“Is he about? He did not answer our knock.”
Her aunt frowned. “Probably sleeping in the pantry again,” she murmured, not particularly upset by the notion. “Oh, I suppose the refreshments can wait. Wynne, come sit beside Mr. Milroy on the sofa.”
She would rather have gone off to chastise Aberly for shirking his duties. Brook’s and Amara’s seat selections gave her no option but to comply with her aunt’s wishes.
“Mr. Milroy.” Wynne mumbled the greeting, refusing to look him directly in the eye. She sat.
“Miss Bedegrayne.”
He shifted; one shoe brushed against her dress. The accidental graze only called attention to their proximity. His large, muscular build quite overwhelmed her.
“Ladies, formality demands an introduction. I am Keanan Milroy.”
Oddly detached from the group, she listened as her aunt made the proper introductions to her friends. She slanted a speculative glance in his direction as she thought, What of your ties to the Reckester family, Mr. Milroy? Most would flaunt their connection to a duke.
Noticing her regard, he nodded, sending a faint, smug smile in her direction. Conceited savage! He believed her enthralled by his masculine beauty. It irritated her beyond tolerance that she did, indeed, find him fascinating. She would have been grateful to blame her interest on his kindred resemblance to Lord Nevin. Unfortunately, except for hair color, the two men did not share blatant similarities. She doubted she would have recognized their blood ties on her own.
Wynne absently rubbed her lower lip with her finger. His name was Keanan. The word conjured images of hard, deadly edges in her fertile imagination. That description seemed to apply to the man as well. Mr. Milroy stood a few inches shorter than his half brother.
Regardless, what he lacked in stature was generously compensated for with battle-honed muscle, she decided, recalling the encounter at the canal. His linen shirt had been open that day, revealing the masculine contours of his chest. She had not seen such perfection except when appreciating marble statuary at one of the museums.
His face might be considered by some as severe as his body. It was lean and angular, a consequence of his harsh, disciplined life. Such features alone did not invite closer deliberation. What made him approachable were his eyes. She had mistaken them for a merciless black at a distance. In truth, his eyes were indigo, lined with lashes almost too pretty for a man. Their dark, unfathomable blue depths, instead of being cold, intrigued her, and made her want to peer deeper to find the man cloaked beneath his pride and impudence.
She could not fault his attire. His cutaway-style blue dress coat matched the color of his eyes. The lighter blue waistcoat within was accented by an indistinct gold thread pattern. His buff-colored trousers appeared as clean and starch-pressed as the high cravat he wore.
While Brook spoke of her travels, Wynne continued her discreet observations of Mr. Milroy. He did not seem aware of her appraisal. Absorbed in the conversation, he politely encouraged her friend by asking various questions about her journey.
She told herself her curiosity was merely a protective measure. This stranger knew details about her life that she had managed to conceal from her family. He had insisted on an introduction the other evening, regardless of his rude behavior once Lord Nevin had joined them. Muddling the situation further was his hostility toward his own family. His reasons were his own. What questions she had wanted to ask Lord Nevin had been forgotten at the sight of Mr. Milroy flirting with her aunt. If what the earl had said was true, then the man posed a threat to her family.
“And what is your opinion on the subject, Wynne?” Aunt Moll asked, pulling her from her private thoughts.
Frantically she tried to recall fragments of their conversation. Nothing. She silently pleaded to her friends for help. Brook returned her regard, expecting something insightful from her. She saw concern reflected in Amara’s visage. Lowering her gaze, she stared at her hands. It was utterly mortifying to admit to herself that she had been caught gawking at Mr. Milroy. She would rather have Speck set a broken limb than confess it to the others.
Feeling pressured to speak, she mumbled, “I have yet to form an opinion, Aunt.”
Her answer seemed to increase Amara’s alarm. Brook was now staring at her strangely, and her aunt had yet to shut her mouth. Not caring if he was innocent, Wynne glared at the source of her inattention. Mr. Milroy had propped his left elbow against the arm of the sofa. The back of his hand was pressed against his quivering lips to prevent himself from laughing outright.
