The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy

by Alexandra Hawkins

  Stretching out beside her, he placed his hand on her quivering stomach. The heat of his hand radiated down to the bone. He rolled toward her, his mouth claiming hers. A rush of excitement swamped her, reminding her of their first kisses before the noble nature he denied possessing dulled his ardor. She returned the kiss he had initiated, arching her body against him. The hand on her stomach shifted lower. She had not been aware of its progress until his fingers glided between her legs unerringly finding the blond nest of curls that concealed the sensitive folds of flesh. His calloused fingers, slick with her desire, pressed and rubbed the small nub protected within. Wynne moaned, her hips rising higher to meet his touch. Anticipating her demand, his finger sank within her, breaching the depths that would make him her lover.

  “Keanan.” His name was a whisper compared to the raging passion taking control of her body.

  His head lifted. Their gazes met. His was triumphant while hers was glazed and needy. Latching on to her breast, he suckled, splintering her with pleasure. As he quickened the movements of his fingers, a pulse flared to life within her. Clasping his head, she bucked under his ministrations, knowing she would die if he did not …

  There.

  The energy building inside her winked to a pinpoint, then exploded into a million shards of starlight. She convulsed, a silent cry hissing through her clenched teeth. As she became conscious of her surroundings again, she focused on Keanan’s face. He acted as if she had slapped him when unwanted tears filled her eyes.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, no.” Her head moved side to side, causing the tears to leak down her temples into her hair. “What did you do? I have never felt … it—it was extraordinary!”

  “Really,” he said, some of his former male arrogance leaching into the word. “Extraordinary, eh?”

  “Arrogant swine.” She gave him a shove, finally recalling he had yet to remove his breeches. Her hands captured the impressive bulge, making him groan. “What of you? Do you want—?”

  “Aye, I want … and I burn.” He said it as if it were a curse. “I will stop. Leave you be, if that is your wish.”

  So he found the strength to be noble after all.

  Wynne caught the edge of his breeches and tried pushing them down. Her position was all wrong to assist him. Keanan sat up on his knees and peeled the skintight breeches down and kicked them away.

  Rising up on her elbows, she parted her lips in surprise. Gracious! She had seen sculptures of the naked male form; however, she never believed a living man could surpass the cool marble perfection of an artist’s imagination. And there was simply more of him, she marveled, her gaze fixed on the portion of his anatomy he had just uncovered.

  What had always seemed so understated in art jutted aggressively out from a nest of wiry dark hair. Sitting up, she reached out and petted him. The length of him was surprisingly smooth and hot. She glanced up at Keanan. He stood rigid, his eyes firmly shut as if enduring a great torment. The flesh in her hand bobbed, pressing against her hand, insisting that she continue her stroking.

  Curiosity soon gave way to growing concern. He was too big. She had two married sisters who had explained the happenings between a man and woman. If what she had gleaned were true, he could not possibly fit.

  “I should not have given you time to think, I see,” he said, guiding her back into a prone position with the length of his body. “Your face has lost its rosy glow, Wynne.”

  The hot length of his manhood pushed persistently into her inner thigh. The lingering effects of his earlier pleasuring faded with her increasing fear of the pain she would endure.

  Keanan kissed her forehead. “Pain is the last thing I would have you feel,” he said, accurately reading her thoughts. Moving lower, he kissed her nose, and then her mouth.

  Gradually, she relaxed. His relentless tender assault on her mouth rekindled the waning flame of passion. Soon she was initiating the engaging tongue play he had used to seduce her. Using his fingers, he traced inflaming circles over her breasts and abdomen. Just beneath the surface, her stomach muscles clenched when his hand moved lower, her body already anticipating the astonishing release only he could awaken.

  Testing her readiness, he groaned when proof of her desire coated his fingers. Shifting, he nudged a space for himself between her legs. Hooking her hands into his, he locked them over her head, holding them with his weight. His eyes, intense and nearly black, enthralled her. “No more waiting. I cannot stand being apart from you.”

