The sound of female voices had her checking the house again. Aunt Moll had decided it was time to view the results of her matchmaking. Mr. Milroy lifted his head at the sound, understanding his time alone with her had ended.
He captured her hand before she could turn away. “I want to see you again,” he said, no playful cajoling lessening the command.
“Why?”
He snorted, using the edge of his shoe to kick at the gravel. “Why else? I have not stopped thinking about you from the moment I saw you on your back, fighting for your life. Even seeing you cleaned up, head high, appearing every inch a queen, has not deterred me.”
Before she could ask him why being finely dressed for a ball should have discouraged him, he silenced her by touching her cheek. Sunlight dappled his face, causing the minuscule beads of sweat on his jaw to glisten like frozen snowflakes on a glass pane. Good grief! The man felled her sound rules in one blow.
Her aunt and friends were almost upon them.
“Promise to receive me, Wynne!”
Her slender brow lifted. “And if I refuse?”
He fingered the hair framing the left side of her face. A strand or two came free in the tender combing. Instead of shaking them off to catch the breeze, Keanan tucked them into his waistcoat pocket. He gave the approaching women a distracted wave.
“Would you refuse the man who rescued you from a villain? I am certain if I discussed this situation with Lothbury and his cronies, he would be shocked by your lack of appreciation.”
Lord Nevin had been correct. There was nothing this rogue would not do to gain his desires. “Are you blackmailing me, Mr. Milroy?”
His heavy-lidded gaze dropped to her lips as if he was recalling how much he enjoyed kissing her. Her lips tingled. God save her, she could not prevent herself from remembering their kiss, too.
“We both know what happens when you challenge me, Wynne.” Fathomless indigo eyes clashed with her passionate green. “For some reason,” he murmured for her ears alone, “I predict neither one of us can do much to thwart it.”
Six
Rae Fawks, Duchess of Reckester, joined her husband and son at the morning table, purposely positioning herself between them. Primly dressed in a cream-and-gray muslin check-weave morning dress, she nodded to the footman, signaling him to prepare her a plate.
“Good morning, Mother,” her son, Drake, dutifully acknowledged her. She stared at his handsome profile as he returned to the morning paper. The years had crept up on him, changing her only child into a man. She should be dreaming of the grandchildren he would be giving her, not being forced to confront the past.
Her husband did not seem to notice her presence. His eyes bruised from lack of sleep, and most likely suffering from the previous evening’s debauchery, he solemnly chewed the sausage he had speared on his fork. His lack of interest in her presence was nothing new.
In their almost nine and twenty years together, instead of the bond of love and respect that, as a new bride, she had once dreamed of, indifference shared their marriage bed. Not long after Drake’s birth she realized there was no room for her. However, she was not the kind of woman who quietly accepted her discontent. It had taken strength, and a certain ingenuity, to maneuver a rake like Reckester into offering marriage. Rae always drew on that internal fortitude when dealing with her husband. These instances were the only moments when she felt visible.
The footman placed her plate in front of her and filled her cup with steaming coffee. She had no real interest in eating. The food and cutlery would merely give her hands something to do.
“You promised to make an appearance at the Graftons’, Reckester,” she softly admonished.
Something in her voice must have warned him. Her husband stirred from his slouched position, focusing his red-rimmed eyes on her. He blinked, already appearing bored. “I was involved, madam.”
Drink, cards, or his latest mistress could have detained him. Her feelings had calloused over the years. Rae would not demand an excuse. The lies tended to sting more than the truth. Nevertheless, her grievances aside, she was prepared to make him address their current predicament. After all, the blame was entirely his alone.
“One hears gossip at these functions. I fear one of your many transgressions has surfaced, Duke.”
“What?” He pointed his fork at her. “Are you bringing up the singer again? I told you, like most of the gentlemen who observed her performance, I paid her a visit to compliment her on her, uh, abilities. Nothing more to it, no matter what anyone says.”
Singer. Actress. Barmaid. Prostitute. There had been so many, they had lost their names and were noted only by their professions. “Not your little canary, Reckester,” Rae gritted out. “I speak of that little tart who bore you a bastard. Do you recall her, or are they all a blur when you are stewed?”
