The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy

by Alexandra Hawkins

  “Stop, please,” she begged, her gloved fingers reaching out to still his lips. She retreated, making him feel bereft at the loss of her touch. “If you behave like a savage, it is only because you wish to act so.”

  He allowed her to set their pace and direction. She seemed content to move toward the front of the building, away from the revelry and crowds.

  “Lord Nevin claims to have feelings for me, Mr. Milroy,” she admitted, sending his emotions into a frenzied roil of rage, fear, and denial. “I have not encouraged him. Nor do I wish him punished because you cannot bear to see him humanized by his lighter passions.”

  Could she not see? He had little practice with the fair sex except for the occasional tryst with a willing wench to satisfy his lustful urges. It had not prepared him on how to deal with a prickly female who seemed more wary than romantically interested in him. “It isn’t his civilized veneer or the lack that makes me long to plant my fist into his pretty face. He thinks he has a right to claim you. That he deserves you. I could kill him for the fancy!” Great. Those were exactly the kind of words a man used to woo his lady.

  She blinked at the vehemence of his vow, but she did not step away from him. “No one can control another’s thoughts, Keanan.” A hint of a mysteriously feminine smile had his insides clenching. “Even you.”

  “I have no desire to control Nevin. I just want to thwart any intentions he has toward you.”

  They strolled through the opened entrance. Rain poured like sheets of water over the four-pillared outcropping of the Pantheon’s Grecian facade. The cool evening air felt inviting, compared to remaining inside where the air was heated by the exertions of the dancers and the smoky candlelit chandeliers.

  “Are you chilled?” he asked, cursing himself for not looking after her properly.

  “No.”

  Not believing her, he let his fingers graze hers and gently tugged her to him. Her back to his chest, he wrapped his arms around her as he leaned against the wall. Silently accepting the warmth he had to offer, she listened and watched the rain.

  Masked, their public display of affection did not seem so improper, as if their costumes protected them from censure. Of course, they were not the only couple seeking a dark place to share a few desperate minutes of intimacy. On the opposite side of the entrance, there was another couple ardently entwined. Soft murmurs and laughter from the woman drifted over to them.

  “I pondered whether or not you would heed your father’s command not to associate with me,” he said, pitching his voice low.

  Wynne turned in his arms so she could see his face. “Do not judge my presence as any concession. I simply was not privy to my aunt’s grand scheme.”

  “And if you had been?”

  He watched her nibble her top lip, and then her lower, while she mulled over his question. “I would still be here.”

  The generous admission felt like a balm to his senses. Confronting her father when his motives that day were at best murky had been foolhardy. He had departed, with the old Bedegrayne charging after him and swearing he would rather marry her off to a Turkish pasha than waste his precious daughter on an infamous fellow. What had he expected? A loving, patriarchal embrace welcoming him to the family? If he had, taunting a very capable gray-haired giant that he was stealing his daughter away from him was not the manner in which to go about it.

  “Why did you do it?” Wynne asked, unerringly picking up his thoughts. Two coaches rattled past them on the street.

  “He needed to know what happened at the fair. You never planned to tell him, did you?”

  “One truth unravels several lies.”

  She separated from him at the appearance of two departing couples. One of the men took notice of her and leered, but his lady rapped him on the ear, bringing his attention back to his party.

  “If you are so eager for truth, why do you not exercise the words yourself? What really provoked you to enrage my father?”

  Keanan objected. “I did not—”

  “You did. My father may be brusque by nature. Nevertheless, his temper is moderate. An hour in your presence had him muttering curses, punctuated by ardent exclamations for a sennight.”

  “I am not overly fond of him, either.”

  “I am so pleased you find this amusing.” She waved his hand away when he tried touching her arm. “My father has never forbade me from anyone before. I was willing to risk—” She felt her throat closing up, preventing her from finishing. “Forget I said anything.”

