Along Came a Duke (11 page)

Gads, he hadn't thought of that room . . . well, ever. Not since . . .

Preston shook his head. Perhaps it was because he'd never met anyone like Miss Timmons.

He'd spent his entire life surrounded by Hen and her lofty ilk—nothing against Hen, but some of her compatriots . . . Preston shuddered. Yet that explained why he'd never discovered that a simple country spinster could be such a charming and amiable companion.

And now she was off to London to find her polish, he supposed. Well, no one was going to do that to this little charming bit of muslin.

No one was going to turn her into another Lady Violet or Miss Seales.

He glanced over at her and ignored the way her red hair, all loose and tumbling free, made him want to push it back so he could gaze into her lively brown eyes.

And not because he wanted to run his fingers through those radiant locks.

Not in the least.

He could even ignore her pert lips, the curve at the base of her neck that should be kissed. He could force himself to forget how she fit against him as if she'd been missing from his life all these years.

He would ignore all this, if only to save her. If he could, he would stop her in her tracks this very night and carry her off so she never reached London, but he suspected such high-handed actions would fall into Hen's categories of “Beyond the Pale” and “Unforgivable Ruin.”

Yes, most likely, kidnapping Miss Timmons, even in the name of saving her from society, would be viewed dimly.

Even by the lady herself.

While he was sorting his plans—and rejecting most of them as impossible—she'd been going on about something to do with Almack's.

Almack's? Miss Timmons inside those halllowed halls? Over his dead body.

“Miss Timmons, what is your given name?” he asked, stopping her in midsentence.

“My what?” she asked in a distracted sort of way.

“Your given name,” he said, picking up his fork. “Miss Timmons does not suit you.”

“Whyever not? It is my name,” she said in that stuffy I-am-the-daughter-of-a-vicar voice of hers.

He had to confess, he rather liked it. No one spoke to him like that.

Save this miss.

“Well, I differ. I don't think it suits you. And I want to know what your given name is. The one your friends call you.”

She laughed and struck a haughty pose. “You, sir, are hardly one of my friends.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to remind her of how close she'd been to being more than just a dining companion a little bit earlier.

When he'd held her in his arms and been about to finish off his supper by devouring her lips in the sort of kiss that came after a good meal and copious amounts of wine.

And he tried telling himself he was glad that he had set her aside. For to do otherwise would ruin everything he wanted to do . . .

“We are friends enough to enjoy a supper together,” he said instead, but the implication was there hanging between them.

“I believe I am dining here under duress.”

“Not in the least. It was an act of charity on my part.”

“Charity? I thought I was here to keep
you
company.”

He laughed. “That as well, but my benevolence was also intended for the rest of the inn's patrons.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she demanded. Ah, so his waifish little kitten had claws.

Preston, ever the rogue, laughed. “I was also rescuing the rest of the inn's patrons from being awakened by that yawning clamor in your belly. And now, through my charity, it has, thankfully, been silenced. Vanquished, you might say.”

Her eyes widened and a bright blush spread over her cheeks. Preston knew without a doubt that endearing shade of pink would be beaten out of her once the society matrons got done picking over her carcass.

“Yawning clamor? You have no decency, sir.” She shook her head. “Is this what a gentleman discusses with a lady when he dines with her?”

“I wouldn't know. I've never heard a belly rumble so,” he teased back.

The hue in her cheeks darkened to a deep pink.

No, she'd never get away with that color on her cheeks in Almack's.

But Preston wasn't one to give up easily, and he stole a page from Roxley's incorrigible volume of tricks. “My dear Miss Timmons, may I have the privilege of knowing your given name?” He let his words fall like a seductive whisper, tempting and intimate.

He suspected the last flickering light of the candles and the warmth of the room had her in a cozy mood. If they didn't lull her, perhaps their excellent meal had left her sated and unable to resist the languor of his words.

Lord, how much had Miss Timmons eaten? Enough to make a shipload of sailors drowsy, but that was beside the point.

Indeed, she pressed her lips together and looked ready to give him a proper and scathing set down, so he resorted to his final, most tempting tactic.

He picked up the tart tray and slid the server under the last piece to hold it ever so close to her plate. Then he pressed a little more. “Come now, Miss Timmons, it will be our secret. What is your name?”

Her gaze fell to the tart. “Tabitha,” she whispered. “My name is Tabitha.”

He slipped the piece onto her plate, weighing the name against his impression of her. “It doesn't suit you.”

She sat back and gaped at him. “Are you now the arbiter of names?”

He snapped his fingers. “Another occupation! By Jove, Miss Timmons, by the end of the evening you will have me completely employed.”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous.”

“But I am not trying to be,” he replied. “It is just that I don't find Tabitha a fitting name for you.”

“Of course it fits. My father gave me the name.”

“He made a mistake,” Preston told her. And was rewarded with a complete look of outrage.

“You don't know the circumstances.”

“Enlighten me.”

“If you must know—”

“I must,” he replied, sitting back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I wasn't alive when I was born—at least that was how it appeared. But the midwife persisted and finally got me to cry out. So Papa said I should be called Tabitha.” Now it was her turn to sit back, her nose tipped in the air as if to say
I told you so.

“Ah, like the woman brought back to life by St. Peter.”

Her brows rose. “You astound me, Preston.”

“I am not the complete bounder you think me to be,” he said, reaching over with his fork and stealing a bite from her apple tart. “Contrary to your impressions of me, I have an education. A rather thorough one.”

“Yes, but do you put it to good use?”

“Every day.”

“How is that?” she asked with a haughty, disbelieving air.

Touché for the little minx. She was rather like the terrier she claimed her dog to be. Overly persistent to prove her point and, from the smug expression on her face, convinced she had him on the ropes now.

Quite the contrary.

