Wynne ascended after her friend, her mind already repeating the silent exchange with Keanan. Not able to resist, she glanced back, only to be disappointed he was gone. Nibbling at the glove seam of her first finger, she settled into the cushioned seat. From her limited experience, loving this arrogant, complicated man made her vacillate from euphoria to despair. She wondered if she would ever find her balance. Sighing, she tried to focus on calming her friend. It looked as if Brook was not the only one battling melancholy.
* * *
Sipping his favorite brandy, Sir Thomas Bedegrayne enjoyed the nightly routine. Since the death of his beloved Anna, he had sought solace in his clubs. There, he could find a hot meal waiting for him, companionship if he welcomed it, and opportunities to occupy his mind.
The demands of his family had dwindled as his children had grown. His heir, Brock, had given in to his restlessness and sailed off to India. Irene had married Sutton years ago and was happily making grandbabies for him. Nyle, his and Anna’s changeling, had vanished from England years ago. He always felt the weight of his years when he recalled that his parting words to his second son were spoken in anger. He thoughtfully sipped his brandy and grieved.
Shrugging off the ill humor, his thoughts drifted to his youngest daughter, Devona. With more pluck than a weary papa could bear, she was thankfully Tipton’s concern. He chuckled to himself, the memories of Devona’s past mischief flickering through his mind. His gel would prevent Tipton from becoming too staid in his newly acquired respectability.
No, he no longer fretted over his youngest daughter. Rather, the one daughter he had considered the most sensible and the least trouble concerned him. He blamed himself. Anna’s death had shaken him. Adrift in his private grief, it had taken him years to notice how Wynne had quietly assumed her mother’s position in the household. Despite her youth, she had eased her siblings’ hurts, shared their confidences, and created order in their household. Or at least she had tried to keep his grieving, motherless brood together until their father had figured out how he was going to survive without his beloved wife.
Now it was Wynne who needed him, whether or not she desired his interference. He had sensed trouble the day Milroy walked into his house and insolently told him he was taking his gel. His grip tightened on the glass of brandy. Randy buck! By God, he would face him at dawn if he touched his gentle, beautiful daughter.
Arrogant, intelligent, stubborn, and dismissive to the fashionable sway, this blue-eyed rake possessed many of the qualities he wished in a man for his Wynne, and yet he was marked by the taint of scandal. No amount of wealth and fame would wash away the lad’s disgrace. Thomas had been curious enough to do some digging into Milroy’s past, and the results had been fascinating. Nevertheless, trouble was following his gel, and if he were a wagering man, he would bet every coin he owned that this fighter was responsible.
“Bedegrayne. My apologies for being late.”
One bushy brow lifted as he invited his companion to join him. “I’m a forgiving man, Reckester, when I need to be,” he cryptically remarked, wondering again how far his sweet gel had fallen into the deep play of the Reckester warfare.
* * *
Reckester slumped into the chair, wishing he were less sober. Returning home and confessing failure to his wife forced him to ply caution when confronting this man.
He had never considered Bedegrayne part of his elite circle of friends. The man’s blunt manner of speaking, not to mention his delivery, had always been wearing on his ears. Then there were the man’s eyes. Like his speech, the blue-green stare he pinned his victims with was cold as a winter sea. He was one of the few people who intimidated him, although a few glasses of whatever spirits were at hand would ease the discomfort.
“Your note stated an urgent purpose to our meeting.”
Perhaps directness had its own advantage. The quicker said, the sooner he could have the drink he craved. “I thought it was time we chatted, since my son has finally settled on your Wynne. My wife believes his interest is returned. Between the two of us, I think we can come to terms and post the banns. I am certain you recall the anticipation of the marriage bed?” The only lust ruling him these days was his portion of the Bedegrayne wealth.
“Which son?”
His mouth was already working before the meaning of the succinct question had sunk into his brain. Old sins had surfaced faster than expected, and yet, they were manageable. “I have one true son.”
