A Score with a Scoundrel, page 1
A SCORE WITH A SCOUNDREL
LORDS OF TEMPTATION
TAMMY ANDRESEN
SWIFT ROMANCE PUBLISHING CORP
Copyright © 2023 by Tammy Andresen
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.
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CONTENTS
A Score with a Scoundrel
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
Epilogue
Prologue
A Bargain With a Beast
About the Author
Other Titles by Tammy
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Hugs!
A SCORE WITH A SCOUNDREL
He’s the most enticing rake…
Miss Emma Blake knows she ought not to tangle with Lord Triston Smith. From his bulging muscles to his fierce scowl, every other woman would likely have the sense to stay away from the sort of man who’s chosen boxing as his trade. But Emma’s never had much smarts when it comes to avoiding problems. Her heart has always been stronger than her brain. And from the moment their eyes meet, she knows he’s just the sort of dangerous that might make a woman’s bones melt.
And the fact that her mother wishes her to marry the loathsome Lord Marsden only makes Lord Triston that much more interesting. Too bad he finds her more annoying every time they meet. Because he makes her wonder…
Does he have the sort of strength that could save a woman from fate and family?
CHAPTER ONE
Miss Emma Blake tapped her toe beneath her skirts as she and her mother greeted an endless line of guests.
The autumn soirée was an event her family held every year, and her mother had determined that they’d do so again despite the less-than-ideal circumstances. Emma had more or less agreed, though now that she was here, she found she could not decide if she wished to race recklessly from this receiving line and into the ballroom where the lively strains of music had already begun, or if she wanted to run up to her room and hide beneath the covers of her bed.
Every detail appeared the same as previous soirées, with red and gold garland and wreaths adorning every mantel, doorway, and chandelier. Candles filled the entry, hall, and ballroom and a ten-piece orchestra was stationed at one end. But this year was not the same.
Not at all. And not ever again.
Because next to her mother, where her father should have stood, was a blank space.
“Keep your smile firmly in place,” her mother whispered from her spot next to Emma. “You must appear the perfect hostess.”
Perfect. The word had been bandied about so often of late, Emma wondered if it had lost its meaning. No one was perfect.
Least of all her. But suddenly the expectation was there. A perfect lady would marry the best lord. That was what her mother repeated over and over until Emma wished to go mad from the repetition. Granted, she was considered attractive by many. She was tall, curvy, with striking auburn hair and green eyes. But she was far from a successful debutante. Her season in London had been going well enough, until her father’s illness had cut it short. Though she was not as demure as many would like, the gentlemen, at least, had seemed to like her bolder, lively nature. Her mother, however, swore regularly that very trait would lead to her ruin.
Emma’s uncle appeared, Emma’s younger sister, Natalie, on his arm, and she gave herself a bit of a shake as she watched them approach. Her uncle looked so much like her father that Emma ached a bit every time she shared his company. She and her father had always been close. Where Emma and her mother so often disagreed, her father had simply loved his daughter for who she was without constantly demanding she change. She missed him so much, the pain of his loss sometimes threatened to engulf her.
Her uncle had become the new Viscount Northville, but he’d been kind enough to leave the three women in their home while they first grieved and then decided upon their futures.
Though the only decision left seemed to be whom Emma would marry. Her mother had some inheritance, much of her dowry remained, and her father had left a small property for his wife, but it was, in every way, far less grand than the ancestral home of the Viscount Northville. Which meant that it was left to Emma to marry well and keep her family in the life to which they’d become accustomed.
Emma shook her head. No one had asked her if she wished to marry, or under what circumstances matrimony might suit her. No one seemed to care that a large home was not important to her at all.
What she wanted was some measure of freedom to choose her own future, or even just her own groom. She wished for the ability to find herself and a future that made her feel satisfied rather than forever restless. She was certain a husband of someone else’s choosing would give her the opposite experience.
Her mother gave a glittering smile to the Earl of Berwick and his son, the Viscount Marsden, the next guests in line. “So wonderful to see you both,” her mother laughed, the tinkling sound ringing out like a bell. “It’s been ages.” Then she waved airily toward Emma. “You remember my daughter, Miss Emma Blake.”
Berwick leaned in to take her mother’s hands in his, raising one to his lips, and his son stopped in front of her, giving a short bow. “Lady Emma. You’ve grown up since last I saw you.” His gaze raked over her in a way that made her wildly uncomfortable.
“And you, my lord, look exactly the same.” It wasn’t exactly true. Was he ten years her senior? He’d filled out a great deal, mostly in the middle, and his hair had thinned considerably. Still, he wasn’t entirely unfortunate to look upon and he would be an earl. Her mother would surely consider him an excellent catch.
