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
Agents of the Home Office
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 edge of the PORF mark. Bronwyn had purposefully chosen her upper arm, the least discreet of places upon her body, as a challenge to Emma. A challenge she had welcomed.
Emma snorted. “Ye’re in love. Blinded to yer bloomin’ husband’s faults.”
Unable to relax despite the return of their childhood familiarity, Emma extended her leg and then curled one ankle behind the other. “At least Lord Hadfield demanded he receive the PORF mark and gain the responsibilities along with it as soon as he was made aware of them, unlike his brother.” The need to remain on guard steeled her spine and added an unnecessary edge to her tone.
Bronwyn raised her brows. “You know Landon would prefer you address him by his first name. And you are aware that my husband won’t hear of Christopher receiving the mark until he is wed. And in typical Neale fashion, my brother-in-law will only marry for love.”
Bah. The Head PORF, no matter his relation to Bronwyn, would always command her respect. And what was Bronwyn babbling on about? Marriage. Love. None of that mattered. The man had a duty. Christopher was next in line to inherit the Hadfield title and PORF responsibilities until Bronwyn birthed a son. It was well known that the Neale men never lived lon
g. If she were in Christopher’s position, she would demand the right to fulfill a generations-old oath to protect the royal family. Instead, the man abided by his brother’s wishes with no objection. It left Emma with no desire to meet Bronwyn’s brother-in-law, despite her friend’s efforts to contrive an introduction between them.
“How do ye suppose Mr. Neale will find a wife if he can’t bloomin’ well find a secretary?”
“That is a valid point.” Bronwyn’s facial muscles twitched and contorted until Emma was pierced with one of Bronwyn’s I-have-a-plan looks. “Aha! If Christopher weren’t plagued by both searches, his temperament would be much improved. I shall redirect my efforts to finding him a wife. Once he is wed, he’ll be more amicable.”
“Are you implying that Mr. Neale is in need of…” Emma wagged her eyebrows.
“I am. I am indeed. Men are much more accommodating if they are…well… Never mind. You are an innocent. I shouldn’t be speaking of such things.”
Bronwyn’s words poked at a bruise upon Emma’s heart. They no longer shared a similar position within the Network. They lived on opposite sides of London. And while Bronwyn had never shown an interest in beaus or marriage, she was the first to find love and a partner in life. The ache in her chest spurred Emma’s retort. “Oh my, ain’t ye all hoity-toity now. Yer lady rules don’t apply when ye are speakin’ with me. And according to my Network sources, Mr. Neale is well acquainted with a number of widows. He has been spied visiting Madam Sinclair’s establishment on occasion. I doubt a wife will make a difference.”
“I can assure you, Christopher is well beyond his wild days, and since Landon left the law firm to him to run, Christopher’s only mistress has been work. In fact, his work ethic reminds me of someone I know rather well.” Bronwyn arched an eyebrow.
Bronwyn’s defense of her new brother-in-law didn’t surprise Emma, but to believe the Network’s information on the man was utterly wrong was highly unusual.
“Speakin’ of work, I’d best be gettin’ back to the shop.” Emma rose. Blood rushed to her legs, causing sharp prickling sensations along the backs of her knees. “Please don’t bother calling for a coach to be readied. It’ll be quicker if I simply take a hackney.”
Bronwyn stood and reached for her hands. “I’ve one more favor to ask before you leave.” Serious blue eyes bored into Emma. “I can’t postpone it any longer; I must host a ball, and I want you to attend.”
Good Heavens—a ball. The blood drained from her hands, leaving them cold and clammy in her friend’s grasp. “Ye know I’d lay me life down for ye, but I’ll not attend a ball amongst me clients.”
She could hardly manage being here when it was just the two of them. Surrounded by socialites, she’d find the walls of Hadfield townhouse even more restricting. To stand amongst those for whom she acted as modiste? She wanted nothing to do with their world. It was a world of ruthlessness, deceit, and greed. It was the reason why PORFs and the Network established themselves apart as separate organizations many generations ago. No. She couldn’t do it. Emma shook her head. “Not even if ye ordered me to. I’d rather face the Network elders’ council and risk banishment than parade meself before the eyes of the ton.”
Bronwyn’s shoulders sagged as she released Emma’s hands. “I understand.”
Blimey. The simple, undemanding statement stole all of Emma’s bluster and replaced it with guilt for denying her friend her support. Placing her hands behind her, Emma clasped them tightly and inhaled deeply to fortify her nerves. “I don’t know how to dance.”
Bronwyn’s watery blue eyes lit up. Her friend blinked, and Emma’s lips curved into a smile. Years of kinship returned. Emma found herself engulfed in a hug similar to the one Bronwyn had bestowed upon her a year ago when Bronwyn turned one-and-twenty, and Emma had gifted Bronwyn with a box of chocolates. The woman’s secret weakness.
The latch of the door squeaked, and Emma pulled away.
Bouncing on her toes, Bronwyn exclaimed, “I’ll hire us a dance master.”
