She lifted his hand from the water and was pleased the bleeding had almost stopped. Pushing a cloth into his hand, she had him dry it while she opened a small jar of ointment. “The smell is quite unpleasant,” she confessed, wrinkling her nose as the scent filled the room. “Tipton highly recommends it for sealing small wounds.”
When she finished wrapping his hand, Keanan flexed his fingers, testing their strength. “It’s sore. Dutch would grieve if you have done lasting damage to my fist.”
“I assume this Dutch is another friend?” She gathered up her bowl and supplies. Walking to the door, she deposited them in the hall for one of the servants to collect.
Espying her shawl on the floor, he picked it up and laid it on the arm of his chair. His fingers stroked it, savoring the softness. “Aye, and a good one. He’s a fighter, too. Met him when I was still green and worked my fists more in anger than fight cunning.” He shook his head, laughing at the memory. “Our first mill, I took a facer. Broke my nose.” He fondly rubbed the spot. “Christ, I was mad! Blood running down my chest like a river, I floored him in ten minutes. We have been friends ever since.” He tapped his nose. “And no one has ever gotten close to busting me on the plant again.”
Wynne steadied her hands by reaching for one of her father’s decanters. Keanan spoke of blood and violence with a fondness she found incomprehensible. Still, she liked him. Sitting before the fire, dressed in black breeches and coat, a pressed cravat at his throat, he looked like any other gentleman she had encountered. However, the differences between them stretched out like an impassable crevasse.
She returned to his side, a glass in her hand. “Papa’s best tonic,” she answered the unspoken question his lifted brow indicated. “Cognac. Smuggled, I assume, though Papa would perish if I dared speak my suspicions aloud.” He took the glass from her. Her gaze fell on the soft bandage, reminding her of what she had done.
“Do not fret, Wynne. The cuts will heal.” His grin warmed her as if she had been the one drinking the French brandy. “Only a half-Irish lout would be so stupid as to grab a sword by its blade.”
She had no quarrel with his opinion. Wynne stared down at her sleeves. She had pushed them up when tending to his hand. Working the sleeves back into place kept her fingers busy while she contemplated the best manner in addressing her concerns. “Mr. Milroy—”
“Keanan,” he corrected. “I’ve spilt blood for you. At the very least I should hear my name upon your lips.”
She met his smile with a vague half smile. “Keanan, why are you here?”
His gaze sharpened with interest. “Isn’t it clear? When you ignored my letter … had my messenger thrown out on the streets by your servants, did you not believe I would inquire as to the reason?” Firelight reflected in his dark blue eyes, but it was a cold light. His beautiful, strong features emphasized by shadows and light made her feel as if she were dealing with a night creature from the pit rather than a mere man. Man or fiend, she was wary of both. Holding his emotionless gaze, she carefully sat in the opposite chair.
“Mr. Milroy, I was out for most of the day. My housekeeper sent your boy on his way because she did not know when I would return. She gave me your rude summons the moment I returned.”
“Was I rude? You must forgive me. A man of my stamp has so much to learn,” he mockingly confessed.
She shifted in the chair. Tension curled her hands into fists. “Well, I am willing to make allowances,” she murmured, adding a cutting edge to her tone. “When one works so hard at being a bastard, it is difficult giving up an inspiring performance.”
Silent as a snake, his arm struck. Latching on to her arm, he dragged them both out of their chairs. Standing on the tips of her toes, real terror settled into her chest, making it difficult to breathe.
“You little fraud.”
The accusation befuddled her. “W-what?”
The tautness of his grip lessened, permitting her heels to touch the floor. Their forced closeness made her heart pound so fiercely, she assumed he could hear it.
“You,” he murmured, bringing her gaze up to his face. “I have heard the talk about you. Men sit around dreaming of your beauty, wishing it were they who had the right to touch you, kiss you.”
His lips hovered over hers. Intuitively, her head tilted up, offering. Her chest tightened in anticipation, fear and desire an unyielding, disturbing tangle.
Keanan’s stare focused on her mouth, yet he did not take it. “They all ask aloud, Why has no one claimed Wynne Bedegrayne? Men have cut their hearts out over you, offered up fortunes, and you have rejected them all. Why?”
