Along Came a Duke

Along Came a
DUKE

Rhymes With Love

E
LIZABETH
B
OYLE

Dedication

To LeHang Huynh,

for her love of a good romance,

the chase that ensues and

all the scenes in between

that lead to true love.

Thank you for your

enthusiasm and your support.

Contents

 

 

Chapter 1

Kempton, Sussex

1810

T
he day dawned like it always did in May in the village of Kempton, with a bright sprinkle of sunshine, a hint of dew on the grass and the birds singing happy choruses in the garden.

There was no indication whatsoever that on this day, Miss Tabitha Timmons would not only find herself betrothed, but fall madly and deeply in love.

And not necessarily with the same man.

No, the only thing on Tabitha's mind as she stepped out of the vicarage that afternoon, closing the door quietly behind her on her way to the Tuesday afternoon meeting of the Society for the Temperance and Improvement of Kempton, was that she was escaping her aunt's demands and her uncle's complaints for the next blessed three hours.

“Ho, there,” Miss Daphne Dale called out cheerily from the garden gate where she had been waiting for Tabitha. “I was beginning to fear she wasn't going to let you come,” Daphne continued in a loud whisper as she reached down and gave Tabitha's ever-present dog, Mr. Muggins, a scratch behind his ears. The large Irish terrier gazed up at Daphne with pure admiration shining in his large, expressive brown eyes.

“Then Aunt Allegra would have to go in my stead, and heaven forbid she be assigned some task to attend to,” Tabitha said, glancing over her shoulder and thankful that the curtains were all still drawn—which meant her aunt wasn't there peering after her, trying to come up with some excuse to call her back.

“Wretched notion that,” Daphne declared, linking her arm into Tabitha's and towing her friend away from the vicarage that had once been Tabitha's happy home.

It should still be such a place, sitting as it did, stubby and content in the shadow of St. Edward's Church, a large and ancient relic from the Norman times, with its high stone walls, long nave and a bell tower that was only dwarfed by the heights of Foxgrove, the Earl of Roxley's nearby estate.

Instead, with her father's death two years ago of a heart ailment and the installation of her uncle as the new vicar, Tabitha's beloved childhood home was naught but a dreary, dreadful place.

At least, Tabitha mused, she was still allowed to attend the Society meetings, if only because her aunt found the mission of providing charity baskets to Kempton's many spinsters a tedious chore.

They ambled along Meadow Lane, the narrow track that led from the vicarage to High Street, while Daphne chattered on, bringing Tabitha up to date on the local gossip.

“—Lady Essex will never allow Louisa and Lavinia to have their way on this matter. The buntings for the Midsummer's Eve Ball have always been lavender. Apple green, indeed!”

Tabitha smiled and let the idle talk wash over her like a great balm, for when she was with Daphne or at the weekly Society meetings, it was easy to believe that nothing about her once idyllic life had changed.

“—I even called on the twins yesterday and tried—most politely—to explain how they will only raise Lady Essex's ire if they persist.” Daphne huffed a sigh. “Oh, how Louisa and Lavinia love trouble!”

Tabitha eyed her friend. “You honestly thought you could deter them?”

“I had hoped,” Daphne confessed. “And if that failed, I thought my new bonnet would distract them.” She tipped her head to show the green silk bonnet with its gray ribbon off to advantage.

Tabitha was used to Daphne's preening and laughed. “You convinced your father to advance your allowance, didn't you?”

Her friend grinned unrepentantly, blue eyes alight, her gloved hand rising to touch the jaunty brim. “Yes, and worth every shilling,” Daphne declared. “I was afraid Papa wouldn't relent before Miss Fielding discovered it and snatched it up for herself, and you know how ill she looks in green!”

Tabitha laughed. The rivalry between Daphne and Miss Fielding grew deeper with each passing year.

“I think it would look perfect on you,” Daphne said, in an offhanded way. “You could try it on when we get to Lady Essex's.” She glanced over at Tabitha, her gaze filled with kindness, her teeth holding her lower lip as she waited.

Knowing exactly what her friend intended, Tabitha shook her head. “You know I cannot consider such a thing. You recall how my aunt was when you gave me those gloves last winter.”

“They weren't charity,” Daphne declared, her brow now furrowed. “And neither would this be. 'Tis only that you haven't had a new hat in . . .”