“And two who court my Wynne, Reckester.” Bedegrayne leaned closer, his unblinking gaze locked on his own. “What kind of game are your lads playing?”
“None,” he blurted out, stunned at the sudden turn of the conversation. “Drake is the only blood I claim, the one I offer to your daughter.”
“Milroy has your stamp. Do you deny him?”
Reckester slouched deeper into his seat, idly tapping a tattoo on the table with his fingers. He had never had any grievance against his bastard son. Rae’s fury at his existence had prevented him from ever claiming him. Even so, he could not help but feel pride at the young man’s success. Despite his wife’s threats, he had been tolerant of his son’s presence in town, as long as he did not interfere with his sire’s interests. Unfortunately, Milroy had just crossed purposes with him.
“Milroy is a regrettable complication from my reckless youth,” he brusquely admitted. “I doubt a man in your position would consider marrying off your daughter to my backdoor son whose mother was nothing more than an Irish whore.”
He took Bedegrayne’s silence as concurrence.
Reckester grimly smiled, sensing he had gained the upper hand again. “Milroy isn’t a concern. If you caught him sniffing after your daughter, I would be surprised if you had not already run him off.”
“I did.”
His smile grew broader, more sincere in approval. “Good. Good. So all we have to do is work out the details for bringing our offspring together.”
“Not quite,” Bedegrayne drawled, his eyes taking on the glint of a ruthless pirate who would rather kill than share his hoard of gold. “There are too many bastards in your line, Reckester. I’m still picking them out as I go along.”
* * *
Lothbury tapped him on the shoulder. Murmuring his apologies to the gentlemen who had engaged him in a spirited debate about which training enhanced a pugilist’s skills, Keanan followed his friend into an outer hall.
“Is she here?”
The marquess sighed. His expression eloquently bespoke his reluctance. “Yes. While I have not sighted the lady myself, I was told her arrival was announced over an hour ago. Milroy, is this wise? Surely there are other ladies who draw your attention?”
Casting a look in all directions to make certain their conversation was private, he said, “No amount of discretion on your part has concealed your interest in the fair Miss Bedegrayne. That particular lady is under the protection of several fractious albeit absent brothers, a quarrelsome father, and a rather nasty brother-in-law. And let us not forget the enemies you will gain if you are the one to melt the ice maiden’s reluctance. Agh—” Lothbury choked.
The strong hold Keanan had on the man’s cravat forced him to take a leap forward or be strangled. He immediately released him, and to anyone passing by, it appeared he had rescued his friend from a dangerous tumble.
“I, too, can be rather fractious, quarrelsome, and utterly nasty if I hear any further speculation about my association with Miss Bedegrayne, or any comment besmirching her character,” he vowed, keeping the violence that had flared barely restrained. “Am I clear?”
More embarrassed than hurt Lothbury coughed. Trying blindly to fix his wrinkled cravat, he muttered, “You are crazed. If it is not the woman, then it is bad blood. Either way, I envision a ruinous end for you, my friend.” Cursing in French, his hands fell away in disgusted surrender. “These bloody knots are spoiled once you touch them.”
“Hold still,” Keanan commanded. In lieu of an apology, he pu
t order to his friend’s fancy knot.
Perhaps he was a bit crazed. He could not explain away his growing urgency to be near Wynne. His temper soured with every day he was denied her. By day, he plotted ways to see her, and at night she tormented him in his dreams. He awoke each dawn sweat-drenched and longing for her. Never had his feelings for a woman brought him to such extremes of ecstasy and despair. It left him feeling hollow and in pain. He feared the power she held over him. Still, walking away from her seemed impossible.
“I think I improved it,” Keanan joked, earning him a chuckle from his friend.
Lothbury sobered, saying, “Forget your dalliance with Miss Bedegrayne. We could slip off to my clubs, or one of the taverns near the docks if you feel like using your hands for more than lifting a tankard.”
Keanan shook his head. His body already thrummed with the excitement of seeing her again. By wit or by scandal, he intended to steal her away.