  “Do not leave me,” he entreated, meaning every word. Their meeting was not transpiring the way he had imagined. Keanan blamed himself. It was difficult explaining his feelings to anyone, and he had recently discovered that speaking them to Wynne challenged him beyond his comfort. At the sound of more approaching people, he moved to the side, shielding her from their scrutiny. “I want to show you something. Will you come with me?”

  Wynne placed her hand over his on her arm. For once, she seemed uncertain. “I cannot leave my aunt.”

  “Aunt Moll is in the tender care of Mr. Keel and is pleased with his company. Her hints for us to leave were not all that subtle.” Keanan silenced her by rubbing her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “I told her I would see you home. No one will miss us. To the casual observer, Theocritus’s Cyclops has finally conquered the heart of his beautiful Galatea.”

  * * *

  “Is that how you see me?” Wynne could not resist asking later once Keanan had secured them a hackney. She recalled the mythological poem of the gay, mocking sea nymph who tormented the ugly Cyclops. “Do you feel I tease and arouse hope in your heart, only to reject you?”

  The interior of the coach was dark except for the muted light coming through the windows from the exterior lanterns. She sensed more than saw his agitated movements. “I spoke of the costumes—our anonymity to the public. There was no reference to your poor treatment of me.” His voice confirmed his rising irritation.

  If he had hoped his gruff manner would quell her, he had underestimated the complicated mix of courage and stubbornness. “I doubt my aunt considered this costume a representation of Galatea. I rather preferred thinking I was queen of the butterflies instead of some callous creature.” Good grief, now she was prattling.

  He exhaled noisily. Muttering an oath, he said, “Be the bloody queen of anything that pleases you.” He blew out another breath. “Forget I opened my mouth.”

  Watching him rip off his mask and toss it to the floor, an insight struck her. Too caught up in her own confusing feelings about Keanan, she had never considered that he might have a few of his own. In her understanding, humor surfaced. “What are we fighting about?”

  His lips twitched. “Damn little, in my opinion.” As they laughed together, he reached for her. “Come here.”

  “Any closer and I will be sitting on your lap,” she protested, amusement still lacing her voice.

  “I’ll let you know when it becomes a problem.”

  * * *

  In a less friendly section of town, the torrent of heaven’s black tears beat down relentlessly on another coach. The cool air and uncomfortable dampness heightened Lord Nevin’s savage mood. He had never shied from the notion that Wynne Bedegrayne would be a demanding wife. Indeed, he relished the benefits of channeling such passions to the marriage bed. Feeling defeated, he slammed his foot into the floorboards of the coach. First, he had endured Wynne’s indifference to his clumsy attempts at charming her. Later, when he trusted his temper again, her crazy old aunt could not seem to recall the whereabouts of her niece. Resistance had trumped every calculated maneuver this evening. He felt half mad from frustration.

  Reaching his third stop, the coachman opened the door, an umbrella readied in his hand. Not bothering to keep pace, Drake trudged through boggy mud and entered the Silver Serpent. A sneer diminished his handsome features as his gaze swept the room. There was no relief in his expression at the sight of the approaching proprietress.

 
“Where is Reckester?” Drake demanded. Any inclination toward graciousness had left him hours past.

  Not offended by his brisk manner, Blanche Chabbert’s shrewd gaze assessed him. “His Grace does not like to be bothered. Who are you?”

  “His son,” he said, the words spoken as though his birthright was a curse.

  “Ah, yes. You have the look of him. His eyes, I think. Like the other.”

  Not appreciating the comparison to Reckester, or to his bastard, he disregarded her startled protest and pushed past her.

  Hands on her hips, she shouted, “And his rude manners, too.”

  She remained in his wake, which was fine with him as long as she did not interfere. Not seeing his father in the main room, he moved down the hall. Three doors lined each wall, leading to rooms used for private games. He opened the first door. The naked man and woman within did not hear him close the door. Obviously, the Silver Serpent had expanded on its private pleasures, he thought, moving on to the next door. Empty. Drake discovered Reckester in the third room. He considered it a small mercy that his father was engrossed in a card game rather than sampling some whore’s wares.

