unlike any other woman I have ever met. Especially in London. I hope you never change.” He reached for the plate with the apple tart and began to divide it into portions.

She tried to say something, tried to speak, but her tongue had departed along with her sensibilities.

Unlike any other woman I have ever met
?

Perhaps it was the wine and the three—no make that four—helpings of Yorkshire pudding that had her hearing things. For those words left her beguiled and caught in his spell.

Tabitha stole a glance at this man across the table from her, and she did her best to breathe.

He was unlike any other man she'd ever met. Then again, she had met very few, so perhaps she wasn't the best judge in these matters.

Would her betrothed be like this? Sophisticated? Chiseled? Handsome? Devil-may-care? Capable of stealing her breath away with his outrageous declarations.

This is the road to ruin, Tabitha Timmons,
she could almost hear her proper and sensible nature scolding.
This man is a bounder! He says these things as a matter of course and then . . . before one knows it . . . a lady finds herself undone.

She glanced over at her chaperone, only to find Mr. Muggins sleeping. Having had his fill of beef, he happily snored on the rug, one paw twitching as if he were dreaming of open fields filled with pheasants and grouse.

So it was just her and this man, all alone.

Oh, whatever had she gotten herself tangled up in? Was he truly flirting with her?

At least she suspected he might be until he glanced up and continued, “However, if you go about Town thinking to correct every man's manners and the company he keeps, you'll never find a husband.”

Tabitha sucked in a deep breath. Oh, and here she'd thought he'd lost his overbearing arrogance and smug tones somewhere after his third helping of pudding.

“And I didn't believe all that village nonsense about not wanting husbands.” He took a bite of the apple tart and sighed. “I have to imagine the ladies of Kempton use it as a ruse to lure in unsuspecting rubes and snare them into the parson's trap.”

“Oh, of all the vulgar, ridiculous notions!” she finally managed to get out. “Of course no one in their right mind believes in the Curse. It is naught but an old story that sets our village apart from our neighbors.”

“A curse can do that,” he heartily agreed, tipping his glass to her.

“Yes, but the reason brides are rare in Kempton is not because of any old legend but simply because there are few gentlemen to marry.”

“A dearth of grooms, eh?” He shook his head. “Then I was ever so lucky to escape unscathed.”

“I said a lack of gentlemen, not bounders, Mr. Preston.” She tipped her glass at him. “You were in no danger, I assure you.”

“Ah, ah, ah, Miss Timmons. There goes that wickedly sharp tongue of yours,” he scolded, but with such approving tones it was impossible to know if he meant it. Or that he understood she'd meant every word as an insult.

“Now I see why you and your friends are off to London. Perhaps I should post a notice in
The Times
. Warn off any unsuspecting fellows who—”

“Don't be ridiculous—”

He shrugged off her objection. “Would feel terribly responsible if you beguiled one of my compatriots into matrimony with those innocent eyes of yours and then they found him with a fire iron through his heart like that poor fellow Roxley told me about. What was his name?”

“His name is irrelevant.” The fact that the man's name was John Stakes—a bitter irony if ever there was one—only made the entire story of the Curse all that much more convincing, at least to the men of Kempton.

And throughout the surrounding county. And a good part of southwestern England.

“For once and for all, I am not going to London to find a husband,” Tabitha told him. Which was entirely the truth. There was no finding to be done.

Her betrothed was all tied up and waiting for her, like a package on Christmas morn.

While it might be considered bending the truth a bit, it was hardly a sin, like an outright lie.

Tabitha reached for her wineglass, then set it right back down. This is what came of dining with rogues. She'd ventured out onto this narrow, slippery limb of truth and she suspected Preston carried a saw in his back pocket.

“Not going to find a husband?” He laughed. “If you are not going to London to find a husband, then why are you going at all?”

“Lady Essex,” Tabitha said quickly, latching onto the most likely explanation she could foist off. “Her companion took ill and she asked Miss Dale and me to accompany her and Miss Hathaway.”

Which all had a toehold in the truth. Lady Essex's companion was indeed ill. And the poor woman's infirmary is what had cinched Daphne's spot in the carriage.

And Tabitha wasn't going to find a husband.

She sat up and stared the lion in the eye, daring him to find anything wrong with her story.

Certainly she didn't know why it bothered her or why she cared what he thought.

Yet she couldn't bring herself to tell him the truth.

Perhaps because she still couldn't reconcile the facts herself. She was going to be married. And married in all due haste.

“You might find having to spend a fortnight in Town with Roxley's old dragon of an aunt is a worse curse,” he teased and, with enthusiasm, went back to eating his apple tart.

Which looked decidedly scrumptious. And worse, he had yet to offer her a piece.

As good manners might dictate.

He must have seen the envy in her eyes, for he smiled, slid a piece onto a plate and passed it to her.