* * *
“We received a letter from Brock this week,” Wynne said to Amara.
The air was intolerable, despite all the doors and windows that had been flung open to offer some respite to the guests. The women rejected the notion of dancing and had instead found solace in the drawing room with a few other ladies. A slight draft wafted from the open doors that led to the unlit garden, so they had chosen seating close to the elusive coolness.
Wearing pale-blue silk this evening, she complimented Amara’s choice of embroidered amber crepe. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the chatter around them. Soothing, joyful music echoed in the distance, reminding them of what awaited should they decide to join the others.
She was contemplating how to reintroduce the topic of her brother, when Amara solved her dilemma. “I suppose your brother will move on to another exotic locale once he tires of India.” Her lips compressed into a thin, disapproving line.
“I do not believe so.”
The need to defend and explain surged through Wynne. She stifled it behind a tight smile. Brock’s decision to leave England had caused discord within the family. Papa thought it was restlessness; Devona, the desire for adventure; and Irene assumed her wastrel brother was shirking his responsibilities. Only Wynne had understood fully the demons driving her brother, though he had extracted her promise to remain silent on the matter before he had departed.
“I suspect he has missed England and longs to come home.”
Amara’s eyes flashed with unexpected anger. Her fanning reflected her agitation. “Sir Thomas is too tolerant. Your brother will only return, wasting his life in drink and the gaming hells.”
And why do you care so much? Her promise stopped her from speaking the words aloud. Wynne was not clear on the depth of her friend’s feelings for her brother, or the relationship between them. Nor was it her business. Whatever their differences, she hoped they had a chance to resolve them.
“Ladies,” Lord A’Court greeted them. Brook was at his side, tucked protectively in his embrace. The pale pink satin she wore emphasized the high color in her cheeks. Murmuring a greeting, she appeared demure and fragile. Considering her delicate condition, Wynne was surprised Brook was feeling up to an evening out. Regardless, just as Wynne had hoped, the earl was looking after his wife.
“Miss Bedegrayne, please accept my gratitude for your compassion toward my wife the other day.”
She hesitated, wondering what Brook had told him. Yesterday she had pleaded not to speak of her accident. Her expression revealed nothing as she met her friend’s anxious gaze. “There is no need for gratitude between friends, my lord.”
“Nonsense. Accompanying my wife home when she complained of dizziness was very generous.” Taking her hand up without permission, he brushed a light kiss across her knuckles. Gray eyes flecked with blue glittered appreciatively in the candlelight. “Your servant, Miss Bedegrayne.” He nodded to Amara. “Miss Claeg. We must beg your pardon, ladies. We have not yet spoken to our host. Come, my dear.”
Lord A’Court tenderly cuddled his wife to his side. His devotion to his lady was apparent and enviable. Glancing at Amara, Wynne noticed her expression was wistful, too.
Brook looked back before they had crossed the threshold. She held Wynne’s gaze, and then they were gone.
“What was that all about?”
She shrugged, assuming Amara was referring to the earl’s excessive gallantry. “The man obviously adores his wife. He was just grateful.”
“Hmm.” Her friend did not seem convinced. She expelled an embellished sigh. “You are truly wicked, Miss Bedegrayne. Enamoring married gentlemen with your saintly deeds.”
“A vain execution if you ask me. What use do I have for a married man if I cannot claim his title or his purse?”
Amara, indulging in a little wickedness, leaned closer and whispered what she could claim. Both ladies sagged into each other, giggling.
They were still laughing when the Marquess of Lothbury approached them. He formally greeted them, his eyes silently persuading them to share their jest. Nothing short of torture would ever gain a confession.
“Miss Claeg, would you grant me a dance?”
Amara looked askance at Wynne, who nodded her encouragement. “I would be honored, my lord.”
With their departure, Wynne rose, moving outside to enjoy the cooler air. Rough hands seized her, dragging her deeper into the darkness. A hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her scream.
“Stop kicking. It’s me,” Keanan whispered in her ear. He spun her into an embrace.