  A roll of his narrow hips, and the thick, blunt head of his manhood unerringly found its dewy mark. Sweat beaded on his forehead and shoulders, and his eyes held hers as the pressure built, his body demanding access to hers. Keanan rocked his hips; the rigid length, slathered with her wetness, sank deeper.

  Wynne sucked in her breath. He was barely inside her and she already was feeling stretched beyond her body’s capabilities. She wiggled her hips as Keanan had done, hoping to ease the discomfort.

  “Christ!” he muttered, releasing one of her hands to cup her buttocks. He pulled out, only to plunge completely into her, forcing her hips to meet his decisive thrust. They both cried out at the joining.

  Keanan gave her no time to contemplate the stinging fullness of his penetration. His head pressed into her shoulder; he moved in and out of her like a man possessed. The wetness of her arousal coated his manhood, allowing him to quicken his thrusts. Warmth expanded in her pelvis. The initial ache of their joining lessened, and new sensations seem to flow from him into her. She lifted her hips, attempting to meet his demanding thrusts. Keanan raised his head.

  “Wynne.”

  Her name burst out of him, the feelings behind his meaning were too much to analyze. The kiss he pressed to her mouth was unforgiving and bordered on desperation. Turning his head to the side, he drove himself as deep as she could take him and froze. For endless seconds, he did not even breathe. The hot pulse of his seed flooded her before he raggedly inhaled. Still joined, Keanan collapsed, giving her his full weight.

  Wynne rather liked the feel of him on top of her. He felt solid. Safe. She sighed, noting the subtle changes to her body. Sated, his softening manhood remained nestled inside her. She clenched her inner muscles, trying to hold him in place. Her eyes widened when the softening flesh twitched.

  Keanan laughed, almost dislodging himself completely. Propping himself up on his arms, he looked down at her. His eyelids drooped lazily, making him appear too satisfied with his present situation. She smiled, realizing she was responsible for his current arrogance.

  “You have bewitched me, Wynne. And my cock. I confess we’re both restless whenever you are about.”

  Thrusting gently, he tested the strength of her enchantment. She wrapped her arms around him, tugging him closer. Their physical rapture only heightened her love for him. If this was truly magic, she prayed it would last a lifetime.

  Thirteen

  Where was she?

  Keanan stalked down Bond Street, ignoring the exclusive shops and their impressive inventories meant to entice the fashionable. His gaze skimmed over each approaching female, immediately dismissing them from his mind when they turned out not to be the lady he planned to encounter accidentally.

  A fortnight had passed since Keanan had brought Wynne to his house. Aunt Moll’s matchmaking had given them both a chance to explore their mutual attraction. Never had he dared contemplate that the lady would freely offer what he secretly coveted: affection as well as her luscious body.

  Weeks later, he was still reeling from the aftermath. She had professed that she loved him, but he had tried not to allow the words to creep into his heart. Women had whispered those words to him before, more aware of their power than he, when he was younger and craved such devotion.

  Perhaps, speaking them aloud had given Wynne an excuse to throw away her virginity on a man who could never be her equal. A lady, a real lady, would need a justification to bolster her courage when she faced her proper aristocr
atic husband on their wedding night. He did not blame her. Like all things in his life, Keanan knew Wynne’s presence was transitory. If she did not end their affair, then her family would.

  “Milroy!”

  Dutch ambled toward him; his size and less-than-fashionable attire earned him a few rude stares from the people he pushed past.

  “Where have you been hiding? For weeks there hasn’t been a glimpse of you at the Court, nor any of your old haunts. Blanche Chabbert has asked after you. She said you have been avoiding the Silver Serpent.” They stepped into the opening of a deserted alley, out of the way of the pedestrian traffic.

  Keanan leaned against a brick wall, stifling the guilt he felt at abandoning an old friend. With each step he took toward the new life he had planned out, the further removed he seemed to be from his boxing past. “I have been working on my house,” he said rather defensively, hoping Dutch would take the hint and quit pushing at him.