She caught her mother’s approving look out of the corner of her eye as Marsden leaned forward to whisper into her ear. “You must save me a dance.”
She gave a nod of acceptance and he moved closer still. Emma resisted the urge to step back, realizing that she’d answered her earlier question about which way she’d like to run. She no longer had any desire go into the ballroom—she now wished to go directly to her room.
But she kept her feet planted and the father and son moved on, making way for the next guests.
She didn’t look at them, her eyelids had fluttered closed as she attempted to calm the beat of her heart, the desire to run. She’d like to be on her horse, riding over the open fields. Or perhaps in London, blending into the sea of people. Anywhere but here.
“Why hello,” her mother gushed from next to her. “Such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Emma’s eyes snapped back open, her breath catching as her gaze collided with another’s.
Lord Triston Smith. Her heartbeat ticked back up, pounding in her chest, as his dark eyes held hers captive. Near black in color, they were fringed with long lashes, which managed to draw even more attention to his glittering gaze. Those lashes were the only soft thing about him. That and his dark, wavy hair.
Every other part of him was hard, from his jaw to the chiseled cut of his shoulders, right down to his powerful thighs on full display in the tight breeches he wore.
His mouth was set in a perpetually hard frown, at least that was her impression. This was only the second time she’d met him, the first encounter being very brief, but his mouth appeared natural in the stern expression—which should likely have frightened her.
Somehow, it wasn’t fear but sizzling awareness and a keen interest that coursed through her once again. Why had the handful of words they’d exchanged been as gruff as his stern frown? Was there any softness underneath that hard exterior?
She shivered, not with fear but with interest as his brother, Lord Smith, took her mother’s offered hand.
His wife came next. Lady Smith was as sweet as her looks implied. During their one meeting, the beautiful blonde had been warm and generous with her time and her compliments.
Emma had instantly liked her.
“Lady Emma,” Lady Smith gave her a large smile. “So good to see you again. Thank you for having us.”
“I’m so glad you’ve come.” Those felt like the first genuine words she’d said all evening. And something inside her uncoiled, her entire body relaxing. “I’ve been hoping to visit you again, but we’ve been so busy with preparations.”
Lady Smith waved her hand. “I understand. Perhaps next week we could have tea.”
“I’d like that very much,” she answered, watching Lord Triston greet her mother.
He bowed, that stiff frown still marking his face, hardly uttering a word beyond a gruff, “Good evening.”
Even her mother eyed him with a bit of skepticism as she replied. “Good evening.”
Lord Triston was the exact sort of man her mother would despise. And not just because he was rougher in every way from a normal lord. He was a third son, unlikely to ever gain a title. That was his worst sin of all.
Emma attempted to care. She really did. She knew how important a good marriage was to her mother, to her family. But as she looked into those dark eyes, excitement settled deep in the pit of her stomach.
“Lord Triston,” Emma supplied with a shaking breath. “A pleasure to see you again.”
And she meant those words. Far more than she ought.
Tris groaned to himself as he stared into the green eyes that he was certain belonged to the devil.
Oh, Lady Emma looked innocent enough.
Auburn hair and ivory skin. Full, lush pink lips that always had a ready smile. And he wouldn’t even start on her figure. Because that was where the devilment began. Her curves were made for sin.
And the look in her eyes…oh, they were the color of grass after a spring rain and the tiny yellow flecks appeared like sunshine itself, but beneath that…they held the glint of trouble.
He’d recognize the look anywhere.
He was one of five brothers who’d grown up as the bastard sons of the Earl of Easton. Through a stroke of fate, and the helping hand of their one legitimate sibling, they had been legitimatized, but they’d been raised on the East End of London. And one learned to spot bad intentions with a single glance, and this lady may as well have been holding up a sign.
Is she did, it would read:
I’ll ruin your life if you let me.
And he had no intention of allowing a woman to disrupt his path. Though a lord now, Tris had never actually expected to be so. After spending much of his childhood thieving, fighting, and generally causing mayhem, he’d settled into the sport of boxing as a way to channel his feelings and his need for chaos.
The anger that had plagued him still simmered underneath the surface. He’d just learned to focus those feelings into his training and into his fights, fairly certain he was too explosive for any woman.
And he knew without a doubt that a woman like Lady Emma was as far away as the moon.
He saw the interest shining in her eyes. He’d seen it before. Ladies liked his strength, they found his hard edges intriguing, until they brushed against one.
