The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy

by Alexandra Hawkins

  “No fretting, my dear. I am capable of finding my own seat,” her aunt assured her, taking away her excuse. “Tipton, you should dance with your French beau before she dreams up trouble for us all.”

  Wynne’s sister gave her a parting hug. Whispering in her ear, she said, “The gossip about town is, a certain lady has Nevin finally coming up to scratch, sister.” Devona kissed her cheek. Tears welled in her eyes as she allowed Tipton to lead her away.

  She whirled, almost colliding with Lord Nevin. He touched her only as long as it took to steady her. For once, she was glad she was wearing a mask. She prayed it concealed her distress. Devona was stark mad if she truly believed such tittle-tattle pleased her.

  Awaiting her reply, Lord Nevin offered his right hand as if it never occurred to him that she might reject him. Why would he? Both of them were performers in an unwritten play that couples for generations had abided by to conclusion. No sane, respectable woman questioned the consequences!

  “You honor me, my lord,” she said, curtsying. With her left hand on his right, they strolled the perimeter of the ballroom.

  “Have the amusements of town displeased you, Miss Bedegrayne?”

  Surprised, she slanted a discreet glance in his direction. “No more than usual, my lord.”

  “Then the company, perhaps?” he persisted. “Of late, you have been conspicuously absent.”

  So he had been seeking her out. His attentiveness added weight to her already sinking heart. “My father lays claim to the displeasure of which you speak. I daresay I shall be the continued recipient for more days than I care to count.”

  They took their positions at the beginning of the line for the country dance. Two lines were formed: one side, the men, and the opposing side, the ladies. The separation effectively ended Lord Nevin’s questions. Meeting his gaze from across the opening between them, she could tell he intended to pursue the subject.

  The music commenced, forcing Wynne to concentrate on the sprightly figures of the dance. Lord Nevin and the woman next to her moved forward and exchanged places. There was no opportunity for him to speak, for she and the second gentleman in the line copied their actions. The next dance figure was a moulinet. Each couple took turns crossing right hand to right hand in a half circle, then switched hands and circled in the opposite direction back to their original positions. Since they were the lead couple, Wynne and Lord Nevin moved to the center again. Clasping hands, they lolloped down the middle.

  She smiled, enjoying the innocent abandon of the dance. Noting her pleasure, he returned the smile. They ended their merry jaunt with brisé, or circling around and then moving back to their positions at the end of the line.

  The end of their turn was punctuated by numerous howls from rambunctious gentlemen in other sets. Considered too much the custom of barbaric nations, clapping, hissing, or yelling of any kind during the dance was generally disapproved. The masquerade provided an anonymity that made these formal rules readily dismissed.

  Feeling someone’s gaze upon her, Wynne glanced across at Lord Nevin. He watched the couples ahead performing their steps. Looking from side to side, she could find no one seeking her attention. She scanned the galleries above. She suspected that her aunt had chosen to retire there so she could watch the activities below. A suspicious person would conclude that her mischievous aunt was matchmaking again. Lord Nevin’s presence this evening revealed as much.

  A masked figure to her right drew and held her gaze. Definitely male. Like her dance partner, he was attired in a dark-colored coat and breeches. The expression molded into the mask was one of humor. It did not match the tightly compressed lips of the man who wore it. His hands gripped the railing as he stared down at her. Wynne shivered. There was no doubt in her mind that she was the one he had focused his attention on.

  Keanan? She could not be certain. The man was careful, just staying out of the candlelight. If it was him, she could understand his animosity. Sir Thomas was not one to dally in choosing his words. She had heard enough of them lately on the subject of Keanan Milroy.

  The dance ended just as they took the position as the second couple in the lines. Curtsying to his bow, she placed her hand in his and they began their promenade around the ballroom.

  “Would you care for something to drink?” Lord Nevin asked, breaking the silence.

  “Yes,” she replied, gazing up at the shadowed figure above. His eyes burned her with their intensity. “Ah, no. No, thank you, my lord.” If it was Keanan, then separating from Lord Nevin seemed prudent.

  “I fear I have bored you, Miss Bedegrayne. Forgive me.”