He shook her, compelling her to meet his gaze when all she wanted to do was look anywhere else. She knew what they said about her. Some thought she was too selective. Others wondered if it was a matter of pride, since she no doubt had been humiliated by her younger sister’s precipitous marriage. No one, not even her precious family, realized the awful truth.
For two seasons, a particular intimate group consisting of Lord Middlefell, Mr. Digaud, Mr. Therry, and Mr. Esthill had been taking private delight in tormenting her. For these spoiled, jaded gentlemen of the ton, her virtue had become an amusing wager.
At first, disbelief had kept her silent, and then later, shame. They were cunning, else her father and Tipton would have spent their dawns in abandoned dew-drenched fields. There was no proof of their delinquency, so publicly accusing them would gain her nothing. She never spoke of her vile encounters with them. For her, the game had simply gone on so long, she could no longer tell the difference between sincere affection and polite guile, leaving her wary of all men.
“You have your answer.” She sucked in her lower lip and lightly bit down before releasing it. “I have heard all the slurs, sir. They say the man who lies with me will wake in a bed of frost.” Tears rose close to the surface again. “I am surprised you risk touching me. Should not ice burn?” Her twisting attempts to flee were futile. Vulnerable and upset, she kicked him.
“Hold still, you untamed—” Keanan scooped her up into his arms to keep her from hurting herself.
“Put me down!”
“Aye, your highness. That I’ll do.” He plopped down in the chair, holding her tight. She opened her mouth to scream, but he muffled her efforts by kissing her. Pulling back, his indigo eyes were heated by more than the reflective glow of fire. “I do not mind an enthusiastic squeal from a wench,” he said, laughing at her futile lunge for his face with her nails. “If you scream, your people will find you enjoying the pleasures of sitting on a man’s lap. What will your respectable father say to this business?”
“You are the spawn of the devil,” she hissed.
“On that we agree, my damson.”
Her forehead butted up against the hardened, contoured muscle of his chest. “I was insane for sending that letter, agreeing to meet you at the park. I had hoped to prevent you and Lord Nevin from engaging in a duel. Instead I have only encouraged your boldness.”
Surprised, he pulled back to see her face. “You agreed to walk out with me tomorrow?”
“I told you I was out. I sent a footman over to your residence with my reply. Did you not receive it?”
“No.” He pressed his nose to her hair and inhaled. “I had matters to attend to.”
“Well,” she huffed, not mollified by his gentling manner. Sitting on his lap like a wanton made her all too aware of his virility. “I would consider it a favor if you would tear up my note and toss the pieces into the nearest fireplace. You and Lord Nevin may shoot holes the size of a goose egg into each other. I am absolving myself from feeling sorry for either one of you.”
He chuckled, nuzzling her temple with his beard-roughened chin. “You asked if I burned when I touch you? Aye, I do, but not in the way you think. I called you a fraud. And that you are, hiding behind your rules, pretending you can manipulate your feelings, like plucking strings on a marionette.” He stroked the back of her head. Grasping a section of her braid at t
he base of her skull, Keanan pulled her head back until he could see her face. “Your eyes cannot quite hide it, you know.”
“Hide what?”
He stared, as if peering into the very heart of her. “So volatile, that flame burning within you. It cannot be doused by water, stifled, or tempered by neglect.” His fingers probed and caressed her stiff neck muscles, seducing her to relax. “Such a flame needs a man’s tending.”
Despite her resolve, her body was softening in his arms. Wherever his fingers roamed, her flesh warmed, her tension in her muscles eased. Unintentionally her back arched, stretching for something her mind had not begun to fathom. Keanan understood. With a hooded expression, his lips parted in anticipation as he pressed his mouth to hers.
Being untouched, she expected gentleness, the sweet worship joining of lips in a sublime union of heart and body. Conversely, Keanan was a man of experience, and not particularly interested in her heart.
