Where to Woo a Bawdy Baron
Romancing the Rake Book 3
Tammy Andresen
Copyright © 2019 by Tammy Andresen
All rights reserved.
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Contents
Where to Woo a Bawdy Baron
Prologue
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
Why a Marauding Marquess is Best
Also in Romancing the Rake
Other Titles by Tammy
About the Author
Where to Woo a Bawdy Baron
Romancing the Rake Book 3
Tammy Andresen
Note to reader: This short prologue graces each of the books in this series. If you’ve already read it and are not inclined to do so again, feel free to skip ahead. If you’re new to the series, this prologue is for you…
Prologue
Early Spring London 1818
Raithe, the Baron of Balstead, watched as his last two victims walked through the door. Good. They were all here.
He’d carefully chosen this cast of characters, his soon-to-be house guests. He needed them for a very particular purpose, though he had no intention of telling them what that purpose was.
This was a situation where it was best to lie.
He found many situations were that way. Not all of them, of course. But here, at his gentlemen’s club, where drinking and gambling were the primary activities, it was all about the bluff. Just to his right sat three friends. Lord Dashlane, Lord Crestwood and Lord Craven. They were his first three potential…guests.
Craven was one of the few men in England that actually frightened him a bit. Quiet and sullen, he was also tall and well-muscled. He looked quick as a snake and equally as deadly. Then there was Dashlane, blond with a flashing smile, he was a charmer for sure. Crestwood was dark-haired and handsome. All three liked their fair share of women and liquor but he’d seen them defend a group of harlots that another band of ruffians had attempted to rob and that put these gents on his list.
“Are you going to tell us what this is about?” Dashlane asked, bringing his whisky to his lips.
“In a minute,” he answered, holding up a finger. A wide range of guests crowded the club tonight, seats limited, which worked for him. His last two players had entered the club but hadn’t picked him out of the crowd yet.
The Duke of Rathmore made his way through the mash of people and stopped directly in front of Raithe. Rathmore turned to his cousin and best friend, Lord Hartwell. “Don’t you love the smell of leather, cigars, and good whisky?”
Hartwell rolled his eyes. “I prefer brandy and thank goodness we missed the speaker,” he quietly announced as he brushed back his rich brown hair. “I’ve no appetite for politics today.”
Rathmore raised his brow. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Charlie.” Hartwell grimaced, his mouth hardening into a thin line.
Raithe’s insides tightened. Charlie was short for Charlotte, Lady Charlotte Rainsville. She was Rathmore’s cousin and Hartwell’s sister. As vivacious as she was beautiful, she’d come out the season before. Fearless and outspoken, many had said she should have been born a man.
Not that her strong personality stopped her from garnering male attention. In fact, Charlie had been the premiere debutante last season with droves of men following her about but she’d yet to choose a husband. Raithe had not been one of those men. He stayed away from respectable girls as a general rule and Charlie in particular. Something about her beauty made her difficult to even look at. A man might lose his head and he couldn’t afford to do that now.
“Are you worried for the upcoming season? I know you were beating men off with sticks and clubs.” Rathmore chuckled.
Hartwell’s grimace turned into a full-on spasm. “Worried doesn’t begin to cover how I feel. And sticks and clubs were the least of the needed weapons. I had two incidents that involved a sword and one that required a pistol.”
Chase clapped his cousin on the back. “I’ll help you.”
Hartwell gave him a light shove. “You said that last year too. But we both know you’re too busy to help me keep Charlie out of trouble.”
“Busy doing what?” Raithe asked, a light grin playing at his lips. He knew full well what sorts of illicit pastimes the duke engaged in that kept him occupied.
Both men turned to look at him. Hartwell appeared leery while Rathmore crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I didn’t sneak.” His grin broadened. “I’ve been sitting here the entire time. Isn’t that right, Dashlane?”
“Are they who we’re waiting for? Can we get on with it then?” Dashlane cracked his knuckles. “I’ve got a lovely brunette waiting for my attention.”
Rathmore frowned at the other fellow. “Must you be so indiscrete about your indiscretions?”
Crestwood quirked a brow. “How else should a man be? We are young, single, titled. Seems perfect to me.”
“It’s tawdry. It’s one thing to participate in such behavior but another to speak so openly about it.”
Rathmore frowned and Raithe realized he should get this conversation moving before the men squabbled. That could come later. “Gentlemen,” he started, clearing his throat. “I’m having a party at the end of next week. You are the premier guests on the list.”
Crestwood slapped the table, his attitude completely changing. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Craven continued to grimace; his face a complete mask. “What sort of party?”
