Lord Bachelor

by Tammy L. Bailey

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Lord Bachelor

  Copyright

  Dedications

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  He smiled. “Just say thank you, and we’ll call it even.”

  For a long moment, she stared at him, mouth agape, not sure if this was some sort of British humor she didn’t understand. Well, she supposed it didn’t cost her anything to give him what he wanted. “Thank you.”

  His smile widened. “I thought American girls were all about, uhm,” he paused, his gaze sliding to her slightly parted lips, “…affectionate forms of appreciation.”

  Abby exhaled. Did he really expect her to kiss him? Well, she wasn’t going to, no matter how many times her gaze wandered to his mouth. “I don’t know you, and you certainly don’t know me, Mr.—”

  “Lord,” he corrected her with the slightest conceited bow. “Lord Rushwood.”

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Pardon me. Lord Rushwood.”

  “You may still call me Edmund.”

  This time she brought her hands to her face, ready to let out a frustrated scream. He didn’t move as she parted her fingers and peeked through them. Growing more annoyed, she dropped her hands to her sides and squared her shoulders. “I have thanked you…Edmund, so I will not be wrapping my arms around your neck and inviting you up for a night of, whatever you call it in England—”

  “Rogering? Shagging?”

  She closed her eyes and brought in a therapeutic breath. “Never mind,” she replied, trying to extinguish the blush spreading like a wildfire into her face. “I should just throw you out for not being a paying customer.”

  Lord Bachelor

  by

  Tammy L. Bailey

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Lord Bachelor

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Tammy L. Bailey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Champagne Rose Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0515-8

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0516-5

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedications

  To my husband, who never let me give up.

  ~*~

  To mom for her guidance,

  my twin sister, Penny,

  for her staunch advice and love.

  Also, to my friend, beta reader, and biggest fan, Kathy.

  Chapter One

  Abby Forester ducked and squeezed through the loud and intoxicated crowd, balancing a tray of empty Weaver’s Beer bottles and blowing a wisp of blonde hair from her eyelashes. If only she didn’t need the extra money to pay off her endless college loans or the mortgage on her father’s record shop. Soon, she’d graduate and things would turn around for her. They had to.

  “Hey, babe, is it true what they say about Weaver’s Beer?”

  For the eleventh time that night, Abby ignored the question, wishing the person who had started the sexual rumor about the cheapest selling beer in Portland would go hang himself. God help the next Neanderthal who asked her about the damn beer.

  With her arms shaking and her throat burning from a mushroom cloud of celebrity perfume, she zigzagged her way to the bar.

  “Next time you think about asking me to waitress for you,” she said toward her long-time friend and bartender, Tommy Reid. “Don’t.”

  He gazed up through short black lashes. Handsome with a narrow nose and a tanned complexion, he’d broken his fair share of hearts since they left each other at the altar.

  “Thanks for coming in. I had four people call in sick. Weird, huh?”

  Abby shrugged. “I don’t mind. Raify’s watching the store for me.”

  “Yeah, speaking of weird.”

  Abby sent him a warning glance. “Raify’s been a godsend since Dad died, and I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

  “She’s more like a batty great aunt,” Tommy said, with one dark eyebrow raised. Although Raify had her eccentric ways and her style of dress was odd, Abby loved her, although she couldn’t remember how they had met and why.

  “Judy went on break, so I need you to wait on table eighteen.”

  Without bothering to glance back, Abby shook her head, having avoided the table for the last three minutes on purpose. Of the two men who sat there, she recognized one of them from Genealogy 101. Will Simpson was an egotistical jackass who’d almost sabotaged her college project a few semesters ago. Not that Abby held grudges; she just didn’t like men who had only one goal in mind—to be successful at the expense of everyone else.

  “Please give me table ten,” Abby said, hands clasped in prayer under her chin. “It’s full of women who don’t try to grab my ass when I’m asking them what they want.” She hesitated to add, ‘Well, at least, not all of them.”

  “Go,” Tommy said, stretching out his muscular arm. Like an obedient soldier, Abby twisted in their direction, drawing deeper into the muted light and reaching up to pull her bangs low over her face.

  She would have been much better off staying home and re-writing her nineteenth-century Women’s Lit paper. She had learned the hard way that the scene of Mr. Darcy emerging from a pond, his damp shirt pressed to his sexy chest, was not in Jane Austen’s book and not open to interpretation.

  To postpone her reunion with Will, she turned to the other man, who, in a span of two and half minutes, had flirted, charmed, and even rescued a table full of giggling bridesmaids from a clumsy drunk carrying two pitchers of beer.

