Along Came a Duke Read Free Page A

could.
    Tabitha had to wonder at this friend of Lord Roxley’s—for she knew well enough from his aunt about the earl’s licentious character—what of this Mr. Preston? What sort of man would bet so much on a carriage race?
    It was scandalous, but at the same time, Tabitha felt a frisson of envy that these men had the freedom to wager such staggering amounts and jaunt about the countryside at will, while she was . . . she was . . . trapped.
    A few moments before she would have described herself as content—overworked, tired and slightly underfed, yes—but suddenly she chafed at the inequity of it all.
    Yes, trapped. Trapped by her circumstances . . . by a lack of opportunities. Never before had she ever felt the lure of London, but looking at this swift carriage and the freedom it lent its owners, Tabitha’s heart beat with a rare note of rebellion.
    And while London was only a two-day drive, whatever would she do once she got there? Her relations in Mayfair would only send her back to Kempton.
    Now Tabitha saw the real danger of men. They put the most impossible notions in a lady’s head. For once she was rather glad that Kempton was not overrun with them.
    â€œPreston, this will only take a moment,” Roxley was saying, still attempting to lure the man away from his labors.
    â€œYes, well, you needn’t bother your friend, my lord,” Tabitha said as politely as she could. “We should be on our way. To our Society meeting.” Besides, who knew what sort of unsettling notions this Mr. Preston would inspire. “We would not want to keep you and Mr. Preston from your . . . your—”
    Oh, bother, how did one describe a wager that was naught but foolish and a grand waste of time, money and effort?
    â€œOh, it is no trouble,” Roxley said grandly. “Would do Preston some good to meet some respectable ladies. His aunt is forever harping on about it.” Arms crossed over his chest, his boot tapping impatiently, the earl turned to his friend. “Come now, Preston! Make your bow or word will spread that I keep uncivilized company—Lady Essex will never let me hear the end of it.” The earl turned and waggled his brows at Harriet.
    Tabitha suspected that Lady Essex would not be happy to discover them in the company of this “Preston” person, no matter how prestigious Lord Roxley thought him.
    Prestigious, indeed. From all accounts, the man must be the worst sort of . . .
    Then she spied him, this Mr. Preston, rising up from beside the forge, bellows in hand, and prestigious was not the word that came to mind.
    Everything Tabitha suspected about him—that he was not fit company, that he was a scandalous, dangerous rogue—ignited like sparks from the hot fires, bright and sure one moment and gone the next.
    Oh, Mr. Preston might well be a gambler and a rake, and quite possibly as rapscallion as they came, but much to Tabitha’s greatest horror, he was utterly intoxicating to look at.
    Sinfully so.
    And no, the word that came to mind was definitely not prestigious, but rather something more simple and straightforward.
    Ruin .
    He rose up, no ugly Hephaestus, but like a very Adonis. This she knew for certain, for Lady Essex kept a statue of this legendary hero in her morning room, one her father had picked up on his Continental tour so many years ago.
    At least this version had the decency to keep his breeches, boots and shirt on—though barely. The white linen shirt that might once have been fashionable was open to his waist and plastered to his body, his smooth, muscled chest gleaming from his labors.
    A gentleman would never appear in public so—without his cravat, without his gloves, without all the proper trappings. Why, this Mr. Preston was nearly . . . Dare she even think it? There was no other word to describe the man.
    Undressed. Unadorned. Naked.
    Not that he needed anything to