“The sort men of your kind would like.” He winked. Raithe had a particular sort of reputation for having parties filled with women and liquor. That wasn’t what this was going to be and so he wouldn’t outwardly promise such delights. It would give him plausible deniability later.
Rathmore dropped his arms to his sides. “Next week? I couldn’t possibly.”
Raithe tried not to frown. The duke, once a notorious rake, had hardly been seen at the gaming hells or at parties of ill repute. Coupled with his comments to Crestwood, that made him the most important candidate of them all.
Hartwell stepped forward. “We’re headed to the coast to check in on some of our properties.”
Excellent. He tightened his grip around his glass. “Then you’ll be close to my home. Surely, you can spend a few days with us.”
Hartwell shook his head. “My sister will be travelling with me. I seriously doubt she is suited to one of your parties.”
Raithe didn’t respond. This gathering would be perfectly appropriate for such a lady, but he wasn’t about to tell them all of that. Besides, Charlie was the last woman he wanted in his house, under his roof, near his bed. “That doesn’t mean Rathmore can’t attend. For a few days at least.” He leaned forward. “Tell me you’re not craving somet
hing different.”
He saw the flicker of indecision in the other man’s eyes.
Victory roared in his blood.
“Count me in,” Crestwood crowed. “What about you, Dashlane?”
Dashlane took a sip of his drink. “Why not? I could use a change of pace. Craven?”
The third man frowned. “I suppose.”
Raithe didn’t care if Craven attended or not. In fact, he’d prefer he didn’t but the three were often together making Craven a necessary evil. “Rathmore?”
“I’ll think on it.” Rathmore shrugged, staring at the far wall.
“I’ll attend,” another voice called from the corner. Raithe turned, his jaw clenching when he’d seen who spoke. His Grace, the Duke of Danesbury sat, partially obscured by shadow. The man was rarely seen out, his face having been scarred on one side from some accident or another. Raithe’s eyes widened to see the man here on such a busy night. “Your Grace?” he asked. Strictly speaking the man was not invited but as a duke, he’d be difficult to refuse.
“I’ve heard of your parties, Balstead. I’ll come if you’ll have me.”
Raithe swore softly under his breath. This was not one of the carefully chosen men. He didn’t know what sort of man Danesbury was and didn’t wish to find out. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Raithe sat back in his chair. He had five men after all. Not the five he’d originally set out to invite but still… that ought to give Cassandra some choices…
Chapter One
Miss Bianca Moorish stood in the town square of her sleepy village located on the eastern coast of London and assessed the large oak tree that rose up from the center of the square. “If I were a cat, that is most certainly where I would hide.”
Her sister, Juliet, tsked next to her. “Mittens did not bring three kittens up into that tree.”
Bianca turned her head from side to side assessing the branches. “We’ve looked everywhere else. The butcher…” She lifted her fingers and began counting the places they’d checked in the last hour. “The baker. Papa’s office. The docks. The cottage.” Behind her, she heard the two men helping her look. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught Lord Dashlane rolling his eyes. He was the sort of classically handsome fellow that made most girls giddy with excitement. He was tall, broad in the shoulders, fair-haired with blue eyes and a ready smile.
Juliet spun about, tapping Dashlane’s arm. “Why don’t we check the dairy farm on the outskirts of the village? Surely Mittens brought her kittens there for a delicious treat.”
Dashlane frowned. “We’ve been searching for the better part of an hour. I don’t think—"
“Nonsense.” Juliet waved, flashing him a smile. “We’ll find her. I’m certain of it.”
Bianca pressed her lips together, certain that Juliet had concocted this entire scenario to get the handsome Lord Dashlane alone. Which was all well and good except for one little problem. Actually, he was a rather large problem.
Her gaze flitted to the other lord who’d travelled to their village with Lord Dashlane. Apparently, the three of them had been headed to a party when a storm had washed out the bridge. Tall, dark, and menacing with a heavy brow and a constant frown, Lord Craven frightened her a bit. He rarely spoke, instead answering with a sound that closely resembled a growl. His arms were perpetually crossed, making the thick muscles of his neck bulge out.
“Juliet,” she said. “We can all search the dairy farm together. Surely—”
But Juliet had already grabbed Dashlane’s elbow. “We’ll be right back. Check the tree. It’s a grand idea.” She flashed Bianca an angelic grin, her auburn hair glinting in the sun. “You’ll be fine, B. Don’t be a scared little mouse.”
Bianca coughed, unable to believe that Juliet had just called her that in front of two men they hardly knew. “I am not a scared mouse,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.
Lord Craven made that noise in response. “Mmmm,” he growled out from deep in his throat.
How did he even make such a noise? Her gaze flicked to him again as her stomach did a flop. She’d guess he wasn’t afraid of anything. She nibbled at the inside of her cheek as she pressed her hands into the folds of her skirt.