His ardent kiss became a fuse trailing to a cache of unexplored sensation. The explosion was meteoric. Wynne’s senses fractured like soaring pieces of twisted, searing shrapnel. The world dimmed except for him, his mouth on hers, his hands on her body. Her lips moved under his, wanting to contribute. Her hands vainly threaded his short hair, seeking an anchor, but the wild storm he had created besieged her.
Soon touching her with his lips no longer seemed to satisfy him. Using his tongue he breached her, halting the forming plea on her lips by tangling her tongue with his. She could not catch her breath. Misunderstanding, he used his teeth to nip and cajole her compliance. Tiny shivers rebounded up and down her limbs. A lethargy she would have attributed to illness stole her strength. Keanan’s mastery of the kiss marveled as much as it alarmed her. She felt enthralled within his embrace, a power she had never intended to give any man.
Sensing her increasing withdrawal, he pulled back and stared down at her. His pupils were dilated saucers of midnight. The slight catch in his breath revealed he was equally moved by their kiss.
“Lovely Wynne,” he mused, stroking her lower lip with his thumb. “I’ll wager you have not kissed Nevin in such a manner.”
Regret was the cool breeze settling in after passion’s tropical storm. The kiss meant nothing more to him than a means to outdo his brother. Realizing her appalling position, she climbed out of his lap.
“I have no intention of appeasing your curiosity.”
Unperturbed by her departure or her mulish attitude, Keanan reached down and retrieved his abandoned brandy. “Want to know how I know?”
“No.” She swallowed a gasp of outrage. The man had managed to untie four of the knotted cords holding her dress together. Offering her back, she retied each cord.
He chuckled, she guessed, at her belated modesty. “I’ll tell you anyway. If you had melted in Nevin’s arms like you do mine, he would have wedded and bedded you years ago. No man can resist the alluring fire of a responsive woman.”
He moved closer. Sensing he might try to kiss her again, she stepped out of reach. “You should go. My father is expected soon.”
“Liar,” he said, sneaking a quick peck on her cheek before she could retreat. “Earlier, I came across Sir Thomas. He was ensconced at his club, happily surrounded by his cronies, and by all accounts winning. Knowing your father better than I, you also comprehend it shall be hours before he rouses himself up from the table.”
She blushed, irritated he had seen through her ruse. “There is the small concern of the servants discovering your presence.”
Giving up his game of pursuit, Keanan rested his hand lightly against the chimneypiece. Flanking the fire, two half-nude fireplace atlantes, painted a weathered copper, shouldered their burden of marble.
“Ah, Wynne,” he murmured, shifting his glass so the amber liquid caught the firelight. “No one will know of my visit. You are good at keeping secrets, are you not?” Striding to her, he pressed the glass into her hands. “Drink this. It will help you recover from the horror of having endured the pawing of a man you consider beneath you.” He shrugged her aside and returned to the open French window.
With fury gleaming in her eyes, she whirled, prepared to charge after him. The urge to pick up her father’s sword tempted her. “How dare you, sir! Twisting this incident so the shadow of blame falls plainly on my face when you are at fault.”
A fighter could be nothing else but a fighter. Face-to-face, he matched her anger. “I figured I would get the blame come morning,” he said, clearly entertained. “Poor Miss Bedegrayne, mauled by the arrogant, uncouth bastard, Keanan Milroy.” He made a small sympathetic noise.
“I commend your choice of words. I would not even improve upon the order,” she kindly assured him. Wynne strolled over and collected her father’s sword. She needed every advantage when dealing with Mr. Milroy.
“Still wanting a poke at me, Wynne?” he taunted.
“Just wanting to make certain I have your complete attention.” She would have laughed at his uneasy glance at the sword if she were not so incensed. “I have every right to be vexed at the man who kisses me senseless, then vilifies me for liking it.” He leaped out of her way when she suddenly pivoted, the point of the sword slicing inches from his thigh.
“W-wha—you liked my kisses?”
Pacing until she came to a wall, she spun around and returned to his side. “Why would I not? Your face is pleasing, your breath is not sour, and you can be an agreeable companion when you choose,” she rattled off, preferring to forget the emotions she felt. “It was quite pleasant.”
For some reason, the compliment offended him. “Pleasant,” he repeated through clenched teeth.