  “Well, well … it is young Reckmore. Come join us, man,” one of his father’s cronies beckoned.

  Drake gnashed his teeth at the ridiculous cognomen. Some wit years ago had dubbed his half brother Reckless, a nasty reminder of the family he lacked. Amused and drunk one evening, his father announced at one of his clubs that if his bastard was Reckless, then his heir must be Reckmore. The name had stuck, especially after Milroy’s exploits in the ring had brought him fame and recognition. Drake had managed to quell its use among his peers; however, his father’s intimates still enjoyed needling him. He briefly wondered if Milroy equally despised his name.

  “Come to play?” Reckester asked. His sloppy appearance gave one the impression he had resided in his chair for days. His coat misplaced, he wore his soiled shirt unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His shoulder-length light-brown hair hung loosely and looked to have been combed countless times with his fingers. Those red-rimmed eyes flickered upward, meeting his son’s dispassionate gaze. “Thought you were off doing your mama’s bidding.”

  The other men at the table snickered. Rebuffing them, Drake leaned forward, resting his left palm on the table, successfully blocking his father’s view of the ongoing game. “An unnecessary bidding, if you did more with your time than piss the rents against the wall.”

  “Tibal came weeping to you about the accounts. Weak-kneed peach!” he roared.

  Keeping his voice pitched low to avoid becoming next morning’s gossip, he murmured, “Who do you think cleans up your affairs, Father? Those creditors do not simply disappear because your word is respected in town.”

  His attempts to stand were inhibited by poor balance brought about by an indecent amount of port. “Disrespectful,” he slurred. He pounded his chest. “I take care of my own. I don’t need you meddling. You and Tibal whispering behind my back, by God!”

  “You are gambling more than our wealth when you tangle with those shady moneylenders. The last one hinted to Tibal that he was willing to snap the bones in each of your fingers to gain your cooperation.”

  His father’s expression paled but was still mutinous. “Just bluffing. No one would dare touch me.”

  The blind arrogance of his boast shattered something inside Drake. Suddenly, his hands were on him. His fingers seized fistfuls of his father’s ruined shirt and hauled him out of his chair. Reckester’s glazed eyes were wide with shock and a gratifying dose of fear. “Keep out of this!” Drake warned his father’s friends when one of them moved to intercede. “Look at you. Drunk, foolish, you foul the air.”

  Reckester worked his mouth. “Listen—”

  “Keep your excuses. I have heard them all.” He stared down at his father while he dangled in his grip. Disgust and pity had eroded his filial love. “Where is your dignity? You are like a disease. Your decadence and self-pity consumes our family, leaving nothing but putrid waste.”

  “Let go. Let go!” his father bellowed, an enraged, wounded animal. The accusations garnered Reckester the strength to push Drake away. Released, he fell sideways back into his chair, his arm shoving his cards into the air like one-winged butterflies. “I am your father. I am entitled to your respect and obedience, sir. What gives you the right to judge me?”

  Using his palms, Drake pressed at the pain in his temples. He was losing the woman he wanted to marry; his birthright probably amounted to IOUs at various gaming hells; and tonight with his father’s assistance, he was chiseling at the foundation of his reputation.

  “My name gives me sanction. I leave you to your decay, Father. The quicker your demise, the sooner the title and estates are mine.” He turned his back on him.

  “You’re not my only son,” Reckester, gaining courage, staggered to his feet and shouted. “Hellfire, you aren’t even the eldest. Have a care, young Nevin. A properly placed signature could have the ton calling you the bastard!”

  Twelve

  Keanan had left their destination a surprise. Wynne had withdrawn from him. Uncertain about her silence, he allowed the sounds of rain pounding against the roof of the coach and the rumble of the wheels to substitute for conversation.

  Even in darkness, her beauty called to him. Her winged mask still remained in place. Whether she kept it on to distance herself from her decision to accompany him, or to prolong the night’s enchantment, he could only speculate. The paste stones winked with her subtle movements. The intriguing glitter beckoned him closer, making him want to see if her eyes were equally inviting.