And looked to be ready to skewer her yet again, so she beat him to the punch. “Why did you insist on having a dinner companion?”

His startled expression—even as quickly masked as it was—piqued her curiosity.

“It is an idiosyncrasy,” he declared. “Nothing more.” He dug into his apple tart with renewed interest.

And she wasn't going to London to be married, she thought, smelling a rat. Yet in her musings, she realized she'd paused for too long. He wrestled the conversation back into safer territory.

Safer for him.

“If it is the case that you aren't husband hunting—” he began.

“It is,” she insisted.

“Then if we were by chance to meet, perhaps I would ask you to dance.” He made it sound as if he were granting her some sort of divine favor.

Her gaze flew up. “I would certainly hope not.”

Now it was Preston's turn to pause. “Whyever not?”

“Well, I think the answer is obvious.”

“Not to me,” he said, setting aside his fork, his hands folding together like the lofty, solid steeple of St. Edward's. “If you have no desire to seek a husband, then why not dance with me?”

His invitation ruffled down her spine even as her gaze remained fixed on his hands—strong, masculine hands. To dance with him would mean to hold one of those hands, perhaps even both, to feel him encompass her, guide her, lead her down a line of dancers . . .

“I do not dance,” she told him hastily.

“Of course you do,” he said, looking her over as if he sought some defect that prevented her from accepting his invitation.

She shook her head. “There is no need for dancing lessons when one comes from Kempton—we use our time for more useful occupations such as the Society.”

“The Society?”

Good heavens, hadn't he been listening earlier? Men! Her father had been just as bad. “I told you before, The Society for the Temperance and Improvement of Kempton.”

He shrugged and continued eating.

“We provide baskets to the local spinsters to aid them in their later years, and help the poor, as well as plant flowers in the cemetery and of course, sponsor the Midsummer's Eve Ball.”

“Aha!” he said, perking up at the mention of the ball. “So you do dance.”

“No,” she said. “I am usually too busy managing the punch bowl or overseeing the supper trays.”

Preston closed his eyes and groaned. “That will never do. Are you truly saying you don't know a single dance step?”

“Only a few country reels, but I have never danced them—”

“Then how do you know them?”

“Good heavens, Mr. Preston, let me finish,” Tabitha said, crossing her arms over her chest. The man was utterly infuriating. Whatever did it matter what she could dance or couldn't? But from the furrow of his brow and the stubborn set of his jaw, she realized he would continue to be insufferable until he had his answers. “I have danced them. Just not with a gentleman.” She glanced away.

There. Now he knew.

Not daring a look at him, she picked up her fork and took solace in a large bite of apple tart. Which suddenly wasn't as sweet as it had looked before.

Before she'd had to make this terrible confession. Yes, she was a complete country rube.

“Does this curse of yours forbid you from dancing with a gentleman?”

Oh, yes. Now the teasing and ridicule would commence.

“No, of course not,” she replied. “But when there is no hope of anything else—”

It was a terribly bitter pill to admit. And now, well away from Kempton, the things that never seemed to matter (at least on the surface)—dances, gowns, courtships, a glory box—only made the approach to London, to her intended, all that much more daunting.

Then across the table came something more tempting than the apple tart before her. An offer so inviting it took her breath away.

“I could teach you how to dance,” Preston offered.

T
hose words—
I could teach you
—sprang loose from his lips like that ruined wheel on his carriage and sent him just as quickly careening into disaster.

If Preston could have snatched them back and tamped them down where they belonged—locked away—he would have.
I could teach you!
What the devil was he thinking?

Worse, offering? And whatever had he been thinking, telling her he would dance with her if by chance they met again.

He tried telling himself that his offer had been kindly meant. A boon for her for agreeing to share his supper with him.

Preston cringed inwardly. How honest was he being? It wasn't as if dancing with him could be considered a feather in any lady's cap, not any longer . . . Once, perhaps.

No, it was because he'd glanced at her half-eaten apple tart and known that once it was gone, this evening would be over. His offer was merely his own attempt to grasp at something he'd thought had been lost forever.

Owle Park. His family. He hadn't thought of them in years—at least not thought of them and then instantly dismissed the images as too painful to endure.

Miss Timmons, it seemed, possessed a bit of magic to her, for with her across the table, the family he'd lost felt close at hand. Just within reach. And he wasn't about to let her slip free. Not just yet. Not until he'd determined the full extent of her charms.

Preston cringed.

Well, perhaps not
those
charms.

That was exactly the sort of mischief that had landed him in the suds with Hen and Henry to begin with.

Not that anyone would ever find out. . .

Yes, yes,
he supposed that much was true. The inn was as quiet as a tomb, which meant no one would see them.

Oh, but someone always did, he knew from experience. He glanced over at Miss Timmons and wondered what his aunt would make of
this
young lady.