She gracefully lifted her hand, halting his motion toward her. “Naturally, I speak for myself. You seem surprised. Did you think me a fickle creature who would eagerly accept your kisses, only to deny enjoying them?” Of course he had. The twit! “Get out.” She shoved him backward.
“Hold on.” He complied, else risking contact with the leveled sword. “If you are not nettled about the kiss, then why not prove it. Kiss me again, lovely Wynne.”
Jabbing the sword at his gut, she had him cursing and stumbling backward out the door. “I feel pressed to offer some advice, Mr. Milroy. The next time you kiss a woman, restrain yourself from gloating. No lady wants to hear that the sole reason she was in your arms was to provide a method for besting your brother. It is humiliating.” She closed the panels and secured the latch. Ignoring him, she returned the sword to its place on the wall.
He pounded on the frame, causing glass and wood to clatter in a perilous manner. Refusing to act like a coward, Wynne went to the window. She did not unlock it.
His seething stare was intimidating, but she refused to concede. Without warning, his anger crumbled. Laughing, he bumped his forehead against a glass.
“So you like my kisses, Wynne Bedegrayne?”
She hesitated, and then shrugged. “Yes.”
“And you think I’m an arrogant arse.”
“Very impressive, Mr. Milroy. You deduced all that and did not even require my palm.”
“Aye,” he nodded, relieved. “Still able to cut mere mortals with the edge of your tongue. I would have been disappointed if my kisses befuddled the skill out of you.”
Befuddled! His conceit roiled in her stomach like ground glass. Incensed, she glanced back at the sword on the wall. Reading her thoughts, he tapped on the glass, drawing her attention back to him.
“Now that we have settled our business, I will be off. Keep the windows locked. Something was in your garden. I will not be around to chase it away if it comes back.” The corner of his mouth lifted in an indulgent grin. “Don’t forget. Tomorrow. Hyde Park at three. I’ve heard there is a small fair in town. We can explore the tents and attractions together.”
“I will not be there.”
“Liar. You will not be able to resist. You may be cross with me, Wynne, but you have a fondness for Nevin.” He frowned, displeased at the notion. “Keepin
g me distracted will save Nevin’s hide one more day.” Kissing her hand, he touched the glass. “Dream of me.” The fog swallowed his departure.
Tugging the curtains closed, she returned to her chair and book. Taking up the book, she realized she had lost all interest in reading. Wynne gazed at the fire, contemplating Keanan’s not-so-subtle warning that he and Lord Nevin would one day resolve their grievances by bloodshed. Lamentably, she had become part of their battle. It was due either to providence or the machinations of a devious man. She believed in both, yet could not fathom which one guided her.
His kisses must have befuddled her, after all.
Eight
No one had ever accused Devona of idleness, or patience. Still, all her aborted starts in the direction of her father and son must have appeared to the observer as some type of nervous affliction. She concealed her cringe when her father lifted her young son high above his head and then pretended to drop him. Being a new mother, she could not help but contemplate the horrors of the innocent game gone awry. Lucien giggled, not understanding that he was supposed to be terrified. She appealed silently to her husband, Rayne, to take charge of the situation.
“Thomas, your grandson just gorged himself on some of Cook’s pudding. You will likely sample it yourself if you continue tickling him in that manner.” Her husband winked at her.
“Take charge of your son, gel,” Sir Thomas demanded, dangling the wriggling child outward for her to collect. “You should have more sense than to turn him loose on his unsuspecting grandsire.”
Devona took Lucien from him and nuzzled his cheek. “Yes, Papa.” She peered over her son’s wispy blond locks at her husband; appreciation and love shined in her eyes. What she never tired of was seeing those same emotions reflected back.
Her marriage to Tipton was enduring, in spite of the dire predictions from various members of the ton. He was not an approachable man, she ruefully admitted to herself. Rayne bore too many scars from his past to grant trust indiscriminately. Devona knew she not only had his love, but also his trust. They had been hers almost from the beginning. Time and healing had allowed him to open his small circle to include the Bedegraynes. The one thing no one could fault Tipton about was his devotion to his family.
The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy Page 10