The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy

by Alexandra Hawkins

  Her skirts fell back into place when he jerked away from her. Bereft of his stroking, she counted his rapid breaths as he struggled with his breeches.

  “Come to me.”

  She stilled, too unskilled to understand his request. With a muffled sound of impatience, he clawed at her skirts, yanking her forward. Burying his hands under her skirts again, he effortlessly lifted her by the hips. Suddenly weightless in the blackness, she clung to him, trusting he would provide safe purchase. Keanan wrapped her legs around him, settling her in his lap. Proof of his need and readiness pressed against her soft, dewy curls.

  There was something heady about this wickedness, the risk of being caught. She should want to push him away and run back toward the house before someone questioned her absence. It was Keanan, being enfolded in his embrace that coaxed her to forget the rules and the person she was raised to be. In his arms, she found acceptance and the joy of discovery. There also was a kind of power in their joining. Her lover was as vulnerable as she, trapped by the intricate threads of awareness, intimacy, and love. If he could have seen her face, he would have seen this knowledge burning in her eyes, sensing that it mirrored his own.

  Keanan’s thoughts were focused on one carnal purpose: possession. Lifting her higher, he positioned her and guided the head of his cock to her welcoming feminine portal. She melted, her flesh yielding to his penetration. Half buried in her dress, his arms tightened around her waist. His arousal flexed inside her, demanding the slick impetus that would catapult them beyond their world, allowing them to forget their differences.

  “Move on me,” he begged, kissing her exposed breasts.

  “L-like this?”

  She rocked against his pelvis, and the constrictive pressure of her sheath almost wrung out his release.

  “Uh,” he gulped. “More like this.” Holding her slender hips in his hands, he demonstrated the motion destined to drive them both insane.

  She repeated the action, almost killing him. “Better?”

  “Aye,” he said; sparks of light exploded beneath his closed eyelids. “I’m fond of exercise. Best to do it again to get the movement right.”

  Wynne moved, adding a roll to her hip when she came back down on him. If he could have spoken, he would have complimented her inventiveness. His creative goddess rubbed the front of her bodice against him making his fingers itch to tear off the offending barriers. Keanan wanted her naked, their limbs tangled while he suckled her breasts. He wanted to mark her body with his mouth and his scent. What remaining sanity he possessed forced him to accept the restrictions to their lovemaking. With her womanly fragrance teasing his nostrils, he was too hungry for regrets.

  He kept his hands on her, but it was Wynne who set their pace. Her lithe body hammered down on his, increasing their building tension. In the blackness, she was the center of his existence. She claimed all his senses, and he ached to give her more. Crushing his mouth to hers, his tongue plundered her. She did not submit to his unspoken command. Instead, she met him as an equal, her tongue and body mated with his until he was certain a man could die from such intense pleasuring.

  Lost in passion, it seemed all her concerns were forgotten. She cried out when she found her release; the beautiful sound of her fulfillment echoed in the cylindrical chamber. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she arched against him, the inner muscles of her sheath convulsing.

  His body answered her siren’s call. Any previous thoughts of pulling out of her were buried under millennia of primitive instinct. Thrusting upward, he cupped her buttocks in his splayed hands, forcing her to take him deeper. He bit her shoulder, smothering his strangled cry as his hot seed jetted into her womb.

  Gasping for air, he rested his forehead on her shoulder. Now that the pleasuring had cleared his thoughts, ugly rationality resurfaced. He found it as annoying as the sweat trickling down his spine. “I lost my head again. It’s a wicked travesty to my good sense, love. We’re taking on more risks than we need to.”

  Even while he chastised his carelessness, his cock thickened and hardened within her. She laughed when he cursed. He plunged deeper, her silkiness proving her own insatiable appetite.

  “You did claim to be a servant of repetitive exercise,” she reminded him.

  “And you, my damson, are my lady. I desire only to serve you.”

  Fourteen

  Stripped down to a pair of rusty brown trousers, Keanan listened to the sound of hammers and the idle chatter of the workers emanating from within his house. From his vantage point in the back gardens as he exercised with a set of dumbbells, he stared at the house, his chest swelling with pride. There was more work to be done, certainly. Nevertheless, the house had been improved upon since he had brought Wynne to see it.