  “You do that very well.”

  “Pardon?”

  She gestured with her unfettered hand. “Come, now, Lord Nevin. Our acquaintance stands on years. I have observed your many facets. You even tried courting my sister.”

  “And was it not you who pointed out to me that Devona and I did not suit?” Lord Nevin squeezed her hand, signaling her to halt. As he stared down at her, the candlelight deepened the bluish hue to his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  There had been a time when her motives for interfering between her sister and Nevin were not as clear. Jealousy directed at her beloved sister had been unpalatable, all the more so since Devona had never once voiced an interest in the handsome rake.

  “No offense, my lord. It was a bad match, and I think you know it. In truth, once Tipton entered her life, there was no other for her.” She began walking, and he had no other choice but to keep pace.

  “Noble reasons, Miss Bedegrayne. Shall you confess your indecorous ones as well?”

  “Such as?”

  “Jealousy, madam. You were not bothered by the notion that I fancied a Bedegrayne, just simply that I was attentive to the wrong one.”

  Speechless, she stared at him, horrified that her passing infatuation had been so obvious. She highly doubted that she was the only lady in the ton who had contemplated winning his affection. Looking up, she noticed her aunt waving her handkerchief at her. Her relief expressed itself in a gasp.

  “My aunt—”

  Cutting her off, Lord Nevin continued, “I wanted you to know. I have for a time noticed the error of my direction, and have long sought to correct it.” He grasped both of her hands. “Miss Bedegrayne. Wynne. Please tell me I am not too late.”

  “I—” Anguish tore at her. She did not have the heart to hurt him. “I must rejoin my aunt. She signals me from the gallery.”

  He looked up and saw she spoke the truth. She sensed he wanted to pursue their discussion but feared pressing her would force the rejection.

  “I will escort you,” he said, his tone clipped.

  “There is no need. The stairs are here, and she is only a few yards from the top. Please, we will talk another time.” Pulling away, she blindly headed for the stairs.

  “Indeed we shall, Miss Bedegrayne,” he muttered, frowning at her hasty retreat.

  * * *

  Moving quietly through the merrymaking throng, his stride matched theirs. He felt invisible, his mood inverse to the revelry. Blending into the shadows, he observed them. They were too absorbed in their conversation to note an audience. Her nervousness showed just as before, when she noticed him in the gallery. He had wanted her to see him, although he doubted she recognized him. The mask and the poor lighting protected him. He sensed her fear. It had diminished the anger he had felt earlier, upon her arrival. Her presence this evening had shocked him. Achingly beautiful in white, she had not protested Nevin’s attentions. The revelation was a bitter tonic. He scowled as the earl tried to detain her from leaving. She broke away and disappeared out of sight. He guessed she was heading for the stairs. Ten days ago, he had chastised her for her wickedness. This evening proved the lady needed another reprimand.

  * * *

  A maelstrom of emotion constricted her chest while she followed the current of people ascending the stairs. Perhaps she had misunderstood Lord Nevin. The thought brought her little comf
ort. Wynne had all but run away from a man intent on declaring himself.

  Why? She blamed Keanan Milroy. His dark indigo eyes called out to her soul. Whenever she was around him, she had to fight down the craving to stroke the noble contours of his face burnished brown by the sun. Just thinking about his damnable kisses still made her lips tingle. Once, she viewed him as an aberration to her small world. Of late, she worried that her feelings for the man were not a shallow flame. What a fix! She was falling in love with the most improper man.

  Gloved masculine hands reached for her, halting her climb. A warm, solid chest muffled her high shriek. Her nose practically pressed into his coat; she inhaled his scent. The recognition was immediate. It represented danger as much as it offered a refuge.

  “Keanan!” Noticing her heart’s tempo increased whenever she was in his proximity, she pushed away. A single painted eye glared down at her. She gaped at him. If he was a Cyclops, then who the devil was the man in the humorous mask?