“Two years,” Tabitha replied. Or a new gown. Or shoes. Or stockings. “Truly, I don't mind.”

“Well, I do!” Daphne shot back. “Your aunt and uncle should be ashamed of how they begrudge you even scraps.”

What could Tabitha say? It was all true—her aunt and uncle had been more than happy to gain the elevated position of her father's living when he'd died, but the guardianship of his penniless daughter? Not in the least, being childless themselves. Aunt Allegra, who had not a motherly bone in her body, even liked to complain that her niece took up too much space in the corner of the attic they'd graciously allotted for her to sleep in.

Not that Tabitha minded her attic hideaway, for it was where her mother's trunks were tucked away. Their closeness allowed Tabitha to occasionally catch a hint of her mother's violet perfume—those moments as elusive as her memories of the willowy beauty who had died of a fever when Tabitha had been so very young.

“Every time your uncle gives a sermon on charity, I want to stand up and call him an overbearing hypocrite,” Daphne said.

“You're incorrigible,” Tabitha scolded, though only halfheartedly—for if anyone had her best interests at heart, it was Daphne.

“Who is incorrigible?” Miss Harriet Hathaway asked as she joined them where Meadow Lane met High Street. In true Harriet fashion, her hem was muddy, her gown slightly rumpled, her bonnet askew and on one of her pink cheeks was a smudge of something. She'd probably realized the time and come dashing out of the Pottage stables without a second glance toward a mirror.

Lady Essex was guaranteed to be put out by her protégée's untidy appearance. Her ladyship had high hopes of taking Harriet to London and finding her a grand match, though hardly anyone in Kempton put much stock in such notions.

After all, this was “Harry” Hathaway they were talking about.

“I am,” Daphne told her and then deftly changed the subject. “I bought a new bonnet.”

Harriet spared it a glance. “Oh, yes, so you have. Isn't that the one you showed me last week in Mrs. Welling's window?”

Daphne nodded. “Lovely, isn't it?”

Taking another look, Harriet asked, “Yes, but I thought it had a feather trim on it.”

“I removed it,” Daphne said quietly, tipping her head nonchalantly at Mr. Muggins.

Tabitha cringed. She loved her dog dearly, but he had no notion that a feathered trim on a pelisse or a jaunty quill tucked in the brim of a hat was not attached to an actual bird.

When he'd ravaged three of Aunt Allegra's hats not long after she'd arrived, the lady had threatened to have the grizzled-faced beast cast out—only to find the entire village of Kempton and a good portion of the population from the surrounding villages refusing to take “that red devil of a dog” in, much to Tabitha's relief.

Eventually, the indignant lady had done as Daphne had and removed the remaining feathers from all her hats. Even the indomitable Lady Essex removed the feathers from her favorite turban before she would wear it to a Society meeting.

No feather was safe when Mr. Muggins was close at hand, much to Tabitha's chagrin. Whyever couldn't he possess such an enmity for squirrels or rats like other terriers?

As it was, Tabitha was compelled to take her roguish companion with her everywhere, for fear Uncle Bernard would find some unsuspecting passerby who would be unwitting enough to take the dog with them.

“You look tired, Tabitha,” Harriet remarked. “And thinner. You are working too hard.”

Tabitha glanced away. “I had to have the scrubbing done before I left, so I got up early.”

Daphne slanted a look at her. “And I suppose you also polished the silver and washed the dishes and got the table laid for supper and the vegetables cut for Mrs. Oaks.”

That was nearly all of it, but she'd also done the ironing as well. Still, she rose up in the face of their concern. “Don't look at me so. The work is nothing.”

Harriet's jaw set. “Someone needs to remind your aunt that you are a lady and not the charring girl.”

“I would prefer they didn't,” Tabitha said. At least she had a roof over her head, a point her aunt and uncle liked to point out on a daily basis.

“You can always come live—” Harriet began, but Tabitha stopped her with a sharp shake of her head.

You can always come live at the Pottage
.

Just as Lady Essex had offered her a place at Foxgrove, and Daphne a room at Dale House, but her uncle and aunt had refused to allow Tabitha to move out, convinced she would turn wanton and licentious without their ever-present protection.

That, and they would lose a free maid.

