He didn’t answer as she snuggled down into his side, but he knew the moment she fell asleep.
Curling her into his body, he closed his eyes too. He was home. He never wished to be anywhere else.
Untitled
Baron of Blasphemy
Lords of Scandal
Tammy Andresen
Baron of Blasphemy
Lords of Scandal
“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 she’d been directed to sit in. 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 this mystery suitor’s identity who she’d been foisted on, 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 unse
en? 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 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.