  Eleven

  “Do you make a habit of grabbing every maiden you pass?” Wynne used the tart question to conceal her awkward surprise. She had been so certain he was the man watching her from the gallery. Seeing him here, especially after his confrontation with her father, amazed her. She should have had faith that it would take more than a justifiably incensed father to discourage Keanan Milroy. She relaxed against him as people on the stairs pushed them together in passing. Calming, her faculties returned. Peeking over her shoulder, she was grateful Lord Nevin had not followed.

  “He isn’t there,” he said. The concise words proved he had known her whereabouts and the company she kept all along. “I wonder. Who did you think to protect: me or him?”

  “Both,” she admitted, her stubbornness showing. “He is my friend—”

  “Friend?” he scoffed. “Nevin wants you in his bed. Did he not make his intentions clear when he detained you below, or is he still plying your delicate ears with syrupy words of adoration?”

  His nasty tone did not inspire her to ease his curiosity. Besides, she doubted the truth would improve his present temperament. “You observed us?”

  “I entertained your aunt while Nevin courted you.” The accusation was clear in his eyes.

  “Aunt Moll! I forgot. She must be worried. I have to go to her.” Wynne took a step away from him before he reached for her wrist and pulled her back.

  “Your aunt is well. If you leave me now, you will have ruined all her crafty plans to bring us together.”

  The man had a manner of rattling her composure. Her teeth clicked audibly when she closed her mouth. “This evening. She meant for you and me…” She finished the thought with a joining gesture. “I believed…” Wonderful! Completing a sentence was becoming a feat!

  For some reason, Keanan did not have any trouble understanding her. “Lord Nevin was not invited by your aunt, although you cuddled up nicely to him.”

  “I did not…” She was doing it again. “I only danced with the man. My sister mentioned—Devona!”

  Acknowledgment glittered in his dark gaze. “Your sister tried her hand at matchmaking, did she?”

  “Apparently so.” Wynne frowned thoughtfully, repeating her sister’s earlier words in her mind. “She said that Lord Nevin was asking after me. She is so deliriously happy in her marriage bed, I guess she decided I needed a hard prod toward my own.”

  “Taking the tumble, Wynne?”

  His derision shattered her contemplative demeanor. “When it becomes your business, I will let you know.” She forced her way into the flow of human traffic, preventing him from halting her escape.

  It took only minutes to reach her aunt. She was not alone. A male companion attired as a court jester sat beside her. “Aunt Moll.”

  “Wynne, my dear.” She regally held out a hand. “Did you run off our Mr. Milroy? Pity—I had thought better of him.”

  “No need to alter your opinion, Mrs. Bedegrayne,” Keanan said behind her. “Your niece wanted to check after you before we wandered off.”

  “Aunt Moll, if you please,” her aunt chided. “You are amongst friends.” She patted Wynne’s hand, drawing her attention. “You are acquainted with my dear friend, Mr. Keel. He is the proprietor of Keel and Bottles, a perfumery off Bond Street.”

  “Yes, indeed. I have visited your establishment often, Mr. Keel. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

  Friendly, albeit nervous in their presence, the man vigorously nodded to both Wynne and Keanan. “Lovely nieces, Molly. Each one I meet, I swear is prettier than the last. Mr. Milroy, I witnessed your last fight. A pattern card of science and skill, sir. Most impressive.”

  Using Keanan’s reply to his flattery as an opening to discuss the match, the men moved a few steps away to relive the finer points of the match.

  “Should I apologize for the ruse?” her aunt asked.

  “Only to my father, if he should learn of your role. You know he has forbidden me from seeing Mr. Milroy.” Her gaze flickered to Keanan while she sat down in an abandoned chair. He was too lost in his conversation with Mr. Keel to notice they were discussing him.

  Aunt Moll grimaced. “That was his anger and fear for you at the fair raging. When it recedes, he will reconsider.”

  “We share the same opinion, Aunt. Tonight’s outing proved his threat about locking me in my room for the entire season was toothless. However, I fear his dislike for your young champion will never improve. I would not be amazed if Mr. Milroy had a hand in forging this low estimation.”

  Her aunt sighed. “Two pride-puffed males. It was inevitable the two would clash over the care of you.”

