Baron of Blasphemy
Lords of Scandal
Tammy Andresen
Copyright © 2021 by Tammy Andresen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Viscount of Vanity
About the Author
Other Titles by Tammy
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www.tammyandresen.com
Hugs!
Chapter One
“Congratulations.” The Duke of Devonhall looked down at his charge and gave her a thin smile as he leaned on the corner of his massive oak desk. His smile was the sort a man only gave when he tried to pretend he was delivering good news instead of bad. “I’ve made a match for you.”
Abigail Carrington sucked in her breath as she rose from the chair in which she’d been directed to sit. She was aware he’d been standing over her, likely a form of intimidation, meant to make her feel small so that she’d have to concede to his wishes. Unlikely… “I beg your pardon?”
“A match,” Devonhall said, his brittle smile spreading even wider, looking as though it might split his face in half. “Isn’t that exciting news?”
Words clogged her throat and she cleared it, as she stared at her brother-in-law. Abigail lowered her hands to her hips. She’d been told she made a habit of the gesture by her three sisters. When she was angry, or irritated, or uncertain, her hands landed just below her waist. Currently all three emotions warred for top position. “Exciting?” She drew in a deep breath, narrowing her gaze at her brother-in-law. “Executions are exciting too. That doesn’t mean I want to participate in one.”
The smile cracked then. Broken by his small but definite wince. “Abby.”
“Abigail,” she corrected holding up a single finger. Her father had nicknamed her Abby when she was a child, and her sisters would use the term of endearment when they meant to point out she was immature. She didn’t need the reminder now that she was the youngest, the baby who should be told what to do. Her sister often accused her father of giving Abigail her way because she was the youngest, not because she had any real grit.
“Abigail.” He held up his hands in front of him. “It’s for the best.”
Never mind that she didn’t even know the identity of the mystery suitor on to whom she’d been foisted, she didn’t care. “Whose best?” she fired back. “Certainly not my best. My guess is you’re the one benefiting. You’re tired of taking care of your wife’s younger sister so you’re going to pass me off on some knave, or layabout, or rake.” She swept her hand through the air, as though pushing back a curtain. Really, she meant to brush aside the complete dung falling from his mouth. “Which is he? Is he a fool, or without funds, or does he just have a deplorable reputation so that he’s willing to match with a merchant’s daughter sight unseen? Does he wish to wed so that he might collect my fat purse?” Her voice was rising with every word. She knew she’d just made several leaps in judgment but there had to be something wrong with the man. Why else would he wish for this match?
“Hmm…” A voice rumbled behind her. It was low and deep, tinged with a bit of a darkness that was…well…exciting. “A knave? Many would say so. Financially challenged? Certainly. A rake? Most definitely.”
Her breath caught in her throat as his words, echoing her words, bounced off the walls and pummeled her ears. She was embarrassed, of course. A lady was not supposed to speak with such brazen opinions. Especially in the company of the very person she was insulting.
At least, she assumed the man behind her had repeated the words because he was her intended. Still, she kept her eyes forward rather than turn around and look at him for several reasons.
One. His voice had done funny things to her insides. They were twisting and dancing, and the hair on her arms had stood up in the strangest way. But also because she’d already jumped to several conclusions, though they seemed to be proving correct. Still, she had the feeling she ought to slow down a bit and figure this entire thing out.
She drew in a deep breath, forcing her mind to slow. “In other words, you are everything I feared you might be. You are the man who has agreed to a match with a woman you’ve never met.”
He chuckled and she clenched her fists to hide the jump in her pulse at the sound. “We’ve met, Princess. I can assure you, we’ve met.”
That made her gasp and she spun around, his words shocking her enough that she forgot to be slow, forgot to be thoughtful. The moment her eyes met his pale blue gaze, she took a half step back, and covered her heart with her hands.
She knew who he was…
Knew that all the assumptions she’d made were completely true.
The Baron of Blasphemy.
His real name was the Baron of Blackwater, but he rarely went by his title. Which was to say, he didn’t participate in polite society at all.
He remained in the shadows, a dark lord ill-suited to parties or balls or tea or…
She stopped.
His face hardened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His very square masculine jaw softened only by the overly long, dark blond hair that skimmed to near his shoulders. She realized several seconds had passed and she’d not said a word.
Abigail forced her hands to relax, and gently pressed down the folds of her dress. Then she straightened her shoulders and her spine. “My lord.”
“Princess,” he answered, his chest swelling as he drew in a deep breath. Abigail begrudgingly noted that it was a fantastic chest as far as male torsos went. Lean but strong, it tapered down to narrow hips and he had the air of effortless male swagger.