He crossed his arms over his chest and explained, “You wouldn't believe how much mathematics can save a man from wagering too much.”

“Ruinous notion!” she exclaimed, though he could tell she found it amusing—her eyes sparkled as she continued in her favorite respectable tone. “You are incorrigible.”

“So says my family.”

“I feel quite sorry for them.”

“You and the rest of London society,” he told her.

“You should stop gambling and find honest employment.”

“Dreadful thing to say to the man who just bought you dinner. Hardly well mannered, Tabby.”

Tabby.

That brought her gaze up to his. Once again, he found himself entangled. Entwined. Snared.
Tabby.
It fit, rather like she did in his arms.

He grinned. “Yes, I will call you Tabby.” He saluted her with his wineglass.

“Tabby, indeed!” she sputtered, setting down her fork.

“Yes, that is the perfect name for you.” His kitten. His Tabby found. One day she would thank him for saving her. Preston was well pleased with himself, for he had it all quite settled. He'd come along just in time to save Tabby from herself and from London society and keep her just as she was.

His engaging, perfectly respectable companion—as long as he could refrain from kissing her. Yes, he could do that, he told himself, making a point not to look at those rosy lips of hers, those enticing brown eyes. He must. If he wanted to keep her as she was . . . perfectly innocent, impertinent, vexing and all-too-respectable.

Save he'd forgotten one important thing.

Perhaps the lady wasn't interested in his meddling.

“Y
ou cannot call me by such a name,” Tabitha protested, even though her heart did an odd thump each time he did so.

Tabby.

There was something too intimate about such a nickname. It implied he knew her far better than he actually did. As if he'd actually kissed her senseless instead of setting her aside.

“I rather think I will,” he said, completely ignoring her.

“Mr. Preston, please—”

He held up his hand. “No, truly, you'll thank me one day.”

She rather doubted it. For this devil-may-care rake would be her ruin if they were to cross paths in London.

Cross paths . . .
She looked up at this rogue and bounder and realized something she'd quite overlooked before.

Truly, what was the likelihood of them ever seeing each other again?

Certainly he wouldn't be gadding about Almack's. Or dropping by one of Lady Timmons's afternoons in. Let alone spending his evening at a respectable musicale or soirée.

He might be one of Roxley's boon companions, but even she knew that while the earl might have befriended him, that didn't give Preston an immediate entrée into society.

So, for all practical purposes, there was little to no chance they would ever cross paths again.

Such a notion should have given Tabitha every comfort. Instead it left her feeling a bit bereft.

This would be their one and only night together.

Not “night,”
she corrected herself. Night implied all sorts of things. And if just being held in his arms for a moment had been enough to knock her off balance, whatever could he do to her in a night?

Tabitha hastily set that thought aside.

“Shall we finish our evening with a wager, Tabby?” he was saying. While she'd been busy musing about his place—or rather non-place—in her life, he'd been clearing a space in the middle of the table and had set out three teacups.

A wager? “Certainly not,” she told him, eyeing the cups before them. “I can't imagine that would be proper.”

“Proper? Most likely not,” he mused as he glanced over the table, searching for something. “But when a lady and gentleman dine together, they always end the evening with a wager.”

She made a most unladylike snort. This sounded like a Banbury tale. Or a flirtatious trick.

Not that he seemed to find her quelling gaze all that pinning or capable of wrenching the truth out of him. “Ah, there it is,” he said, reaching for the sugar bowl. He pulled out one lump and held it up for her to see.

Then he grinned, his lips tilted with a sort of endearing, lopsided twist and his eyes alight, and he dropped the lump of sugar into one of the cups.

Her heart made that fluttering, teasing beat again. “I don't think—”

“No, no. 'Tis a very simple wager,” he explained, tipping the three cups over and concealing the lump of sugar. Then he moved them around, back and forth, waving his hands with exaggerated gestures as they moved from one cup to another—making it nearly impossible to keep her eyes on the cup with the sugar.

In fact, he redoubled his efforts, until she sat back and covered her mouth to hide the smile turning up her lips.

She certainly didn't need to encourage the man.

When he stopped, he sat back and waggled his brows at her. “Which one has the lump of sugar, Tabby? I wager you don't know.”

Tabitha leaned forward and studied the cups before her. Then in a bit of glittering light from the nearly gutted candle, she spied a hint of sugar leading to one of the cups. With all his grand movements, he'd left a trail of evidence.

“What are the stakes?” she asked, masking her features.

Preston leaned across the table. “If I win, a promise, Tabby. That we shall be friends.”

By reflex, she shook her head. “No, that would never do.” Truly it would not. Friendship with Preston was the path to ruin.

She knew that as certainly as she knew which cup hid the sugar lump.

“Then name your stakes,” he offered, “but mine still stand.”

Oh, the impossible man. As if friendship with him was such a boon. It would serve him right to give him a bit of comeuppance.

But whatever could she wager?

Biting her lip, she stole a glance at him. “I don't usually wager.”

“Don't you play cards?” he asked, tapping one of the cups, as if he were giving away where the sugar might be hidden.

Which he wasn't.

“I do. At Lady Essex's card parties. Penny stakes at the most.”

“Then the stakes are either a penny if you win, or your friendship if I am the victor.”

She would probably not have gone along with his proposition if it hadn't been for his superior tone.

Well, she would show him that while she might be a country miss from Kempton, she could outwit his Corinthian ways.

Furrowing her brow, she bit her bottom lip, as if she had found herself in the worst sort of pickle, spending a few teasing moments studying the cups before her as if she hadn't the slightest clue which one held the prize.

Then she reached out and turned over the cup to the right, revealing the lonely lump of sugar.

Tabitha grinned. “I rather like wagering with you, Mr. Preston. And you owe me a penny.”