Duke of Dishonor (Lords of Scandal 11)

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 together 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.