“It’s Miss Carrington to you and to everyone else.” She looked back at her brother-in-law, her brows rising as she gave him a pointed stare as if to say… You actually expect me to wed this heathen?
“Whatever you say, Princess,” he replied, his tone full of the sort of bored annoyance that let her know he didn’t quite approve of her either.
Her mouth pressed into a firm line. She knew why Bash, the Duke of Devonhall, had made the match. With her parents gone, he’d taken over her and her sisters’ care when he’d married her sister. He’d also taken over the family business that had been plagued by a ring of thieves that increasingly threatened their safety and their future in business.
And recently, her latest brother-in-law, another duke no less, had sussed out the thieves. But in his attempts to capture them, he’d brought them all heaps more trouble, and Abigail the worst trouble of all. The sort a lady couldn’t escape.
But surely it hadn’t gotten so terrible that she needed to marry this…
Bash had the decency to wince. “Blasphemy,” he grumbled. “You’re not—”
Abigail was certain Bash had been about to say helping. But she cut him off before he could finish. “Suitable. My answer to your proposed match with the Baron of Blackwater is no. Emphatically, completely, most definitely, without a doubt, no.”
* * *
Chadwick Blackwater ground his teeth tog
ether as he stared at the complete imp before him.
Yes, she was gorgeous. Rich brown hair and matching eyes with classic features set off by full, pale pink lips and pure ivory skin. The sort of color that looked angelic. The kind men dreamed of when they built a fantasy woman in their most private thoughts.
But there was nothing saintly about Abigail Carrington. What looked picture-perfect on the outside was an outspoken, holier-than-thou, hissing sort of female on the inside. One who could kill any desire a man might have for her with a single word from her perfect lips.
He knew he should never have agreed to this plan.
It was bad.
Worse, it was downright dangerous.
And that was part of the reason he’d accepted Bash’s proposed plan. Danger was his favorite pastime. Closely followed by womanizing, rudeness, and gambling.
Which made it convenient that he ran a gaming hell with Bash and a few other lords. And while the funds from that endeavor had greatly aided the reduction of the debt his brother and father had bequeathed him, they had by no means eliminated it.
And his mother continued to live as though they had bundles of money and the creditors weren’t knocking on her door. It was his they’d come to call upon.
He sighed. A marriage with Abigail would remove all his financial deficits.
It wouldn’t please his mother, of course, but that idea held a certain appeal. A large one, frankly. She’d want some social-climbing lady to be his wife, not that he’d ever manage to land one of those.
But money wasn’t the only reason he’d enjoy the match, at least for a time. Abigail was lovely and, if she wasn’t frightened of him in the bedroom, bedding her would prove interesting. At least until he made an heir.
Then his duties to the title, his mother, and England in general would be met.
Win. Win.
“Abigail,” Bash rumbled, his voice growing louder. “You have to wed. Your sister, Emily, was nearly stolen away by these hooligans who’ve been plaguing the business. We must protect you from them.”
“And who…” She didn’t look back at him but did point her finger in his general direction. “Will protect me from that hooligan?”
He had to confess, the woman had a point. “If you’re going to use a word to describe me, hooligan isn’t the one I would choose. It’s so…boring. Perhaps a name like ass—”
“Blasphemy,” Bash bit out, pulling up the corners of his lips in what Chad thought might be a smile. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t a smile but more like an angry grimace. Bash looked more like a man about to go into a knife fight than one negotiating an engagement.
“Fine,” he returned, taking a step closer to Abigail. His friend wanted him to play nice. He could do that. It was just that Abigail wasn’t being all that nice either. Not that he minded. She presented a challenge and that had its own merit.
He’d be lying if he didn’t confess, at least to himself, that he’d noticed her from the first. She was uncommonly beautiful, and she had this voice…low and sultry. Just the sort a man liked whispering in his ear. Or moaning. That would work too.
But once he’d gotten past the sound, he’d listened to the words. Abigail was…spoiled. There was no other term for it. Youngest of the pack, she was the least useful, and the most vocal, and—
She spun about narrowing her gaze again as though she could hear his thoughts. “I shan’t marry him.”
“Abby,” Bash said as he held out his hands. “You don’t have a choice. Your safety depends on a match and with your reputation in tatters, this is the best I can do.”
Chad winced but not before he watched her face crumble.
He understood the situation. Her older sister, Emily, had been kidnapped and dragged through the streets of London. She’d been saved but not before she’d been seen. Only the wagging tongues of the ton had mistaken the two sisters. They thought it was Abigail who’d been out alone with a man.
Shame. Even he could understand that. One’s sibling leaving a bundle of problems at one’s door. “I’m your best option, Princess.”
