A Bargain with a Beast, page 1
A BARGAIN WITH A BEAST
LORDS OF TEMPTATION
TAMMY ANDRESEN
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 Bargain With a Beast
Prologue
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
A Wager With an Earl
About the Author
Other Titles by Tammy
A BARGAIN WITH A BEAST
Tammy Andresen
What’s a man to do when a tiny baby is dropped at his door?
Lord Griswold Smith isn’t exactly genteel, despite his title of lord. Gris is a hard-hitting, gin-making, gaming hell-running, cursing and spitting giant of a man. Who would even leave a baby in his care? But one look at that sweet little face and he knows he can’t let the babe die. He’ll find her mother, return her whence she came, and go back to his derelict life. Until he can track down the fool of a woman who dropped tiny Rose off to begin with, he’ll need help. A temporary nanny should do the trick.
Her new employer is an absolute beast…
But she’s as desperate as a woman can be. Which is why Miss Violet Chase accepts the nanny position, even though Lord Griswold is as large and imposing as a man comes. With her father’s imprisonment, she has no alternative. And besides, the first time she sees Gris’s massive arms wrapped around a tiny little baby, something deep inside her shifts.
And when the demons of her father’s past come knocking, suddenly a large and intimidating man is exactly what she needs. Is he strong enough to beat back the world that wishes to swallow her whole, all while holding a tiny babe in his arms? And how might it feel to be held in that same way? She’d like to find out…
PROLOGUE
The sun had just begun to lighten the sky when Reynalda Pierce stepped onto King Street. She shivered in the cold and pulled her shawl tighter, hitching the basket that she carried higher on her arm.
No good deeds were ever done at this hour.
She knew the street well enough, having come to this part of Cheapside to see a client a year before. He’d paid highly enough that she hadn’t needed to work for a solid month. Which was a detail of note, unfortunately for him.
The time lapse had been just long enough for her to realize, a month later, that she carried his child. She’d come back to this street half a dozen times to tell him so, but she’d lost her nerve every time and returned to her tiny room on the East End of London without a word to the man who’d fathered her daughter.
She knew it was wrong, not telling him, but she’d also been acquainted with enough men to know that they didn’t always take kindly to unwanted children. So she’d determined to raise the child on her own—an ill-fated plan, to say the least.
The baby had come, a perfect little girl with ten tiny fingers and ten sweet toes, sleepy eyes, and a shock of black hair that looked just like her papa’s. Reynalda remembered that about him. The dark hair and eyes and a powerful body that despite his strength, hadn’t been harsh or cruel. In fact, he’d been surprisingly gentle, kind even, despite his rough exterior.
Worries aside, she knew she’d made the right choice this cold morning in December despite the fog that cast its eerie shadow on London.
She wrapped the blankets tighter about her perfect Rose and tucked her deeper into the basket. “Your papa is a good man, I think,” she whispered to the drowsy child. “Healthy and strong, not like your mama.” Two tears slid down Reynalda’s face as she stared down at the innocent face of her daughter. “I’ve left a note for you explaining that I love you, my sweet girl. Grow up big and strong. You have a bright future ahead.”
Rose didn’t make a peep at Reynalda’s plea, the tightly swaddled blankets having lulled the baby to sleep. The night’s chill still hung in the air. Christmastide was coming.
But Rose would be warm enough. Reynalda had used every last blanket she possessed to wrap the baby in warmth. Pulling her shawl even tighter about her own shoulders, Reynalda suppressed the cough that beat in her chest. It would do no good to be discovered now.
She hated to leave Rose, but she couldn’t stay. Reynalda had no future to offer her beautiful daughter, and so with one last glance at her perfect little face, she turned and slipped down the street in the dark, saying a prayer for her sweet baby girl.
CHAPTER ONE
Gris woke to a familiar sound—his brother Fulton cursing like a sailor. “What the ever-loving fucking Christ is this fucking doing—”
Gris rolled over to return to sleep, unconcerned by the litany of profanity. The language was expected. Fulton was a sailor, after all. Technically, he was a smuggler who sailed regularly to pick up product, but he spent most of his time around criminals, gamblers, or seamen and so his mouth was foul. To be fair, Gris’s wasn’t much better.
“Gris,” his brother roared, likely from the bottom of the stairs. “Get your lazy fucking ass—”
Fulton was cut off by a mournful wail that made Gris bolt into a sitting position in his bed. “What was that?”
Fulton didn’t answer. Instead, the crying continued, punctuated by the thunderous falls of Fulton’s feet stomping up the stairs.
A moment later the door burst open, crashing into the wall. Fulton stood in the hall, feet planted wide and a murderous expression on his face. His hands were in front of his body, held out as far from his person as they might reach, a basket dangling from his closed fist.
Gris jumped from the bed, shirtless and still a bit dazed from sleep. “Fulton?”