  Dutch’s grayish-blue eyes narrowed. Smelling weakness, he ruthlessly pressed onward. “You’ve been dallying with that fancy mort your brother pants after, haven’t you?” His despairing groan echoed between the brick walls. He jammed his hand through his unruly patch of salted black hair. “Tell me any prigging done was limited to your nocturnal whimsies?”

  “I do not consider it any business of yours,” he coolly replied.

  The older man seemed oblivious to the dangerous edge he traversed. “Oh, you brainless merry-begotten fool!” he roared. “This is no well-ridden quim you can plow and then walk away, a few coins less for your trouble.”

  Blind anger rose, blotting out his civilized veneer. He charged, seizing the edges of his friend’s brown waistcoat. Despite the fact that Dutch outweighed him by several stone, he managed to lift him off his feet and slam him into the opposing brick wall. “It isn’t like that. Speak one filthy word in her name again and I’ll break your good wrist.” He shoved him again, reinforcing his point before releasing his hold.

  Using the wall for support, Dutch rubbed his chest. “You might as well cut your own heart out and toss it in the Thames, Milroy, if you think the lady will be choosing you over your brother. No matter her heart, duty trumps love for their kind.”

  Keanan wiped the sweat from his forehead, using the sleeve of his coat. He did not need the older man’s opinions on love when he had his own demons whispering in his ear. Hell, he had enough brains to understand that love was the idyllic dream idiots and romantics strove to capture. If his time with Wynne was an illusion, then all he wanted was a little more time to enjoy it.

  “I didn’t seek her out for love, Dutch,” he spat, not certain which one of them he was reminding.

  The bitterness in his voice took the residual anger out of his friend. He checked the street; they were invisible to the passing fashionable.

  “Well.” Dutch blew out the word. Crossing his arms, his contemplative expression focused on Keanan. “My sympathies to the lady, then. Ruining her will certainly make her unpalatable to your brother, and any other decent fellow who might consider her for a wife.”

  “She isn’t ruined. Her family’s wealth will keep her out of the streets,” he growled, recalling how his mother had not been so fortunate.

  “Still,” Dutch drawled, preparing to twist the verbal blade he had already buried in Keanan’s gut. “I hope you treated her with the courtesy you would have any tart, and spared her your mettle. No matter her wealth, breeding her lover’s bastard will bury her.”

  Shamed, he turned away. He recalled the exquisite moment of his release. Instead of pulling out of her, instinct and obsession had overruled his common sense. Driving his cock deep enough to kiss her womb, his hot, spurting seed pumped into her body, not just once, but thrice. He had claimed her over and over, trying to sate himself. Only her increasing tenderness had halted him that night. The hunger even now remained. It was a living thing, growing more bestial the longer he was denied her.

  Keanan scrubbed his face. Christ! A child. He had not thought, damn him. All he had focused on was her willing body, and her love. Love. Bloody hell. Self-preservation shut off the possibility. He backed away mentally from it, feeling stark terror. Their one night together had not been fruitful. He had lain with other women. No woman had ever claimed he had planted a babe in her belly. He clung to that revelation as if it was a talisman.

  His silence was an answer in itself. Swearing, Dutch spat on the ground and walked away in disgust.

  * * *

  “How fortuitous, Wynne, I came upon you this afternoon,” Brook said after they were seated within Ferry Hill, a small, natty public house intent on luring the patronage of the rich when they had tired of shopping. “Walking about unescorted”—she made a disapproving sound—“I marvel at your boldness. My lord would have sent me off to the country if he had caught me at the deed.”

  Wynne silently agreed, recalling her last conversation with Lord A’Court. He was a man who prided himself on his sense of propriety. A lady under his hand would be forced to bend to his will, or be broken. Regrettably, she had encountered scores of such men.

  “Scarcely boldness, Brook. Both my maid and footman are attending me.” She could never reveal to her friend the true daring of her outing.

  Somewhere, Keanan walked the nearby streets searching for her. To both of their frustration, conducting a discreet affair in town was more challenging than either had imagined. Maneuvering accidental meetings without alerting her family or stirring gossip required strategic skills neither of them could claim. Now she understood Tipton’s haste to wed her sister. These constant interruptions and foiled plans were wearing on Keanan’s temper. Even so, what could she have done? Once Brook had sighted her from her carriage, Wynne could not think of an excuse to break off their encounter.

