Along Came a Duke by Elizabeth Boyle Page A

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.
    Miss Timmons with her tart manners and country ways. With her scolds and staunchly held opinions. Miss Timmons with the appetite of a stevedore and all the innocence of a cloistered nun.
    He was wading into deep waters thinking to teach her to dance.
    Don’t do this, my good man. This isn’t some bedraggled kitten or abandoned pup in the road but a lady. Belonging to the same ilk as the rest of those muslin menaces who had made him a pariah in London society.
    But still . . . how could he not help? He owed her something for this glimpse backward in time she’d unwittingly given him.
    Especially when she’d made such a confession—that she’d never danced with a man before—and the stricken look in those brown eyes of hers had told him only too clearly how much such a revelation had cost her precious pride.
    Then again, she hadn’t exactly leapt at his offer. Only gaped at him as if he had gone mad.
    Which probably wasn’t far from the truth. Glancing at his wineglass, he blamed the inn’s excellent Madeira, not enough Yorkshire pudding and Roxley’s abandonment for this complete lapse of judgment.
    No, come to think of it, it was all Roxley’s fault.
    â€œSince you’ve mastered dining with a gentleman,” he told her, rising to his feet, “now it is time to learn to dance.”
    With that being said, he held out his hand.
    She shied back and glanced around the room as if she expected scandal to rain down from the heavens.
    Yet nothing happened. The ceiling held snugly, and not even her mongrel of a dog stirred at Preston’s proximity to his mistress.
    Some chaperone. Perhaps the dog was looking the other way out of courtesy.
    One hound to another.
    But then again, perhaps Mr. Muggins knew what Preston had sworn earlier—he was no threat to Miss Timmons.
    None whatsoever.
    At least he kept telling himself as he took command of the situation and caught hold of her wrist and pulled her up. Despite her rather amazing appetite, she was really quite light—no, make that thin and underfed—beneath that dreadful gown.
    Good God, no one was looking after her, were they? His fingers wound around hers, and they were met with chapped, rough calluses, the sort one might find