Along Came a Duke by Elizabeth Boyle

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.
    â€œIf it is the case that you aren’t husband hunting—” he began.
    â€œIt is,” she insisted.
    â€œThen 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?”
    â€œWell, I think the answer is obvious.”
    â€œNot 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 . . .
    â€œI do not dance,” she told him hastily.
    â€œOf 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.”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œAha!” he said, perking up at the mention of the ball. “So you do dance.”
    â€œNo,” 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?”
    â€œOnly a few country reels, but I have never danced them—”
    â€œThen how do you know them?”
    â€œGood 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.
    â€œDoes this curse of yours forbid you from dancing with a gentleman?”
    Oh, yes. Now the teasing and ridicule would commence.
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œI 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