She likely was scared of most things. For example, she was frightened to ask him to help her search the tree. He’d just growl at her again and so she turned without a word and started for it alone.
She didn’t have to look back to know that he’d followed. She could feel his hulking presence behind her like one feels a predator, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Though, it wasn’t precisely fear that filled her belly. She looked back again, watching his muscles flex. Her breath caught.
Reaching the tree, she circled around the base, ducking branches and staring up into the newly forming foliage. “Mittens?” she called, then made a kissing noise.
Lord Craven had stopped several feet from the tree, staring at her as she moved. Her insides twisted again and her heart sped up. The man’s gaze was disconcerting. Why must he stare? And why did one side of his upper lip curl as though he’d smelled something foul?
She attempted to ignore him as she finished a full circle. “Mittens?” In response she heard a faint, but distinct meow. She gasped, poking her head between two low branches. “Mittens?”
“Bloody hell.”
Bianca heard a deep voice rumble behind her. Surely that was Lord Craven, she’d just never heard him utter actual words. She turned back to look at him, peeking through the branches of the tree. “I can assure you that Mittens is just an ordinary cat. She isn’t sent from the hell fires at all and there is nothing bloody about her.” What had made her just say that? Color stained her cheeks as she assessed his reaction. She made a habit of speaking before she’d really thought the words through, something over which she received endless teasing. From her family, of course. But as of late, it had spread further, with many of the boys in the village taking up the mantle.
He straightened to stand taller, his muscles growing more defined as he tensed. She reached for the branches as though they’d anchor her from his disapproval. He didn’t say a word, however. His brow just dropped lower over his eyes. Briefly, she wondered what color they were. He always had them narrowed into slits so it was difficult to tell.
But he didn’t berate her, verbally anyhow, and instead, just continued to watch. With a shrug, she turned her attention back to the tree and tried to pretend the cat was the only one currently plaguing her state of well-being. “Mittens,” she called. “Come down, sweetheart.”
“No cat has ever come when called. They are like women in that regard,” he said as he moved closer.
She tightened her grip on the branches. Was that an insult? She didn’t look at him. His face wouldn’t provide answers anyhow. “You find it objectionable that women and cats wish to be in charge of their own destinies?”
He stopped again, making that dreadful noise. “No. I didn’t say that. I simply meant you’re wasting your breath calling her. She won’t come.”
Bianca frowned. He was right in that regard. Mittens likely wouldn’t come and if the kittens had followed her into the tree, they wouldn’t be able to come down and she, being a good mother, wouldn’t leave them. “Fiddlesticks,” she mumbled and then let out a sigh. There was only one thing to do.
“Fiddlesticks?” He ducked under the branches to join her at the trunk of the tree. Only one large branch separated them and she shifted away, still looking up into the canopy. Looking up at him made her so…jumpy. Goodness, she felt a bit like a cat right now. She couldn’t see the cat, only heard the meows.
Thank goodness she could pretend to look for Mittens rather than face the disdain she could hear dripping from his voice. “You don’t like the word fiddlesticks?” she asked, testing the strength of the lowest branch.
“It’s a silly word,” he replied. “From a…” He paused, but she winced.
“From a silly girl?” She filled in, her chest a
ching. She’d often been called exactly that. If only she could be confident and sharp like her sister Adrianna or refined like Ophelia.
He said nothing in response and she sighed as she looked up into the tree. She couldn’t do a darn thing about a man who thought her foolish. But she could do something about Mittens. And so, lifting her skirt, she grabbed onto a tree branch and started to climb.
* * *
Chris’s head snapped back. What the bloody hell was she doing? He didn’t curse out loud, however. Because he’d already used profanity in her presence once and she’d promptly made fun of him.
Why did he care about what one silly girl thought? Well, that had been her phrase, actually. He’d been thinking something more like beautiful or delightful. Regardless, he was Lord Christian Craven, a baron, who would someday inherit his father’s title of viscount. Why did he remain silent because one little country miss disapproved?
To be fair, he was often quiet. But in the case of Miss Bianca Moorish, he’d avoided speaking for several other reasons as well. To begin, she was uncommonly beautiful. The sort of pretty that made every muscle in his body clench. And she had this innocence. Like her smile lit heaven instead of the small village square of Seabridge Gate.
She had light blue eyes that sparkled in the sun and dark hair curling just enough to dance in the breeze. Her face had a lovely heart shape and her lips were full and sweet as though they’d been kissed by summer strawberries. Just looking at her made him ache.
Where to Woo a Bawdy Baron: Romancing the Rake Book 3 Page 1
