His Black Sheep Bride / The Billionaire Baby Bombshell: His Black Sheep Bride / The Billionaire Baby Bombshell. Anna DePalo
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course, a delicious scandal had just landed in his lap with the Wentworth-Dillingham almost-wedding, but she could always add icing to the cake for him.
After all, didn’t a number of his newspapers publish the pseudonymously-authored Pink Pages of Mrs. Jane Hollings—bane of society hostesses and tart-tongued nemesis of social climbers everywhere?
Tamara pressed her lips into a thin line.
“Tamara, my dear,” her father said, his expression hearty, “you remember Sawyer, don’t you?” He chuckled. “No introductions are necessary, I assume.”
Tamara felt her face stiffen until it resembled a frozen tundra. “Quite.”
Sawyer inclined his head. “Tamara … it’s a pleasure. It’s been a long time.”
Not nearly long enough, she thought, before gesturing around them. “It looks as if you’ll be the subject of your own newspapers after the wedding debacle today.” She arched a brow. “Mrs. Jane Hollings is one of your columnists, isn’t she?”
A ghost of a smile crossed Sawyer’s lips. “I believe so.”
She smiled back thinly. “I can’t imagine being the topic of your own gossip would sit well with you.”
His lips curved easily this time. “I don’t believe in press censorship.”
“How practically democratic of you.”
Rather than looking offended by her jab, he seemed amused. “The earldom is hereditary, but the title of media baron was acquired in the court of public opinion.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what else was hereditary—his arrogance, perhaps?
Her father cleared his throat. “Let’s turn to a more pleasant subject, shall we?”
“Yes, let’s,” she agreed.
Her father’s gaze swung between her and Sawyer. “It seems like only yesterday the previous earl and I were sitting in his library, sipping fine bourbon and speculating over the happy possibility our children might one day unite our families through marriage.”
There it was again. As far as hints went, it was about as subtle as a sledgehammer.
She resisted the urge to close her eyes and groan, and she was careful not to look at Sawyer.
Apparently, just as she’d feared, seeing her and Sawyer as part of the bridal party had been giving her father ideas—or rather, bringing back old ideas. Very old ideas.
She’d grown up hearing the story told and retold. Years ago, before Sawyer’s father had passed away, her father and the Eleventh Earl of Melton had already been chummy enough to talk about a dynastic marriage between their two families—one that would unite their respective media empires, as well.
Unfortunately for her, as the eldest of three female half siblings—each the product of one of the viscount’s successively brief marriages—she was the logical selection to fulfill dynastic aspirations.
And, likewise, Sawyer, as the successor to the earldom, since his father had died five years ago, was the natural choice on the other side.
Fortunately, both her younger sisters weren’t in attendance today, but instead were tucked away at their respective universities. She knew she could withstand Sawyer Langsford. She didn’t want to worry about her younger and more impressionable sisters.
After all, she conceded somewhat grudgingly, Sawyer had massive appeal for the opposite sex. She’d seen evidence of that herself over the years, which served as yet another on her very long list of reasons to dislike Sawyer.
“Not that silly story again,” she said, attempting to laugh off her father’s words.
She looked at Sawyer for confirmation, but realized he was regarding her thoughtfully.
He nodded toward the band, which was playing a romantic tune. “Would you like to dance?”
“Are you joking?” she blurted.
He arched a brow. “Isn’t it our job as members of the wedding party to make sure the show goes on?”
Well, he had her there, she admitted. She certainly had some obligations as the maid of honor. And assuming he wasn’t a double agent for Colin Granville, erstwhile wedding interloper, she supposed he did, too.
“Splendid idea!” her father said. “I’m sure Tamara would be delighted.”
She shot Sawyer a speaking look, but he just gestured pleasantly, as if to say, after you.
She preceded him to the dance floor.
She held herself stiffly in his arms, and the side of Sawyer’s mouth quirked up in acknowledgment.
Her smooth, upswept red hair contrasted with her peaches- and-cream complexion, and the difference hinted at the dual sides of her personality: fiery, but poised.
She reminded him of the American actress with the fairytale role—what was her name? Amy Adams.
But with attitude. A lot of attitude. And he had a feeling this Cinderella or Snow White wasn’t waiting for a prince on a white steed to come save her.
Tamara had always marched to the beat of her own drummer. Viscount Kincaid’s wild child. The bohemian jewelry designer with an apartment in Manhattan’s SoHo neighborhood.
In fact, today she looked about as demure as he could ever remember her appearing. She wore a formfitting strapless ivory gown with a black satin sash.
But instead of the Kincaid family jewels, she wore a star-burst necklace accented with black onyx, along with similarly styled drop earrings. He’d guess the jewelry was one of her own designs.
As she moved, a small rose tattoo peeked and disappeared above the bodice of her gown, right over the outside slope of her left breast—beckoning him, tantalizing him … reminding him why the two of them were like oil and water.
Her eyelashes swept upward, and she pinned him with a crystal-clear green gaze.
“What game are you playing?” she asked without preamble.
“Game?” he responded, his expression mild.
She looked annoyed. “My father refers to an arranged marriage, and in response, you ask me to dance?”
“Ah, that.”
“I’d call that stoking the fire.”
“I guess I should be relieved you aren’t accusing me of a more sinister deed than asking you to dance.”
She didn’t seem to find his response the least bit amusing.
“Since you mention it,” she said crossly, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you had advance notice of Colin Granville’s wedding escapade.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Interesting.
Their movements sent them skirting past another couple.
“Everyone knows you and the Marquess of Easterbridge are friends.” She wrinkled her nose. “The aristocratic secret handshake, and all that.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Colin is his own agent. And for the record, there’s no secret handshake. It’s a blood covenant—knives, thumbs, a full moon. You understand.”
She didn’t even bat an eyelash at his attempt at humor. “Your friendship doesn’t extend to plotting society scandals?”
“No.”
“It would help sell newspapers,” she pointed out.
What would help him sell newspapers would be getting his hands on her father’s media empire, he thought.
“Let’s get back to the subject of my so-called game,” he said smoothly. He exerted subtle pressure