Along Came a Duke by Elizabeth Boyle Page A

yard. “Of meeting him . Mr. Reginald Barkworth.” Daphne couldn’t say the man’s name without adding a soft sigh. “It is all so very romantic.”
    Much to Tabitha’s chagrin, Daphne had taken the position that Tabitha’s arranged marriage was the most efficient and practical means of finding a husband. And Mr. Reginald Barkworth? The heir to a marquisate? Well, obviously the perfect gentleman.
    Harriet, however, was not so optimistic and liked to remind them both of the fate of Agnes, the most infamous bride of Kempton. Poor Agnes had gone mad on her wedding night to the unfortunately named John Stakes, a man her parents had forced her to wed.
    Agnes , Daphne would argue, knew nothing of men.
    And a little too much about how to wield a poker , Harriet would mutter back.
    Yet there it was. Whatever did Tabitha know of men? Or as that wretched Preston had put it, . . . of men’s whims or, for that matter, the desire a lady feels?
    Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Save how unsettling it had to been to meet Preston.
    Preston with his open shirt and bare chest. Preston with the broad shoulders. Preston with the tangled mess of chestnut hair. Preston, whose eyes burned with a wicked light.
    Even the very remembrance left her a little breathless and off-kilter. Oh, he was the path toward madness if ever there was one.
    And she blamed him entirely for her reluctance to get married. Whatever would she do if Mr. Reginald Barkworth was merely half as handsome?
    â€œTell me you are thoroughly excited at the prospect of meeting Mr. Reginald Barkworth,” Daphne pressed as they got inside and waited while Lady Essex ordered up rooms. “Or I will be most disappointed with you, Tabitha.”
    â€œMayhap a little,” she admitted. Terrified might be a better description.
    â€œI wonder what he looks like,” Daphne said, her hands clutched in front of her. “Do you think he will be handsome? Did your aunt or uncle say anything about his countenance? As long as he doesn’t have a wen. It is quite impossible not to find oneself staring at one, especially if it sits there like a button in the middle of their forehead. That could be quite worrisome. If he has a wen.”
    While Daphne seemed to ponder this possibility silently (thankfully), Tabitha realized that a wen had been the least of her concerns, but now that she thought about it, she added that to her ever-growing list of fears.
    â€œWhatever will you do if he does have a wen?” Daphne posed.
    â€œWho has a wen?” Harriet asked, dashing up from behind, having returned to the carriage to fetch her reticule.
    â€œTabitha’s betrothed,” Daphne told her. “Well, actually we don’t know if he has one, but we were considering the possibilities.”
    â€œOh, that would be dreadful,” Harriet agreed. “I still say you forgo all of this nonsense and move into the Pottage. Marriage is fraught with peril, or so my brothers vow.”
    On this dour note, Lady Essex returned and declared their surroundings “suitable.” The indomitable spinster had bullied the landlord into giving her and her young charges the best room—the one with a parlor. Once they’d climbed the stairs, “away from the rabble,” as Lady Essex said, she took to her bed and left her three charges on their own.
    For the next few hours, Tabitha paced the room as she had every night for the past two weeks—torn between her anxieties of continuing on and the prospects of what, or rather whom, would meet her there.
    Mr. Muggins, who could not be left behind in Kempton, watched his mistress from the rug before the fireplace with an air of curiosity, while Harriet snored softly from a narrow couch.
    â€œWhatever is the matter?” Daphne finally asked, glancing up from the London newspaper she’d purloined from a downstairs table. “You aren’t still worried about Mr. Reginald