  “Hell, Edmund. I say, screw them all,” Will said, and then snorted.

  Mortified over their private chat, she started to twist away until a haughty British accent stopped her.

  “There’s no need to run off.”

  Called out, Abby sighed and turned back to Will’s friend, Edmund. She expected him to be handsome. After all, she’d watched dozens of
women drop their phone numbers into his lap on the way to the ladies’ room.

  “I…I wasn’t running,” she said, her middle-school reaction to his good looks and regal demeanor, causing heat to spread from head to toe.

  “You came to give me your number, then?” The Englishman smiled, his dusty eyebrows rising over hypnotic ocean-green eyes with Caribbean blue flecks. His gaze was so alluring that she thought if she stared too long, she might drown. She blinked to save herself, her attention lifting to his hair. It was longer and ruffled on top, but short in the back and tapered on the sides. She knew right away he was rich.

  “What? No. I came to—” Damn. His perfect posture and arrogant smile had her so flustered, she’d forgotten why she was there. She knew after meeting him she’d imagine him as either Mr. Rochester—or worse, Mr. Darcy—while reading her English Lit assignment.

  “It doesn’t matter. I only called you back to ask if it’s true—”

  Her somewhat reserved and relaxed nature snapped. “No, Weaver’s Beer does not have the same effect as erectile dysfunction meds, but if you’re looking for something that does, I would suggest talking to a doctor about a prescription.”

  His sensual mouth twisted into an amused smile. The subtle, yet dangerous gesture caused a fiery blush to rise from Abby’s belly to her cheeks. She had jumped to the wrong and worst conclusion. She wanted to pull the tray in front of her face, slide out the side door and back to her father’s record shop. Entranced, she remained standing before the man.

  “I have learned American women are forward, however—”

  “I wasn’t trying to be forward. I was trying to save you a headache.”

  Their gazes locked for a long moment until she thought if she didn’t say something, he might think her too enthralled to form a coherent thought. “You started to ask me if something was true—”

  “Ah, yes.” He cleared his throat and nodded. “Besides the quicker-picker-upper label you enthusiastically informed me about earlier, I wanted to know if, among the one hundred imported beers, if Fuller’s London Porter would be among them?”

  He blinked and crossed his arms, leaning back to wait for her answer.

  “Well, I don’t have any idea,” she said. Since she was only waitressing to help her friend out, she knew nothing of what he had, imported or otherwise. “I’ll have to go ask.” She started to step away, but Edmund’s hand reached out and clasped her wrist in a gentle hold. Pulled back in front of him, a tiny sliver of exhilaration raced up her spine.

  “Over my right shoulder is a list of beers, written in neon pink, white, and green chalk. I would like, very much, for you to read me what’s written there.”

  Oh, God. He was insane. He was gorgeous, but insane. “Wouldn’t it be faster for you to turn and read the list yourself?”

  His head canted, his fingers continuing to hold her captive. Forced into action, she inhaled and obliged him with an exaggerated smile. “I work for tips, and unless you plan on paying for the time it takes to go over the entire list, I suggest you allow me to go ask.”

  He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. She supposed he employed servants and butlers to cater to his every whim. Even his clothes smelled of expensive starch.

  Under his dispassionate gaze, she started to fidget. After several moments, he let go and leaned forward, reaching back for his wallet. He pulled out a crisp fifty-dollar bill and placed it between his index and middle finger. “Why would I do that when I have you?”

  Abby stared at the money before reaching out to take what he offered. Only, before she had a firm grasp, his well-manicured fingers snatched it back toward his chest.

  “Ah, I’ve tempted you,” he said in a voice so full of sensual promise, she wanted to melt on the sticky floor beside him.

  She recovered to give him a haughty reply. “It’s your money that has tempted me.”

  “Well, of course.”

  His retort left her stunned and insulted. She brought in a calming breath, believing that two days of yoga she’d tried a year ago had not done her any good.

  Resigned to do what he wanted, she read to him, from most expensive to least, the list of beers. His conceited gaze never left her face, even as a pair of bar beauties shuffled by, both giggling to gain his attention. “Last and most certainly least, Weaver’s Beer.”

  He bent closer, his warm breath tickling her neck. “Are you saying you would not recommend the Weaver’s label?”

  She returned his egotistical smirk. “If the rumors are true, I would not. It’s best drunk under promising circumstances.”

  His smile widened, the hum of two dozen conversations spinning around her at the same time. His intense stare held her hostage until she let out a long, silent sigh. “Do you have any idea what you want?”

  His eyes flashed a dangerous answer, his gaze shifting from her eyes to her hips. The wordless gesture sent her heart smacking hard against her ribcage.