Her shoulders slumped and her chin melted down toward her chest.
He watched her eyes close and stay that way as she hugged herself. A niggle of sympathy slid down his back. “So that’s it then? I’m to be the Baroness of Blasphemy? Does that mean I can commence cursing?”
“No,” both men said at the same time.
Chad frowned, his brows drawing together. The title Baroness of Blasphemy irritated him, for a reason he couldn’t seem to name. It was too crass for such a lovely woman, even if she did go about loudly spouting her opinion all the time.
Abigail’s chin snapped back up and her eyes met his. But she didn’t express her dissatisfaction with words. Instead, she stared at him with a challenge glittering in her rich chocolate-colored eyes.
He loved a challenge. And he had to confess, he respected that she’d pulled herself back together.
“What are you thinking?” he softly murmured as he took another step closer. He was close enough to touch her and her scent, like a fresh spring on a crisp autumn day wrapped about him.
One perfect brow arched up. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Her words weren’t loud like he’d expected.
In fact, her voice had dropped into a sultry whisper that actually made him shiver. He recognized the sensation…anticipation. “I would. That’s why I asked.”
Her tongue darted out and she licked her lips, looking up at the ceiling as though she were choosing her next words very carefully. He didn’t think she was intentionally teasing him with her tongue, but the tip, as pretty a pink as her lips, made everything in his body harden.
Her eyes drifted down, meeting his again. “I may not have a choice in our nuptials, but I will have choices in our marriage. And I guarantee that if you force me into this, you’re not going to like them.”
He cocked his head at an angle as he assessed the imp before him. “Challenge accepted, Princess.”
Chapter Two
Abigail blinked at him. Challenge accepted?
What was wrong with this man?
Then she snorted to herself. Everything. There wasn’t a thing that was right. Well, she drew in a shuddering breath, there were a few things that were right, like his muscular thighs. Those looked exactly the way they were supposed to...
He should be running away from her. Or at least having serious doubts. She’d been rude, demanding, and sarcastic. All the tricks she’d learned as the youngest child had not made a dent in his resolve to wed her.
Odd. They always worked with her family. As the youngest, she couldn’t physically best her siblings, but she could needle them. And her father, he’d always found her so charming; whenever he was home, she’d often get her way.
But Blackwater had stood firm.
His finances must be absolutely atrocious.
Bash clears his throat. “We’ve all reached an agreement then?”
“That is what you consider an agreement? Me acknowledging that I have little choice in the matter?” She spun back around to her brother-in-law. “What does Isabella think of all this?”
His answering grimace caught her attention. “Your sister?” he asked, his gaze sliding away.
She cocked her head to the side. “Does my sister know what you have planned?”
“I came to you first,” Bash said, his hands raising up in front of him as if pleading with her not to tell her sister. “I thought you’d appreciate the independence.”
Crossing her arms, she gave Bash a wilting glare. He knew her weak point, she was henpecked by three older sisters and he was attempting to use that against her. “That is complete dung.”
Blasphemy chuckled behind her. “I have to confess that we actually agree on this point.”
Bash gave a withering look over her shoulder, clearly irritated with his friend.
“Don’t get used to it,” she said under her breath. Then she turned back to Bash. “We’re not in a
greement and I’d like for my sister, your wife, to join this conversation, if you please.” Then she found the chair she’d originally been sitting in and serenely took a seat, spreading her skirts about her as she drew in a long breath in an exaggerated show of patience.
Bash’s face went pale and he muttered something about Carrington women being too smart for their own good before he crossed the room and pulled the bell cord near the door.
Abigail smirked. She may have bested Bash after all.
But then Blasphemy took the seat next to her. He did not sit like a gentleman ought. Rather, he lounged back, his legs spread wide, one ankle coming to the other knee and as he laced his fingers behind his head. “Cad,” she whispered, looking away so as not to be caught staring. She wouldn’t want him to think she approved of such a casual display even though he did look rather handsome in that animalistic sort of way.
“Princess,” he muttered back, and she sniffed with disdain.
A servant arrived and Bash chose to step just outside the room to speak to the man. Abigail narrowed her gaze trying to decide what her brother-in-law was about when her musings were interrupted.
“We’re alone,” Blasphemy said, leaning closer. “Shall I kiss you?”
She clucked her tongue, leaning away. “Gads, no. Ick.” But she did look at his mouth for the barest second, noting that his lips were rather pleasant. Not full but not thin either, just right.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I make no bones about the fact that I’ve been a rake, but it does present certain advantages to you, and I thought you might like a display of one of them.”
She choked a bit as words failed her. “You want to make an asset of that fact that you’ve…” She had no idea how to politely refer to his promiscuity.
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