In answer, Fulton strode into the room, his nostrils flared and his lip curled. “Special delivery for you.” Fulton’s tone held a note of worry that Gris had never heard before. Alarming, considering the amount of trouble the other Smith regularly found himself in.
“What’s for me? What delivery? I’m not expecting anything…” He looked down at the basket, his mind grappling with the noise he heard. A goat? Kittens? For a second, he scrubbed his face, trying to think, but his brain was so muddled, it just didn’t work. He’d taken the earlier shift at the gaming hell they owned and operated and then he’d come home and gotten good and drunk.
He was not exactly certain why he’d overindulged. Perhaps because it was Tuesday? Or was it Wednesday? Whatever the day, he couldn’t quite calm the restless feeling that had been rising in him like the tide.
He liked the club just fine, liked his side business of making gin for the club. It had a precision that the rest of his life lacked, and he found it…soothing. It had been his escape for most of his adult life.
Until a few months prior, his entire family had lived in their town house, five brothers and two sisters. But now, several of his siblings had married and most had moved away to the four corners of England. And now that they were gone, if he were being completely honest, he missed them.
Especially his sisters Mirabelle and Anna. Mirabelle had married, but Anna had just traveled off with his eldest brother to be safe. Their gaming hell had brought as much trouble as it had money.
The trouble he could handle, but the threat to his family—that was a problem that needed solving. Quickly. Not that he’d made a hell of a lot of progress, but he was trying.
His father, the Earl of Easton, likely would have told Gris that, as usual, he wasn’t trying hard enough. He scrubbed his face, attempting to focus on the present. He and his siblings were the bastard children of the Earl of Easton, and the world was a cold, hard place for children born out of wedlock. For all children, really.
“Are you listening?” Fulton barked.
Had his brother been talking? “What time is it?”
“I don’t know. Six.”
“In the morning?” No wonder his mind wasn’t working. He’d likely only been asleep for a few hours and he’d had an excessive amount of gin.
“Yes, in the morning,” Fulton spat, holding the basket up higher. “What does it matter what time it is?”
“Because…” But he stopped talking as his gaze caught the letter that was pinned to the side of the basket. In a very neat scrawl was written his name…
Lord Griswold Smith
And then he looked in the basket and the source of the noise became clear. In the folds of the blankets was a squalling baby, its face screwed up and wrinkled as shrieks sounded from its lips.
“What the—”
“My thoughts exactly,” Fulton said with a nod and then set the basket on the floor, turning toward the door.
“Where are you going?” he yelled at his brother, panic rising in him at the idea of being left alone with the squalling child. He’d helped care for his sisters, but that had been when both girls were older. Mira was only a few years younger than him and Anna five years his junior.
“I’m leaving,” Fulton said over his shoulder. “That thing is addressed to you.”
Fulton spun, his massive shoulders barely fitting in the doorframe, and ran a hand through his dark hair. “How am I supposed to know? They don’t teach baby care on ships or in gaming hells.”
Gris looked back at the basket and widened his eyes as the keening cry rose to a new, more ear-piercing pitch.
More boots sounded on the steps and their cook appeared behind Fulton. “What on God’s green earth is making that racket?”
Relief at the sight of the crotchety old woman made Gris’s shoulders slump. Surely, Mrs. Mable knew how to make a baby stop crying. “Mrs. Mable, I’m going to need—”
She raised a finger, silencing him. “I don’t take care of babies.”
“But—” He held out his hands. “It’s crying.”
“Where did it come from?” she asked, scowling at the basket as she continued to hide behind Fulton.
“Found it on the front stoop when I came in from my late shift at Hell’s Corner. It’s got a note with Gris’s name on it.”
Mrs. Mable stretched up even further to look over Fulton’s shoulder. “So it does.”
Gris turned to look at the wailing child. “It’s not mine.”
“How do you know?” Fulton reasoned, cocking his head to the side. “Perhaps you should look at the letter.”
He didn’t want to. Reading that letter seemed a bit like claiming the child, but he found himself crouching down and plucking the paper from the pin.
And with each word he read, his head pounded a bit more. Rose. That was her name. Without thinking, he lay a hand on the baby’s chest, giving her an awkward pat to attempt to soothe the little thing. The crying was near splitting his head in two.
Immediately, tiny hands emerged from the blankets, each wrapping about one of his fingers as she pulled his hand toward her mouth. He dropped the letter and the crying instantly stopped, a mouth opening wide as she stuck his middle finger into her little mouth and began to suck.
His eyes widened at the pressure. “Strong little thing.”
“It’s crying because it’s hungry,” Mrs. Mable said with a nod. “There is a woman who lives next door to me down on Fletcher Street that just lost a wee one. I bet she’d wet nurse for you.”