Lord Hadfield’s warm voice came from the doorway. “Absolutely not. I’ll not allow another man the pleasure. I shall teach you.”
“Very well, we’ll hire one for Emma then.”
Bronwyn’s husband entered and came to stand next to his wife. Without hesitation, Bronwyn rose onto her tiptoes and greeted Lord Hadfield with a kiss square on the lips.
The man’s cheeks reddened as he smiled lovingly down at his wife. “I think I know the perfect candidate. I shall make the arrangements.”
Emma took two steps back, hoping to sneak out of the room. She froze when Lord Hadfield turned and addressed her. “Emma. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Blushing at the display of overt love and care, she tried not to stare at the man’s charming dimple but failed. Remembering her manners, Emma bent at the knees in what she hoped was a graceful curtsy. “Lord Hadfield, ye’ve no need to hire a…”
He raised a hand, halting the rest of her protest. “I know I’ve already asked, but I’ll ask again. Please refer to me by my given name.”
Emma bobbed her head. “Ye don’t need to waste yer coin on me.”
“If it makes my wife happy, I’ll gladly pay a fortune for dance lessons, but as it happens, this dance master owes me a favor, and he is extremely reliable and discreet.” He wrapped an arm around Bronwyn’s waist as he spoke. Lord Hadfield didn’t even attempt to hide his love and affection for his wife. No. It was blatantly clear he was infatuated with Bronwyn.
Her best friend was known for being intensely private and guarded even among the Network. Yet Bronwyn stood at ease next to Lord Hadfield. Emma had never had to share Bronwyn’s regard with anyone before. Emma glanced about the room once more. Lord Hadfield was Bronwyn’s new family and world.
She didn’t fit in here. Emma blinked away the threat of tears. She needed to leave before Bronwyn detected her upset. Emma grabbed her shawl that lay over the arm of the settee and said, “That is very generous of you both, but with the season in full swing, I’m rather busy.”
As Emma wrapped the material about her shoulders, she caught sight of tears welling in Bronwyn’s eyes. Damn the woman. From the beginning of their friendship, they’d been highly in tune with each other’s feelings as if they connected intangibly. If one felt hurt or happy, so did the other. Blast. If the roles had been reversed, Bronwyn would do anything for Emma.
Emma put her pride aside. “Gah. Stop yer waterworks. I’ll make time for yer bloomin’ dance master.” Crisscrossing the material in front of her, she asked, “How long is it til yer blasted ball?”
Lord Hadfield answered, “Three weeks from today. I believe I can even arrange for the instructor to give you lessons at your shop. After hours, of course. If that would suit you.”
“Hmph. I guess I can move things about to make room at the shop.”
“Splendid.” Bronwyn clapped her hands with glee. “I’ll be by tomorrow for my fitting.”
“Ye’ll have to pay extra if ye want a new gown completed in three weeks.”
Lord Hadfield beamed down at his wife. “I’ll happily pay extra.” Displaying his irresistible dimple, he asked, “Shall I have the instructor come by tomorrow eve?”
It was no wonder the man had been a successful barrister before he had inherited an earldom and assumed the role of Head PORF. Oath or no oath, no one in their right mind would deny the man standing before her.
Emma answered, “Aye.”
Before the PORF couple could issue any other asinine orders, she turned, marched out of the room, and fled.
Chapter Two
The coach ride from Neale & Sons to the Hadfield townhouse was one Christopher Neale had taken many a time over the last two years since his brother Landon inherited the earldom. Today, the trip took twice as long as it should. Overcrowded carriages jostled for space and pedestrians milled about as if they hadn’t a care in the world. It was not long ago he too led an untroubled life. However, recently it seemed
he was constantly being summoned or ordered about, no longer the master of his own life.
Melancholy and disbelief over his cousin Baldwin’s death lingered despite the changes to both his and Landon’s lives. He wasn’t supposed to be the one in charge of running the firm. That had been Landon’s destiny, not his. He had basked and excelled at leading the life of a second son. Yes, he had attended Oxford and attended the obligatory classes to obtain his law degree, a family tradition. Still, his passions had always lain in the arts and trade negotiations. He had happily managed civil suits while leaving case law and court appearances to Landon. But the day their uncle passed, Landon had inherited not only a bankrupt estate but also a generations-old duty to protect the royal family. A familial duty neither of them were informed of until their cousin Theo was about to forgo love for duty. Even before assuming the role of Head PORF, Landon had demanded Christopher wed before receiving the mark of a PORF, claiming it was in his best interest. While it irked him, Christopher admired and respected Landon, and so he agreed to delay receiving the mark until he found a suitable wife. For men of the Neale linage, that meant a lady he would love until his last breath. But after two years of searching and one failed courtship, Christopher was no longer willing to wait.
The coach slowed at the driver’s command, “Whoa!”
Before the coach came to a complete stop, Christopher jumped out, ready to extract the information his mama had sent him to obtain.
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