Reckester’s expression became pensive. Once, she had considered his dark blue eyes soulful and poetic. She had been too entranced by his title and seduced by his charm to notice his feckless core. Checking her son, she saw he was not immune to their conversation. His gaze might have rested upon the newspaper, but his grip had turned his knuckles white.
“Aideen Milroy. Irish. A tolerable actress, but Christ, what a face,” he recalled, sighing. “Haven’t seen her in years.”
Not looking up, Drake said, “Not surprising, father. The woman is dead.”
“Dead?” He assimilated the news. He pressed his fingers into his eye sockets and then dragged them downward until he could prop up his head. “Ah, yes. Aideen. The years. Sometimes I forget.”
“The women you bedded last week are already forgotten. A woman dead fifteen years would not concern you,” Rae said, not liking the faraway look in his eyes. “What does concern this family is her bastard.”
“Keanan? The boy is harmless.” He dismissed the matter and resumed eating.
Refusing to be deterred, she met his gaze and leaned forward. “That boy is a man, Reckester. He can no longer be swept aside if he continues to be embraced by the ton.”
Giving up the pretense of reading, Drake set his paper aside. Fingering the edge of his plate, he said, “Lothbury supports him. And others. Milroy’s success in the ring, and his unsanctioned connection to our family, has opened many doors. The notoriety of the man and the whiff of an old scandal are too delicious for most hostesses to resist.”
Of all the sins Reckester had committed, Rae considered his involvement with Aideen Milroy his worst, the most unforgivable. Perhaps it was selfish of her to blame the dead woman. In the end, it had been Rae who became his duchess.
Nevertheless, while she had weaved her dreams about the handsome man she had claimed as her own, Reckester had carelessly planted his seed in the actress. Furious, and determined that she would be the one to carry his heir, she had allowed him to seduce her.
It had been a near thing. Rae suspected Reckester had developed an affection for the actress, whereas he had only felt lust and duty when he had looked upon her, his wife.
Still, she held the advantage. Her father was an earl. Her husband might not care whom he bedded, but his title demanded more selectiveness in whom he married. Second, her dowry could not be overlooked. Reckester enjoyed the tables too much to pass up the annual income that marriage to her would bring. It was not the first time money had erased a youthful indiscretion.
So Aideen Milroy had succeeded in being the first to bear Reckester a son. Three months later, Rae had made certain the victory had been a bitter one.
Now after all these years, the son had managed the impossible and was welcomed in their sphere. To protect herself and her family, she was not above crushing another Milroy into dust.
“Lothbury is a child,” she sneered. “The rest are sheep. The Reckester name used to wield some influence.”
“Still does,” her husband muttered.
“Then showing the young parvenu he does not belong in our little world should pose no problem.” She cast a sly glimpse at D
rake. He sat stiffly in his chair, his hands curled into fists. “Oh, one more little tidbit from the gossips. It seems Mrs. Molly Bedegrayne received Mr. Milroy at her residence yesterday afternoon. I believe her niece Miss Wynne Bedegrayne was also present.”
She considered their cozy family chat a success when Drake pushed back from the table. Sending his chair flying across the room, he departed without a word.
* * *
Keanan entered the Dour Monkey, a small tavern on Little St. Martin’s Street not far from Fives Court. Earlier, he had joined Lothbury to observe a sparring match between a pair of third-raters. The marquess, quite the enthusiast, had been looking forward to engaging John “Gentleman” Jackson in hopes of securing a subscription to his rooms at 13 Bond Street. To his friend’s disappointment, Jackson had not made an appearance. Discovering that his gold snuffbox had been lifted also ruined the day. Sympathetic, but not in the mood for listening to his friend lament his favorite trinket, Keanan decided to seek out friendlier company. He noticed Dutch sitting alone at a corner table.
“My, my, quite the dapper bruiser, Milroy. I hope it isn’t catching,” Dutch taunted. He gulped down his beer and banged his tankard, signaling the barmaid for more.