What a wigeon, she mentally scolded herself. “Perhaps I did not hear you correctly,” she prompted, deciding she had reached the pinnacle of her embarrassment.
“We were discussing your brother Brock, dear,” Aunt Moll gently explained. “Lady A’Court had commented on the risks at sea. Even if your brother survives the diseases of the natives, he must face foul weather and pirates to return home to us. It made me most distressed, thinking about him in danger. I had wanted your opinion on the subject.”
“Oh.” Wynne rubbed the spot between her eyes. She had misjudged. This embarrassment seemed endless.
Her aunt inadvertently came to her rescue. “What is it, Wynne? A megrim?” She pointed at Mr. Milroy. “You, sir. Touch her cheek for fever. Perhaps the stomach illness that plagued you a sennight past has returned.”
She slapped his hand away. “When I need a medical opinion, I shall summon a physician, Mr. Milroy.” It relieved her that he did not endeavor to touch her again. “Aunt, I am well. Truly. All I need is some air.” She stood, satisfied that her excuse made more sense than her feeble attempt at joining their conversation.
“A stroll in the garden might be the very thing to revive you, dear,” Aunt Moll suggested. “Mr. Milroy, why do you not join my niece? I will not worry if she is in your care.”
Her aunt could not have been more obvious. This was dreadful! Wynne concealed her misery at the notion of being alone with him. She considered herself quite clever; there had to be a polite manner of discouraging him.
“It is not fair to abandon Brook and Amara, Aunt.”
“Nonsense, we are having a lovely chat,” the older woman replied, obviously pleased she had maneuvered her willful niece into a romantic tryst. “Off with you two. Enjoy the garden. If you come across Aberly, tell him to send up some refreshments.”
Before she could think of another excuse, Mr. Milroy had placed his large hand in the middle of her back and practically shoved her through the door.
They made their way downstairs in silence. Aberly was in the front hall, balanced on a chair. He was wiping the dust from the frames of the numerous paintings that cluttered the walls. She broke away from Mr. Milroy and relayed her aunt’s instructions to the butler.
Returning to him, she wished he would go away. The embarrassment had faded, leaving her mind clearer. She had garnered a reputation for dissuading her suitors with a cool, uninterested glance or a witty refusal. The knack seemed to have deserted her. Naturally, she blamed him. He unsettled her.
“Mr. Milroy, you must not feel obliged to do my aunt’s bidding,” she began, satisfied by the indulgent quality in her voice. “She tends to be overprotective. I can assure you, I am quite fit. Please do not misconstrue your departure as a failing to keep a promise to my aunt.”
The doors to the garden stood open. Confident he would agree, Wynne almost stumbled when he gripped her upper arm, assisting her down the three steps to the garden’s stone path.
He paused. His hold forced her to halt also. Audibly taking a deep breath, her gaze was drawn to his chest. Being outdoors did not diminish his overwhelming size. She still felt slight and edgy standing next to him.
Realizing she was still staring at his chest, she moved on to his face. Something amused him, she could see. The light in his eyes did not erase the shadows she saw in those dark-blue depths. Rather, it skipped across the surface like a flat stone skipping across the water.
“You a
re used to getting your way around men, aren’t you, Wynne?”
His formal speech lapsed with his manners. The faint Irish inflection danced down her spine. “It is improper to address me thus, sir. Miss Bedegrayne, if you please.” She added enough tartness to make him laugh. Grudgingly she had to admit it was a pleasant sound, even though it always seemed to be at her expense.
“I will wager, those impotent sycophants you call suitors probably repent their forward impulses when your voice loses that sweet quality.” His indigo eyes entranced her. “You have made two mistakes with me, Wynne. One, I am no gentleman. Oh, I can play along when there is a need. However, bone-deep, I will never change. And two, while there is nothing wrong with honey, I tend to crave tart things, like damsons.”
“Damsons,” she repeated stupidly.
“Uh-huh,” he murmured, lowering his face closer to her upturned one. “And you.”
