Free Along Came a Duke by Elizabeth Boyle Page B

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.
    â€œMr. 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.
    â€œThat, my dear, is the most ruinous man in