  “You know, I’m not all that…thirsty at the moment.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Too stunned to scoff or scream, she just stood there, blinking at him. When he offered up the money again, she yanked herself from her stupor and plucked it out of his hand. When she stepped away, he called out.

  “Wait.”

  She made an unladylike growl before twisting back toward him. “Yes…sir,” she ground out.

  He reached in his wallet and presented her a twenty. “The first beer you named, I’d like for you send it to those ladies over there.” He pointed to the two giggling women. “And keep the change.”

  Abby imagined lobbing the handful of pennies at his obnoxious head. When she stepped closer to pull the bill from his hand, his reluctance to let go catapulted her full force into his chest.

  The warm and sensual scent of him made her dizzy. She tried to get her feet to move away from him, but they refused to budge. Her hesitation proved to be a most unfortunate mistake.

  “Abs? Abby Forester?”

  Oh, hell. She’d forgotten about Will. Damn the Englishman. After a few cleansing breaths, she painted on a fake smile and turned in Will’s direction. He hadn’t changed since Mr. Thurmond’s class last spring. Maybe his hair was a little longer. “Will Simpson, wow, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “So, you do remember me?” Abby started to say something when he smirked, his wide lips spreading from one side of his smug face to the other. “Or did you come to get my autograph?”

  She shook her head, confused. “Your autograph? For what?”

  He laughed until he realized she was serious. “I’m the host of Love Match, the popular dating game show on Channel 13. Every weekday? In the afternoon? We replaced one of the long-running soap operas, for God’s sake.”

  When she continued to give him a blank stare, he drew back. “Oh, come on, Abby. I know you’ve heard of it. It’s for lonely, desperate women in the Portland area who want to find their own Prince Charming.”

  Fed up with his talking, she exhaled. “What do you want, Will?”

  “Oh, just get me a Weaver’s.”

  She opened her mouth to make a comment and then relented, shaking her head and walking away. When she twisted back to Edmund, he’d dismissed her with as much indifference as someone who had encountered a fruit fly.

  ****

  Lord Edmund Rushwood tried not to glance back at the American’s delightful retreating form. Despite his attempt, his gaze followed her, enjoying every twist and sensual move she made around tall, rounded tables and giggling bridesmaids.

  Her natural honey-blonde hair was pulled back, exposing her rounded cheeks and slender neck. He liked this, enabling him to catch the dusty pink blush rising in her face every time he tried to bait her. While her powder-blue eyes sparkled with ire, her smiling lips promised sensual delight.

  All of a sudden, she sensed his attention on her and glanced toward him, her adorable nose wrinkling from annoyance. She showed him her elegant back, picked up the bar tray, and delivered the beers he�
�d purchased to the loud women six tables away.

  Abby pointed in his direction, a wide smile on her rapturous face. He wondered what she’d done until the tallest of the women scrunched up her painted features and then graced him with a one-finger wave. It didn’t take him long to realize that Abby had brought them over two bottles of Weaver’s label.

  He had to chuckle as she waved her change in the air, mouthed the words thank you, and then tucked the bills into the front pocket of her jeans.

  Surprised his interest in her had been so obvious, Edmund nodded and forced himself to think of a way out of his current predicament. So far, Will’s advice to screw them all did not rank high on his list of suggestions.

  He sat thinking up another solution when the man behind the bar pointed to Abby and then toward a group of young drunk American men. She rolled her eyes and puffed out her cheeks before ambling toward the half-pissed table on the other side.

  Her shoulders stiff, she wedged herself between two muscular patrons. They smiled and winked at one another, one going so far as to place his hand on her lower back. Edmund watched as she tried to shift away, her head shaking, her face flushed. He wanted not to care. He tried until one of the men leaned in to whisper something in her ear. In a blink, she had a beer bottle clutched upside down in her small hand.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Edmund cursed under his breath, shooting up and stalking straight toward her.

  Chapter Two

  By the time Edmund arrived at the scene, Abby had attempted breaking the dark bottle over the man’s head. Adrenaline poured through Edmund’s veins as the goon’s eyes grew large and murderous. In a thundering heartbeat, Edmund reached up and caught the man’s wrist in midair.

  “Think very hard about your next move,” Edmund warned as two rugby-sized bouncers in black T-shirts flanked Edmund on both sides.

  The larger of the two clutched the man by the collar, hauled him up, and pushed him toward the exit.

  “Take care of her,” the other said in Edmund’s direction. Edmund, unsure what take care of her even meant, reached out to pry the bottle from her with one hand while enfolding her palm in the other. Warm and tender, her hand shook inside his.