She felt his breath on her face. His lips were almost touching hers before she realized what he was about to do. Stirring herself from his trance, she held her ground and threatened, “Do not kiss me, Mr. Milroy. Not only do you risk losing your upper lip, because I will undoubtedly bite you, you will also lose my aunt’s favor when I scream for assistance.”
He jerked her closer, swallowing her breathy objection by kissing her. His lips, warm and firm, swung the ground upward, throwing her off balance. She clutched at him to steady herself, but he was already pulling back. He had lost the teasing light in his eyes. The emotion that gleamed there now was a dark, sultry promise. Her innocence prevented her from understanding how dangerous the need she saw there could be.
“Oh, I dare, my damson.” His breath was uneven. “I never refuse a challenge or an offer.”
She could still feel him; her lips thrummed from the ferocity of his swift kiss. The sensible action would have been to turn around, returning to her aunt and friends. She looked up at the windows, relieved to see none of the servants watching them. The drawing room overlooked the street. There were no witnesses to the kiss. It was one more secret they shared.
His fingers were still wrapped around her arm. Suddenly aware of the heat, the calloused texture of each digit, Wynne shrugged him loose. He released her. She strolled farther down the path, accepting that she had grown rather lax lately when it came to sensible actions. Besides, she had yet to figure out what to do about Mr. Milroy.
“Why are you here, sir?” she queried. “And do not expect me to believe you prefer to spend your afternoons visiting a widow whose niece you deliberately insulted several evenings earlier.”
He caught up to her. Removing his hat, he roughed up his short, damp blond hair into disheveled spikes. “No.”
“No, what?” she demanded, feeling flustered again. The devil could come fetch him and fly him back to the underworld. What manner of man was he who used mundane gestures to tempt and seduce? And what kind of woman was she to be enthralled?
She glared at him. Blaming his breach of etiquette for her upset, he settled his hat back on his head. Looping his arm around hers, he steered her to the right toward a hedge wall. No one from the house would be able to see them. She halted, refusing to move another step until he answered her.
“I am used to people answering my questions, Mr. Milroy.” He tugged her arm, but she slipped free from his hold. “Again, sir, why are you here?”
“Aunt Moll considers me one of your suitors.”
“A role you undoubtedly encouraged, though I cannot fathom why,” she charged. “My aunt is a kind woman. Losing her husband when she was a young woman still troubles her. I am certain a clever man such as yourself would know the correct questions to ask, and then use that information to charm a vulnerable old woman who romanticizes unrequited love.”
“Rather clever of me, wasn’t it?” he admitted a little too cheerfully. He walked under an apple tree and reached above his head to grip a limb. White petals fell like snow when he shook the limb to test its strength. “Or it would be, had I thought of it.” Contemplative, he stared at something beyond her shoulder. “Tell me, Wynne. Or shall I call you Winnie?”
“Only if you are not overly fond of your teeth,” she sweetly replied.
Mr. Milroy smiled, ruefully touching his mouth. “Oh, I am. Do you know how rare it is for a fighter to keep his teeth?”
“Blind luck, Mr. Milroy?”
He shook his head. “Skill, my dear.” He released the limb and stalked over to the bench where she sat. He did not sit. Rather, he propped his foot on the bench and leaned his arm on his bent knee. “Considering how we met, Wynne, I am surprised you are so willing to cast me as a villain.”
He paused, giving her time to relive the incident. How could she not, when part of that nightmare was standing in front of her, demanding she remember?
“I may not know my way around the fancy, but I had imagined you would be grateful I hauled that bastard Egger off you.”
“I was. I am.” Agitated, she pulled and twisted the fingertips of her right glove. “Is that why you asked about me, insisted on an introduction? You wanted to see how grateful I was?” She touched her brow. The pain was getting worse as she contemplated the unthinkable. “My plan was sound. Egger should never have been aware of our presence. Yet word had reached him. Someone had warned him. Were you part of it? Did you think to blackmail me, thinking I would pay for your silence?” She sprang off the bench, needing the space between them.