  Wynne wrinkled her nose. “You make it sound as if a declaration has been made. I can assure you, Mr. Milroy has not issued any offer worth repeating to a gentle audience.”

  The comment had her aunt laughing until tears gleamed on her lashes. She used her handkerchief to dab at the corners of her eyes. “The last time I saw so many sparks, lightning struck that beautiful old oak I loved.” Her frail hand trembled slightly as she lifted it to Wynne’s cheek. “I see how you look at each other. Both of you think each is clever at this dance, but I view it all through old eyes. There was a time I sought out my beloved, Mr. Bedegrayne.” She stopped; her throat visibly tightened at the glimpse of old memories. “I was told by my friends and family that marrying a second son was not an advantageous match. He could not offer me wealth or title, nor was he the handsomer of the two sons.”

  She touched her aunt’s hand on her cheek. “I am partial about my papa; however, there must have been something about my uncle’s character that caused you to favor him?”

  “On our first meeting, he called me a gabbler,” she fondly recalled.

  “Were you not insulted?”

  “Naturally. I threw my shoes at him. One hit him right between the eyes.” She pointed to the spot on her own expressive face.

  “I will wager he wanted to throttle you.”

  “He did. And he tried. Do you know what else he did?” At the shake of her niece’s head, she continued, “He brought me lace handkerchiefs, because he thought the delicate lace would look pretty in my hands. He read poetry to me. There was always an odd catch to his voice when he did that I found endearing. He bought me a dozen pairs of slippers to replace the ones I threw at him, and later he gifted me with a special pair each wedding anniversary to remind me of our first meeting.”

  Love. Loss and time had made it bittersweet, but the memory of it still put a misty longing in her aunt’s eyes. “Did he ever apologize for insulting you?”

  “Never. He still accused me of being a gabbler.” She shrugged. “I am. Mr. Bedegrayne observed my refined qualities and my faults. The wonderful man adored both.” The dreamy, reminiscent expression sharpened as her thoughts shifted to her present concerns. “Your Mr. Milroy sees only his faults, and it blinds him to the fair qualities most take for granted. It will take an intelligent woman possessing courage and patience to breach an unwilling heart.
However, I think the eternal love of such a man balances the risks.”

  “Miss Bedegrayne, are you satisfied your aunt is well cared for?”

  Heads close in confidence, the women pulled back, each wondering how much of their discourse had been overheard. “Ah…”

  Mr. Keel bounded forward. “No need worrying about Molly. I will look after her.” The affection he had for her aunt showed on his face and in his protective stance behind her chair.

  Feeling Keanan’s gaze on her, pressing her to speak, she relented to her inescapable fate. “Thank you, Mr. Keel. It pleases me my aunt has such a good friend.” She held her hand out to the only man capable of breaking her heart, and accepted the risk. “I am ready, Mr. Milroy.”

  * * *

  Keanan and Wynne had departed with Aunt Moll’s blessing. He was indebted to her. For some reason, the old woman had sided against her family to champion him. Her faith awed him as much as it terrified him. He had tried to tell her it was misplaced, but she would not hear of it. The instant she had learned of the confrontation with Sir Thomas, she had sent for him, the seeds of a plan to bring the young couple together already sprouting in her nimble brain.

  Her fond memories of a masquerade, and the necessity of a costume, had led her to conclude that the Pantheon was the ideal setting for an assignation. He had agreed until Nevin had appeared, claiming Wynne for a dance. Watching her smile at the insolent pup, it had taken all his will not to leap down from the gallery and tear them away from each other. They had appeared too well suited for his comfort.

  “Do you wish to dance?” He inwardly winced at the growl in his voice. Issued more like a threat, it would have caused any decent lady to shy away from such attention. Not Wynne. She seemed to tolerate his moodiness just fine.

  She gave the crowded ballroom a disinterested glance and then moved away. “Not particularly. I get quite warm dancing in this costume.”

  The diaphanous fabric that draped across her back floated teasingly at her every movement. Cobwebs could offer more warmth. “Do you believe I will provoke a fight with your noble suitor, Wynne? Even I can restrain myself from my baser instincts. I realize you consider me a savage—”