“I’ve learned being rich is not enough. Looking rich, smelling rich”—he bent low to sniff Dutch’s hair and grimaced—“Christ, man, smelling human would make you palatable to the ladies. When’s the last time you bathed?”
His friend accepted the jibe with his usually untroubled aplomb. “The ladies like me just fine. Don’t ye, Mary?” He patted her backside.
“Meg, y’old sot.” Slamming down two beers, she stomped off.
Both men laughed.
Keanan raised his tankard, clanking it against his friend’s. “Aye, why change what works? Ladies just fall on their backs when you enter a room.”
“Speaking of ladies”—Dutch sagged forward and pinched the fabric of Keanan’s coat—“trying to impress a fancy one?”
He sat back in his chair and sipped his beer. “Nah. I met Lothbury at the Court.” Keanan shrugged. “He almost cried when he realized a pickpocket would be enjoying his personal mix of snuff this evening.”
“Pure shame, that,” Dutch said with a nod, commiserating. Cupping his beer, he stared thoughtfully into it. “Is it worth it, Keanan? The clothes, new lodgings, the preening, high-nosed peacocks for friends.”
“I’m a champion, Dutch. Just enjoying my rewards,” he said, a cocky grin in place. “What brains I’ve managed not to have beaten out of me have done me well. The purses I’ve claimed have been respectable. Some money I invested; some I gambled. Both risks have made me very rich.”
Bracing his beefy hands on the scarred wooden table, his friend regarded him solemnly, his black brows elevated. “So you’re rich, Reckless Milroy. Let me lift my tankard to the champion. But tell me this. Does it really change those others’ opinions?” He nodded in the direction of two young gentlemen unaware of the exchange across the room. “To the likes of them you will be an outsider. Worse, a bastard.”
“Not just anyone’s bastard,” Keanan harshly reminded.
“Reckester refuses to recognize you, mon. The fighting mob cannot seem to forget. Enjoy the amusements your gold brings you. You deserve them. Just don’t fool yourself into thinking you can be one of them. It will give the high and mighty the pleasure of proving you’re not!”
Frustration and denial pumped through him. Just because Dutch was correct did not make accepting it any smoother. “See here. It’s—”
Raised voices distracted him. The chairs and tables being shoved aside made the argument falter. He recognized the man charging toward him.
Nevin. Something had fired the blood of his half sibling. He suspected he knew the reason—or rather, the lady who inspired this confrontation. He propped his leg on an empty chair, waiting him out.
Nevin was not alone. Another man, not as tall but certainly built to handle himself, matched his half brother’s stride. His dusky skin, heightened by exertion or the heat of their private argument, was damp from perspiration. Whatever the man was saying did not impress his companion. Shouldering past him, Nevin approached Keanan and Dutch.
“Is it not the way of younger brothers, Dutch?” he said conversationally, taking perverse satisfaction in his brother’s growl. “They always shadow their older brothers, aping them.” Restrained muscles coiled, he took a deceptively casual taste of his beer.
“You are not my brother.” Each carefully enunciated word bespoke Nevin’s admirable control.
The dark-headed stranger stepped forward, attempting to intercede again. “You prove nothing by challenging him,” he argued, his slight accent indicated his Spanish origins. “Mr. Milroy’s skill in the ring is unmatched. Let us go. Once your ardor for violence has waned, you will see I am correct.”
“Listen to your friend, Nevin,” Keanan advised. “Jackson may pronounce your sparring skills adequate, but dancing around the ring wearing muffles on your hands to protect your pretty looks isn’t the same as facing a seasoned bare-knuckled fighter.” He swiveled his chair, giving him his back. “Go home, little brother. I’d enjoy breaking your bloody noble claret-jug too much.” He swallowed the rest of his beer and lifted his tankard, signaling for another.
“Arrogant, conniving bastard!” Nevin roared, lunging at Keanan before the insult was out of his mouth.