“Ho!” Mr. Milroy raised an arm, blocking her escape. He danced back a few steps, proving he was willing not to touch her as long as she remained. “Calm down. You have quite an imagination, deary, and I can guess the name of the man who put the fear in those lovely green eyes. ’Cause it certainly wasn’t me.” He expelled a puff of frustration. “I was there, Wynne. The man who saved you? Remember?” He lowered his arms. She could run past him if she desired. “Damn Nevin straight to hell for filling your head with such dross!”
Vehemence and regret laced his heated response, prickling the tiny, invisible hairs on her arms. Whatever his part, his anger toward Lord Nevin was genuine. “Do not blame your brother for my accusation, Mr. Milroy. I am not a puppet who needs another to give intellect and voice to hollowed wood. My opinions are my own.”
Ignoring her defense, he seized upon the two words that confirmed his suspicions. “He actually confessed our kinship to you? Nevin must have been pressed if he needed our loathed association to sway you. Ah, to have seen his face when he choked on the words,” he said as he sighed wistfully.
“He has a high opinion of you, too.” She glanced in the direction of the house, briefly wondering why no one had sought them out. “Listen, sir, it is clear you and your brother—”
“Half brother,” he coldly corrected.
“Half brother, then,” she impatiently amended. “Your quarrel is your own affair. I am more concerned about your presence at the canal.”
“If Nevin—”
Her hand gesture silenced him. “Lord Nevin is not privy to the events of that day, nor do I see any reason to enlighten him. Contrary to your misguided belief, my thoughts and actions are my own.” Her lemon yellow skirts printed with a scarlet Grecian border design gave a satisfying swish as she changed directions, leading him this time. “Now that we have settled your concerns, let us focus on the subject, Mr. Milroy.”
“I dare not interfere with a lady who governs not only her words but her actions, too,” he lightly mocked.
“Your presence that day.” She charged forward, ignoring his sarcasm.
“Was by accident or invitation, depending on your view.” He shrugged, not caring one way or the other. “Your maid begged my assistance. She was a frantic little thing. How could I refuse her?”
She had to be certain. “Until that day, you and Mr. Egger had not met?”
He winced. “Must you apply equal address to me and your attacker? I can understand not wanting an intimate connection to him, so why not please me by using my Christian name.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I do not think so.”
“A simple name, really. Keanan. Say it, Wynne,” he cajoled. “Say it for the man who saved your virtue.”
Wynne eyed him warily. “You would accept this informality as reward for your heroic actions?”
“That, and all you would willingly offer. Let me hear my name from your lips,” he entreated.
Wynne felt as though she would be crossing some undetectable barrier if she gave in to his request. Mr. Milroy had baited his challenge well. But to deny her errant knight was comparable to thrusting a sword through his heart as a reward for trouncing her adversary. The breach of propriety would cost her nothing. She doubted she would see him again once Lothbury tired of showing off his favorite pugilist.
Wynne brought her hand to her heart. “Keanan, I owe you my life. I regretted not telling you that day, but you were gone by the time I had collected myself,” she revealed, meaning every word.
His delight dazzled her, making him seem younger. The smile he bestowed for a ridiculously paltry boon shamed her. He asked little for the risk he took, if what he said was true.
Unexpectedly, Lord Nevin’s warning resounded in her head:
“He despises me and is ruthless enough to use any pawn. Do not be fooled by his charm.”
Charm. Once, she thought he did not possess the skill. This afternoon, he gushed to the point of swamping her very senses. It would be so easy to believe him.
However, Wynne was old enough to be considered quite on the shelf, despite her pleasing countenance. Her papa called it pickiness on her part. She believed she had learned a thing or two about a courting male. The first rule was to look beyond the obvious. If the man was handsome and satisfied a lady’s requisites in a husband, then he probably mistreated animals or had an abundance of children from his various mistresses. The second rule: never believe a man’s flattery. No gentleman she ever encountered wasted time with flowery speech unless he was after something from the intended lady.
The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy Page 7