Too outraged, she punched him in the shoulder. “You daft donkey! I was so frightened I almost fainted.”
“Not you, my sweet damson,” he protested, chuckling when she bit his hand. “Your pluck bests most men.” He tugged her deeper into the night.
Her fury receding, she whispered, “I cannot just wander off. My friend—”
“Miss Claeg is too enchanted by Lothbury’s charm and attentiveness. I doubt she will give you a thought for at least two hours.”
The cold calculatedness of the plan slowed her progress. “I will not have Amara hurt because of your … ah, eagerness for privacy.”
Even in the darkness she sensed his grin. “No fretting, Wynne. Lothbury genuinely enjoys the lady’s company. Allow them their flirtation while you enjoy my … ah, eagerness.”
Choking on laughter, her hand clasped in his, they ran away from the house. “You must have the eyes of a cat.”
“I confess, I feel like a beast when I am around you.” He steadied her. “There are several steps. Have a care.” He guided her up three stone steps.
“I overheard our hostess, Mrs. Hazell, discussing a new addition to her gardens. What is this? A temple?”
“The Temple of Virtue,” he intoned, his low voice rebounding off the walls of the circular marble-columned structure.
“Be serious.”
He nudged her through the arched doorway using the thrust of his hips. “I tend to be very serious when I get my hands on you. Want to be my sacrifice?”
“I have been kidnapped by a madman,” she laughingly complained, wincing at her echo. “Someone is going to discover us, you know. We should go back to the house.”
She heard the rustle of clothing. The back of her knees came up against a stone bench when she took a step backward. “Keanan? ’Tis unsettling being here. I feel like I am floundering in a pool of ink.”
“There is nothing to fear.”
His hands unerringly found her waist and hauled her up against him. The solid contact of his chest, hip, and legs molded to hers was reassuring. “Woman, I have missed you.”
She felt his fingers trail up the bodice of her dress, over the swell of her breast, and ever so lightly along the length of her neck. Capturing her chin, he lifted her mouth to his. Their kiss was one of remembrance. It was an affirmation. She used her tongue, teasing him, and was pleased by his frustrated growl. His hand slid down, cupping her breast. He literally shook with self-imposed restraint when
his thumb caressed her sensitive cresting flesh not bound by her stays.
“I have waited too long for this,” he rasped, claiming another kiss.
Despite the darkness, vibrant colors filled her vision. Lethargy stole her strength as the colors seemed to swirl downward and pool into her loins. Wynne pressed closer, recalling the last time she had felt this way.
“No,” she moaned, kissing his jaw. “Not here. We risk too much.” He had removed his coat. Unable to resist, she unfastened several buttons on his shirt and slipped her hand inside. His chest muscles quivered at her touch.
“It is just us, Wynne.” He took her hands and brought them to the buttons at his waist. “The ball does not exist here.” Together, they unfastened his breeches. “No rules. Just the blessed night, weaving its magic over lovers.” They swayed hip to hip, lost in a hypnotic dance.
Her body craved what he was offering. Every nerve in her body begged for the release only his touch and body could provide. Still, she tried to resist. “My dress,” she said weakly.
Understanding her concern, he said, “There are different ways for pleasuring, and not all require the removal of all our clothing. Even if the notion is difficult to resist.”
“Keanan.”
“I’m a crazed man, Wynne.” Bumping against the bench, he straddled it and pulled her within reach. “The days…” Gliding masculine hands moved under the yards of skirt and petticoat, seeking her legs. “Seeing you, but never being able to touch.”
She could hear his displeasure, the days of loneliness and denial of his need. Fabric streamed over his arms as his fingers sought the heart of her. The air felt cooling against her steaming flesh. When he found her, she gasped, still unprepared for the rush of desire she felt.
“I am not alone in this,” he murmured, nuzzling his face into her abdomen. Like a hidden spring, her body responded, moistening his demanding fingers with the nectar he hungered after. “So perfect. I cannot wait. Don’t make me wait.”
The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy Page 18