  “Still,” her friend continued, “considering Nevin is close to making an offer, it would be prudent to restrain your natural enthusiasm for life and adhere to the demure womanly qualities a gentleman expects in his lady wife.”

  “What tripe!” Wynne gaped, surprised at the preaching nonsense she had just heard. Their friendship spanned many years. Brook’s lesser standing might have forced her to heed closely society’s dictates, and yet she had never before condemned others who were not as perfect.

  “I would refuse any man who insisted I behave as a paragon. It sounds like a cold life, both in and out of the marriage bed.”

  The mention of marriage intimacies was too much for her friend. A cherry stain washed over her entire face. Putting her hand over her mouth, she broke several of her precious rules, by sobbing into her palm. Copious tears overflowed her eyes and then coursed down her cheeks. Never had Wynne felt so heartless. Rising and moving over to her distressed friend’s side, she sat beside her, attempting to shield her from the curious.

  “I meant no offense, Brook,” she murmured, pitching her voice low and soothing. “Our father has raised us to speak forthrightly, and sometimes I forget to temper my opinions.”

  Brook vigorously shook her head, taking the handkerchief Wynne pressed into her hand up to her eyes. She dabbed at her tears. “You are not to blame. That is not why I—” She shuddered, finally gaining control over her upset. “I find myself weeping at the strangest circumstances. I am told it is due to the babe.”

  “A babe!” Delighted by the news, Wynne squeezed her friend’s hands. “How wonderful for you! Lord A’Court must be thrilled.”

  “We have been wed too long for him to expect anything less.”

  She frowned slightly at the moody comment, but dismissed it like the tears as part of the nature of her delicate condition. Her sisters had suffered similar bouts of melancholy. Sympathetic, Wynne hugged Brook, unprepared for her visible flinch and painful cry.

  “You are hurt.” Ignoring Brook’s protestations, she pushed up her sleeve. Ugly bruising mottled the flesh she exposed. “What happened?”

  “D-do not tell Lyon,” she begged, shoving the sleeve back into place. “It was an
accident. J-just an accident.”

  “You fell?”

  Wobbly, nodding her head, she explained, “One of the maids left a pile of linen on the stairs—”

  “Brook!” Wynne did not need all the harrowing details to imagine the tragic possibilities.

  “I am quite unhurt. The babe is unharmed.” Clutching her reticule in an unyielding grip, she leaned forward, her eyes beseeching. “I beg you. Do not tell Lyon. If he should learn…” Her voice trailed off, keeping her concerns to herself.

  Wynne doubted such bruising could be concealed from a husband, recalling the intimacy she had shared with Keanan. Not an inch of her had escaped his attention. Lord A’Court would certainly tend after his wife. Since she did not want to upset Brook further, her thoughts remained unspoken. “I have no desire to stand between you and your husband.” Her friend sagged against the back of the chair at the promise. “I do insist on seeing you home. You should be in bed, not jostled about in a carriage.”

  The pathetic gratefulness she saw in Brook’s gaze made her feel terrible.

  “You are so right. It is so kind of you to look after me. I consider you my closest, most treasured friend, Wynne.”

  While awaiting the A’Court carriage, she instructed her footman, Inch, and her maid, Milly, to follow behind them in the family carriage. The wind and passing traffic billowed their skirts. Both ladies fussed, smoothing their skirts back into place.

  When she glanced up, Wynne noticed Keanan standing across the street. He did not greet her. With his back propped against a storefront brick wall, she sensed his gaze was focused on her. She longed to rush over and explain why she was abandoning him. However, publicly acknowledging him brought its own troubles, and Brook needed her now.

  Two opposing phaetons crossed on the street between them, breaking their stare. Before it had passed, Keanan was already adjusting his hat and walking away. Brook’s carriage halted in front of them, blocking his departure.