Duke of Dishonor Tammy Andresen (books for 5 year olds to read themselves txt) 📖

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 unseen? 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.

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.