Keanan purposely allowed himself to be propelled forward into the wall. Bracing his hands against the flat surface, he sharply kicked backward with his right foot, the blow striking Nevin’s midriff. A sputter of violently expelled air was the only sound his half brother issued as he fell rearward onto a recently vacated table. Tense silence followed the magnificent collision.
Keanan stood over his stunned, furious brother. “Obviously, getting knocked on your arse is a new experience for you.” He offered his hand, the other one curled into a fist just in case Nevin required another reminder of who was the elder, meaner sibling.
“Go to hell!” He knocked the extended hand away and climbed to his feet. His companion murmured in Spanish. No one could convince Nevin to give up this suicidal confrontation. The man lifted his hands in a fatalistic gesture. Wishing them luck, he moved to another table.
The proprietor appeared, endeavoring to soothe the disgruntled patrons. Chairs and tables were righted around them. A nervous barmaid served them beer, compliments of the Dour Monkey. No damage had been done to the tavern, and the proprietor had not wanted to further offend his affluent customers.
Accepting a beer, a cynical smile creased Keanan’s stern expression. “Nevin, I am curious. We have lived in the same town for most of our lives, and you have managed to ignore my existence. What prompted you to find me? A sudden desire to claim your beloved brother?”
A disapproving noise came from Dutch’s throat. “Keanan, beating your half brother won’t be as satisfying as you imagine.”
“I disagree. Besides, how can you be so certain I’d not relish pounding this pup senseless?”
“You could try,” Nevin sneered, daring him.
Dutch rubbed the ache out of his damaged wrist. “If you were using your noggins, you’d both realize each is thirsting to appease your honor. Considering your brash approaches, each will fail.”
Keanan glared at him. “Remind me to thank you later for your boundless confidence, Dutch.”
“You misunderstood,” his friend objected. “I’m not questioning your skill or ambition. Just your target.”
Standing added to Nevin’s condescending air. “You are nothing but a crippled drunk pontificating on a subject that is not your concern. Who do you think you are to boldly speak of my business?”
Keanan chuckled. “Ignore him, Dutch. You know how important blood ties are to the Reckester family.” He clamped Nevin’s wrist before the thought to attack had formed in his brain. Hauled closer in an unrelenting hold, the only thing the man could do without disgracing himself again was to
be seated. “Dutch, you might want to say your farewells to fair Meg before we depart.”
Accepting the opportunity to escape, Dutch put on his hat and stood up. “Aye, a fine idea, that.” He bent down and whispered, “Have a care with the pup, Milroy. I have a fondness for this tavern. They won’t be letting us back if you bust up the place.” Nodding, he went off to flirt with the barmaid.
“Here we are, the pair of us, sharing a table and lifting a tankard of beer.” Keanan shook his head, amused his crushing grip was the only thing keeping his companion from taking a swing at him. “Who would have guessed we could be civil after so many years of ill will?”
Nevin twisted, fighting the hold unmanning him. It took only seconds to understand that he risked breaking his wrist. “I would not piss in your direction, even if the wind was in my favor. Now why would I care to be civil?”
“Because I’m stronger, pup.” Keanan deliberately used the provoking nickname. “You were the one who sought me out. Why don’t you have your say, then leave.”
“Fine.” Brilliant aquamarine eyes intently met his. Resistance vibrated through their contact. “Release my wrist first.”
“A truce, then. The next swing you take will be your last. Your Spaniard friend will cart you out of here.”
“Agreed.”
Keanan freed him. His expression dispassionate, he watched Nevin massage the abused limb. “Your reasons?”
His brother did not pretend to misunderstand. “Your presence in my life. Of late, no matter where I go, it is your name I hear discussed, your face I see across the room.”
“I break no laws attending gatherings I’ve been invited to, or coming into clubs as a benefactor’s guest,” he said matter-of-factly. “My presence may inflame your sensibilities; however, in truth, there is little you or your precious family can do about it.”
“Cling to that belief if it brings you comfort, Milroy.” Nevin rose. “Oh, I offer you a warning. Miss Bedegrayne is off limits. Confront me if you must. The lady is an innocent in this affair.”
The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy Page 8