Tempting a Gentleman Smith, Ann (best novels to read in english .TXT) 📖

The Hadfield Series

Revealing a Rogue

Tempting a Gentleman

Loving a Dowager

Tempting a Gentleman is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the 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 locals are entirely coincidental.

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.

First Edition April 2021

Developmental Edit by Gray Plume Editing

Edited by Rare Bird Editing

Proofread by Magnolia Author Services

Cover design by The Swoonies Book Covers

Copyright © 2021 by Rachel Ann Smith

ISBN 978-1-951112-11-0

Tempting a Gentleman

Rachel Ann Smith

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

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Also by Rachel Ann Smith - Historical

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Rachel A Smith - Contemporary

About the Author

Chapter One

Ensconced in the Hadfield drawing room, Emma sat stiffly on the edge of the ornate blue-velvet settee. The fine furniture was a far cry from the well-worn wooden bench she and her best friend Bronwyn, now Countess Hadfield, used to occupy for afternoon tea. She’d rather be huddled about the kitchen table at the back of Bronwyn’s parents’ shop than be worried about messin’ up the plush fabric that cushioned her bottom.

Emma stared over Bronwyn’s shoulder at a portrait upon the wall. She guessed it was a close male relation to the current Lord Hadfield as they shared a similar rakish smile. Emma hadn’t yet met Bronwyn’s brother-in-law, Christopher Neale, although she’d heard plenty about him. Bronwyn yammered on. “It’s been six weeks, and not one of the countless overqualified candidates have passed Christopher’s final interview.”

Her friend since childhood, dressed in one of Emma’s latest satin creations, paced about the luxurious room. It was easily three times the size of Emma’s parents’ parlor, and while Bronwyn looked at ease in her new home, Emma would prefer to be back on the east end of town. Bronwyn paraded back and forth in front of the stern paintings of past Hadfield family members, her forthright march tamed to a ladylike walk. Her friend had undergone other subtle changes since marrying the head of the Protectors of the Royal Family—PORFs—but Bronwyn had vowed she remained the same and would remain Emma’s best friend until her last breath. Bound by an oath taken years ago, Emma was compelled to support Bronwyn in any and every way possible. But even if she hadn’t sworn to serve and protect PORFs, Emma would not abandon her best friend. Even if it meant she had to endure the back-aching pain of being perched on the edge of a formal settee for over an hour listening to Bronwyn’s complaints. Emma held in her sigh.

Bronwyn swiveled to face her. “I swear my brother-in-law is purposefully scaring each and every applicant away.”

She wanted to cross her arms and glare at Bronwyn, but that would not be ladylike nor becoming. Instead, she calmly crossed her ankles and said, “Ye only have yerself to blame. Ye was too good of a legal secretary, working all hours without complaint.”

Bronwyn’s eyes narrowed—Emma had obviously failed to mask her irritation. The clean, freshly redecorated Hadfield drawing room walls were closing in. It had been two decades since she had stepped foot into a townhouse on the west end. The knots in Emma’s shoulders tightened. She had been but a toddler of three or four, holding her mum’s hand tightly while being escorted into the Hereford library. The wife of the man who sired Emma had learned of her existence and summoned them in the middle of the night. It wasn’t until years later that Emma understood the old biddy’s threats and demands.

Exhaling slowly, Emma refocused on the blur of green silk as Bronwyn continued to flounce about the room. She hadn’t shared that night's events with another soul, even her closest friend. No one would understand the anger and shame that night had evoked. And she’d be damned if she’d let anyone make her feel that way ever again. But she wasn’t in the Hereford townhouse. She was safe in the company of her dearest friend, who had managed to infuse warmth into the cold, aristocratic room. Wall panels covered in paper etched with an intricate pattern that reminded Emma of wild daisies. Thick, royal-blue window coverings with complementary cream and aquamarine for the delicate upholstery. But it all spoke of wealth and Bronwyn’s new station within the ton.

Emma shifted, planting her foot firmly on the Persian rug to prevent her knee from bobbing up and down. If she didn’t love Bronwyn like a sister, she wouldn’t even consider enduring hours upon hours of torture, let alone subject herself to the misery. Until today, Bronwyn had accommodated Emma’s wish to conduct their visits on the east end of town. When Emma received the missive early this morn conveying Bronwyn’s invitation for tea, she couldn’t delay the inevitable.

All rules regarding etiquette thrown out the window, Bronwyn stomped over to Emma and glared down at her. “You meant that as a compliment, I’m sure.”

“Luv a dove. Just tell Mr. Neale to settle.” Emma’s lips curved into a smirk. It was good to see her old friend’s fiery nature again.

Bronwyn removed one hand from her hip and waved it about in a circle. “Everyone thinks Christopher is the easygoing brother and my husband the demanding one when, in fact, it is the other way around.” Bronwyn flopped into the wing-backed chair facing Emma and flung her arms wide. With the return of her old ways, the woman cared not that her skirts were askew and her cap sleeve had slipped precariously to the