  Her hand brushed his arm, halting his silent inquiry. The slowing coach prompted his midnight siren to speak.

  “Where are we?”

  The coachman opened the door, giving her a glimpse of the house shrouded in murkiness. Keanan had yet to hire a permanent staff to keep the lanterns ablaze for their master’s return.

  “The property is mine,” Keanan replied, descending the coach. Accepting the coachman’s umbrella, he hesitated only when she made no attempt to move. “Regrets, Wynne?” He held out a waiting hand, his face impassive as he watched her lips part at his unspoken challenge. He had long learned how to conceal his feelings from the world. In truth, he feared a candid revelation would have her fleeing into the night, leaving him alone in his cold, empty house.

  Sucking in her lower lip in contemplation, she gazed past him to his dwelling. What inner conflict she fought ended with a decisive nod. She accepted his outstretched hand. Together they hurried to the door, acting as if speed would leave them untouched by the rain.

  Taking out a key, he unlocked the massive walnut door and ushered her into the ink-black maw of the entrance hall. Keanan handed the umbrella back to the drenched coachman, and their sole light faded into the distance.

  “Remain where you are. I’ll light some candles,” he assured Wynne. He moved confidently to a table and withdrew the items he needed.

  “Where is your man?” she asked, her speech rapid and breathy, the result of her increasing nervousness.

  Working on the promised light, he grinned in the darkness. Despite her fears, she always held her ground with him. Keanan could not think of a single female as brave. Or foolish. Her trust staggered him. It made him want to prove to her that it was not misplaced.

  “Ah, blessed light.” He took the single candle and lit the pewter branch of four. Once finished, he pushed the candle into the empty socket, and picked up the candelabra. “I have yet to hire servants,” he explained, bathing her in the warm circle of his light. “The house stood abandoned for years. It needs cleaning and various repairs to make it livable. So far, I reside alone. You are my first guest.”

  Wynne trailed after him. He led her down the hall and to the left. Walking through a room and out another door, he suspected their meager light provided a respectable glimpse of the house. His. Pride filled his chest. He had never owned anything
as grand as this old house. The rotting floorboards, cracked plaster, and uninvited vermin in the house when he purchased it could not diminish his prize. His new wealth had enabled him to replace the boards, recoat the plaster walls, and sweep the vermin out along with years of dust. Already, commissioned artisans labored adding elaborate detailing to the cornice, frieze, and architrave, restoring the old house to its former elegance.

  “How do you live? Someone should be here at all hours to look after things and deter a clever thief. And what of your clothes? You need a man to see after you. How do you eat?”

  Amused by her flurry of questions, he chuckled. “I manage, Wynne. I’ve had years of seeing to myself. A proper staff will only spoil me.”

  He wondered about the man she saw when she gazed at him. Did he truly look like a gentleman, a man entirely useless without an army of servants hovering around him, seeing to his every whim? He had worked to conjure such an image for her, but now he saw the flaws in such a fellow. Too caught up in his role, he had not allowed her to meet the man beneath.

  “I did not mean—I was prying,” she apologized, walking away from him to the large unadorned windows, her embarrassment acute and uncomfortable.

  Keanan instantly regretted his mocking comments. The stiffness in her posture, and the prideful tilt of her head showed him that she had retreated, hiding behind politeness. An evening at the masquerade had seemed fated, because he longed for the unmasking.

  “I will see to a fire,” he muttered, kneeling down in front of the iron grate.

  Drawing the edges of her cloak together, she said, “I am not cold.”

  Using a candle to ignite the small coal, he shrugged, dismissing her admission. “A fire provides light, besides warmth.” He took up the bellows and fanned the small flame. “You might as well remove your cloak. It is so sodden with rain, it is more likely stealing heat than providing it.” Using the tongs he added more coal.

  “Your house is barren, Keanan.”