Once she was married, she might invite him into her bed for a torrid affair and he’d likely accept. The attraction he felt for her was near explosive, so deep, it was a well that would surely drown him.
But as a debutante, she was someone he’d best stay as far away from as possible. He had his own goals and ambitions with his career, and dallying with a daughter of a powerful family was the surest way to see them crushed.
Which was why, when he stopped in front of her, he looked over her left shoulder, not meeting her gaze, as he murmured, “Lady Emma.”
“My lord,” she replied, her breath catching on the second word. Despite his best efforts, he tensed at the breathiness he heard. Her obvious interest.
He willed himself back to calm, knowing that here, of all places, he could not lose control of himself. He already stuck out at this ball, or party, or whatever the hell they’d called the bloody affair.
Taller, larger than every man here, and far more muscled, he barely fit into his coat. The rest of these titled gentlemen had a softness about them. Easy lives, good food. He bet none of them had ever brawled in the streets or had knife fights with boys twice their size. They’d never fought to feed their baby sisters or thieved for the same reason.
Tris had always been filled with raw aggression and it didn’t fit in this clean and beautiful world. He looked about the entry with its soaring ceilings and intricate plaster. The polish of the carved banister shone in the candlelight as guests made their way up the curved stairs to the ballroom.
“Thank you for coming,” Emma continued, leaning forward in a way that better displayed her cleavage. He couldn’t help himself. He looked down at the plump, round, smooth flesh.
His cock gave a definite twitch and he forced himself not to notice how her bosom was precisely the perfect size. Not overmuch, it was just enough, assuring him that her breasts would fill a man’s hands. He tried to tear his gaze away but failed miserably.
Nor could he help but trace the narrow curve of her waist or the flare of her hips with his gaze. He’d bet her ass was nice and plump and round.
He clenched both fists at his sides. “The pleasure is mine.” The words sat bitter on his tongue. It was not a pleasure but a torture.
“Will you be staying at Upton Falls for long?”
The answer was that he didn’t know. The family ran a gaming hell, Hell’s Corner. When a competitor had threatened his brother’s wife, Tris had agreed to come here to ensure her safety.
But damned if he was telling this woman any of that. He knew she only asked because she was making plans… What sort he couldn’t say. But whatever they were, he wanted no part of them. “Not long.”
She gave him an overly bright smile that told him of her disappointment. For his part, he’d stay at this particular party for as short a time as possible and then he’d slip away. The Northville estate was the neighboring property to his brother’s. He could walk back at any point. In fact, the night air would likely help cool his overheated skin.
Saying a curt goodbye, he followed his brother Rush and Rush’s wife, Abby, up the grand stairs and into the ballroom, his teeth grinding together as he noted the marble floors that gleamed under his feet.
Next to him, some woman with plumes of feathers sticking out her headdress gave an overly enthusiastic giggle. “I just love the Northville soirée. What shall we do when they no longer host it?”
A sneer pulled at his lip. The carpets were thick and lush, a red that only accented the decorations for the soirée. Christ, even that word spoke of snobbery.
Soirée.
Soirée.
It sounded odder each time he repeated it. Utter shit. A sea of sparkling women passed him, all in jewels that caught the candlelight and twinkled as their wearer moved.
One of those stones could have fed an entire tenement house where he came from. Where people were packed in like fish in a barrel and still starving.
He tugged on the lapels of his jacket. What was he even doing here?
He’d wanted no part of this life. He’d keep his brother safe. And Abby too. The woman was as sweet as they came, but he’d never wished to attend a soirée.
He already had a profession as a boxer and that suited him perfectly well. The only reason he’d agreed to help his family with the club was that he wanted to take his career further.
At nearly thirty, he was growing too old for the ring. It had occurred to him that he might start a boxing club of his own. He could train and spar and use the club as the release of pressure without so much risk to his personal health.
Which was why he’d entered the gaming business with his brothers. Because while it created one headache after another, it also afforded him enough income that he’d nearly saved all that he needed for the purchase of his own club.
And leaving to help Rush in the country would only prove to his brothers that they could run the business without him.
A good plan, if he did say so himself, except for this one complication. He’d landed himself at a bloody soirée.
Stationing himself against a wall, he leaned back, crossing his ankles and his arms in an attempt to make himself as unappealing as possible.
It didn’t work. Woman after woman eyed him over her fan, their eyes filled with interest or suggestion—or both.
He ignored any implied invitations.
A few years back, he’d dallied with a countess. When her husband had found out, Triston nearly landed in the Tower. He’d only avoided it by hopping on a ship with his brother Fulton and spending three months in Italy while his brother smuggled wine.