But there was also the simple fact that Tabitha loved the vicarage—it had always been her home, and though she now had naught but a small corner under the eaves and ate in the kitchen, at least she could still tend her mother's flowers in the gardens and gaze upon her father's sure handwriting as she made entries into the parish record.

It was the closest thing to a home she would ever have.

“If only we weren't from Kempton,” Daphne said, sighing loudly. “Then you could marry and escape your aunt's demands.”

“Let us think of something more merry,” Harriet proposed as if she'd spied the shadow crossing Tabitha's face. “Such as how scarlet Lady Essex's cheeks will be when the Tempest twins make their ridiculous motion—yet again—to change the color of the Midsummer's Eve Ball buntings.”

They all three laughed and continued contentedly along, for which Tabitha was glad. At least some things never changed.

They were approaching the smithy, where Mr. Thury's hammer rang sharp and clear as he worked steadily at some task. The sound was familiar, but nonetheless, Daphne came to an abrupt halt.

“Oh my!” Her gasp was followed by Harriet's stumbling to a stop, the heels of her boots digging into the gravel. She let forth with an oath most obviously learned from one of her five brothers and finished it with a rather unladylike, “That's a demmed fine rig!”

Tabitha stopped and glanced back at them, then put her hand to her forehead and squinted into the sunlight until she was able to focus on the sight that held her friends captive.

For indeed, there before Mr. Thury's forge sat a fancy carriage—a phaeton, she believed it to be—but she'd leave that designation to Harriet, who was far more informed about such matters. Whatever it was, the expensive contraption now sat lopsided with one wheel removed, as it was most likely being repaired by the village smith.

The grand oddity was unlike anything usually seen in Kempton.

For while Kempton had quite the abundance of spinsters and unmarried ladies, it rather lacked a population of gentlemen—so much so that such masculine trappings were a rare sight indeed.

“Goodness, have you ever seen anything so admirable?” Daphne whispered.

Tabitha slanted a glance at her friend. “I doubt even your father would cozzen such a conveyance.”

“I wasn't looking at the carriage,” Daphne confessed. “Rather at the gentleman in that splendid jacket.” She slanted her glance toward a tall, elegantly attired man standing under the smithy's awning. His superfine coat was thrown open, revealing a snowy white cravat tied in a great display of lace, above a bright checked waistcoat, an ensemble far too overdone for Tabitha's sensibilities. The gentleman in question, holding a large pint in his hand, lolled against the wall, and worse, grinned in their direction. “Whoever could
he
be?”

“Oh, that's just Roxley,” Harriet supplied. Then much to Tabitha's horror, her friend waved at the nobleman like one might hail the grocer or a passing peddler. “Ho, there, my lord. Have you come to visit your aunt?”

Without any propriety or thought of good manners, Harriet plowed on ahead, extending her hand to Lord Roxley—the all-too-infamous and ruinous Lord Roxley—so very rarely seen in these parts that it was no wonder he could arrive and not be recognized.

“He's the earl?” Daphne whispered under her breath, her gaze fixed exactly as Tabitha's was on Lady Essex's nephew. Her ladyship's house, Foxgrove, was one of Roxley's many properties. The earl, who had been raised in London, only came to Kempton on brief, annual visits—usually unannounced—so his wily aunt couldn't wrangle him into some large ball or other entertainment meant to match him to a local lady.

“I didn't know you were coming to Kempton, Roxley,” Harriet said with comfortable familiarity. Then again, Tabitha was always a bit awed at Harriet's easy manners with the opposite sex. She supposed it was because her friend, having grown up with five brothers, saw them not as mysterious and dangerous practitioners of ruin but good company.

Odd notion, really, to Tabitha's way of thinking.

“Chaunce wrote me just this week and didn't mention you were coming down from town,” Harriet continued to scold.

“Sssh, Harry! 'Tis a devilish secret that I'm here.” The handsome fellow winked at her.

The girl straightened and shook her head. “You know you musn't call me that! You will have your aunt in horrors! I am Miss Hathaway now.” She struck a pose that would have made even Lady Essex proud.

But Roxley appeared unimpressed. He leaned closer, like a conspirator. “Miss Hathaway, indeed! Not to me, Harry. Never.” He reached over and tweaked her cheek.

Harriet shooed his hand away and laughed. “You never change, Roxley.”