“Wet nurse?” They were talking about hiring help now? This baby didn’t even belong here, no matter what that note said. “Why would I hire a wet nurse for some stranger’s baby?”
“Going to let it starve?” Fulton asked, a crease on his brow.
“You could leave it out on the stoop,” Mrs. Mable added. “It’s a regular occurrence where I’m from.”
His lip curled in distaste. “Surely, there is someplace we can take the baby. Someone will care for her.”
“I doubt it,” Mrs. Mable said. “Or else why would so many people just leave them to die of exposure?”
Was that pitch of his stomach the gin or did it offend him to think of people doing such a thing to a defenseless little creature?
Not that he wanted to keep it. He needed to find this baby’s mother. Return the child to her caring arms. But until then… “Contact the wet nurse,” he said, reaching into the basket and pulling the baby from the blankets, awkwardly bringing the little thing to his chest.
She nuzzled down into him in the sweetest way, her silky cheek brushing his much rougher skin. Rose cooed as she curled into him, unlike any touch he’d ever known. The only other comparable embrace had been from one of his sister’s cats.
“Fulton, can you bring me paper and the inkwell?”
“Who are you going to write to?” he asked, moving closer, clearly more interested in having his curiosity satisfied about the baby than he was in completing the requested task.
“You are going to write to our brothers. They’re all married. And we have two sisters. One of the women will know what to do.”
Fulton nodded. “That’s right. If we’re going to be saddled with all these women, they might as well be of use.”
Mrs. Mable’s hand came out, rapping the back of Fulton’s head. No woman had ever treated Fulton so coarsely, but she was magic in the kitchen and apparently, Fulton would allow all sorts of abuse for kidney pie.
“How do you even know the babe is or isn’t yours?” Mrs. Mable asked as the baby took a fistful of his chest hair and gave it a hard yank.
He looked at the letter again, knowing he needed to finish reading it. But the first lines were already burned into his brain.
You might not remember me, Lord Griswold. I was only here the once, a year ago. But you’ve irrevocably changed my life, and our little Rose can’t be undone. I can’t care for her. Not the way she deserves and so I apologize, but I’m irrevocably changing your life now. I hope you will understand why I didn’t tell you sooner. It’s not an easy thing to share, especially when you’re a woman like me.
Yes. He would read the rest of this woman’s letter later. After he’d solved the baby crisis. Had he been missing his family? He took it back. Now he just wanted his gin and his gaming hell.
But as Rose cooed softly in his arms, her mouth searching his chest, he had a feeling that his life was never going to be the same again.
CHAPTER TWO
A fortnight later…
“Quit?” Gris asked, staring at Fulton. They stood in the hall just outside the kitchen, Rose lying in her basket at Fulton’s feet. “What do you mean Mrs. Mason quit? She only worked here for three days.”
“Why are you asking me to explain what that woman was thinking?” Fulton said with a shrug. “I’m not a mind reader, you know.”
Gris stared at his brother. He’d only left for a few hours to attempt to find Rose’s mother. But it was damned hard to track down the woman when he could hardly leave the house. He’d attempted to hire three nannies in the past two weeks, none of whom stayed longer than a few days.
Still, the familiar beat of failure thudded in his chest. His father was likely having a good laugh in hell. Couldn’t find Rose’s mother, couldn’t hire a nanny.
The first nanny had been caught dead drunk while on duty, having discovered his gin operation in one of the rooms off the kitchen, and the second had tried to snatch the silver. Now he’d lost a third. The entire situation was unsustainable.
Fulton needed to return to Italy for another shipment of wine, which meant that Gris would have to return to the club. And what would he do with Rose?
“Just send her to Mrs. Burton,” Mrs. Mable called from the kitchen. “And get the little bug out of our hair.”
Mrs. Burton was the wet nurse who’d come over three times a day to feed Rose. In between, Gris used a contraption to give Rose goat milk to supplement Mrs. Burton’s feedings. If Rose went to stay with the other woman, she could be fed round the clock by the wet nurse and Gris could work. It was the best idea and one he might have to resort to, but it made his gut churn with dissatisfaction. “Her house is dirty, and she is rank.” He’d never been one to mince words.
Mrs. Mable pursed her lips, and he was fairly certain she mumbled something like, “The baby would be cared for. Isn’t that what you want?” But he didn’t say more because Rose began to fuss.
Reaching down into the basket, he picked her up and brought her to his chest, tucking her head under his chin. Gris was a large man by any standards, which meant that Rose’s entire body fit on his forearm alone and he used his size to wrap her up in a snug embrace. “Don’t cry, princess. Gris is here.”
The note that had accompanied Rose had been signed only with the initials R.P., which made tracking down Rose’s mother more challenging. But he’d finally remembered the brothel where he’d hired her—a place not too far from the East India Company docks that touted finer ladies.