  The drawing room where she had given him her innocence had been the first room he had seen completed. Learning she was partial to the color green, he had discarded the upholsterers’ suggestion for bold yellow in that room and insisted the firm incorporate a soft, inviting green, which reminded him of her eyes. A man of simple refinements, he had found himself agreeing to elaborate drapery to cover the floor-to-ceiling windows, an Axminster carpet, its design a replica of antique sources, and furniture chosen to please the feminine eye rather than to accommodate the masculine frame.

  Despite his reservations, the results were surprisingly agreeable. In his mind he could conjure an image of Wynne sitting by the fire, lost in the entertainment of a book. Lamentably, he had yet to think of a respectable excuse to lure the lady back to admire her influence.

  Sweat dotted his chest and brow in the morning air as he raised the set of dumbbells over his head and leveled them to his chest. His fighting days might be finished, but his mind and body still demanded the training discipline.

  “You’ve lost flesh in your arms, Milroy.”

  He nodded a greeting to Dutch. “Bollocks,” he countered, repeating the motion with unflagging, straight thrusts.

  “Impressive. You’ve kept up your form. Are you still running?”

  “Fifteen miles at dawn.”

  His friend crossed his arms and leaned up against the trunk of a crabapple. “Training for a fight?”

  “I told you, I’m finished with that life.” He dropped the weights. Reaching for a towel, he mopped the moisture from his face and chest. He shrugged when Dutch’s brows lifted. “You expect me to get fat and lazy in my retirement?”

  “Not you, though it seems a shame to waste that physique on impressing the ladies.” He ignored Keanan’s disagreeing grunt. “You’ve a keen mind and a talent for business. There are plenty of fellows who’d pay well for your expertise.”

  Reaching for his shirt, he shook his head. “Let Jackson keep his reign over the amateurs. I haven’t the tolerance for men who claim enthusiasm for the sport and yet would cry over a little spilt claret on their fine linen.”

  “I think you underestimate the young bloods.”

  “And you overrate my interest.” He pulled his shirt over his head. “I had nothing when Chabbert found me except a strong instinct to survive. Fighting put food in my empty gut and gave me a dry place to sleep. For most men, that would have been enough. Good fortune and experience have granted me a chance to exceed my destiny.”

  “Bah, fancy plumage to disguise a spiteful word. Revenge. Or are you so caught up in your playacting and sporting the blunt that you’ve forgotten your less noble purpose.”

  No, he hadn’t. It hovered between him and Wynne, sometimes blinding him like the sun. “Hungry? I’ve hired some staff. I’ve a cook now.”

  Choosing a tactful retreat, Dutch pushed off the tree trunk and followed him up to the house. “Done up proper, with a sideboard of delicacies in the breakfast room?”

  “Aye, and a footman to pour your coffee. And a butler to toss you out if you offend me.”

  Rubbing his hands together in anticipation of their meal, Dutch said, “Fair enough.”

  The new butler met them at the door. Wigget w
as in his late forties. A pugilist in his youth, he claimed to have defeated Sam Martin, the Bath Butcher, in the spring of 1787, only to lose his right eye in a drunken tavern brawl three weeks later. Age had softened his fighter’s build and silvered his hair, but there was something in his direct, single-eyed gaze that warned the observer he was a man who still faced the world with his fists raised. Keanan had hired the man immediately.

  “Mr. Milroy, a gentleman is inquiring after you. He awaits your invitation.”

  He did not need to pick the card up from the salver to recognize the distinct initials. “He must be more desperate than I had anticipated to be calling on his bastard,” Keanan bitterly mused.

  “Will you refuse him?”

  Proving to himself that the card meant nothing to him, he picked it up while he contemplated Dutch’s question. Several amusing daydreams played out in his mind, all involving his sire leaving, his command rejected. He crumpled the card and dropped it onto the salver.

  “Wigget, bid His Grace to join me in the drawing room.” Forestalling his friend’s objection, he said, “Enjoy your meal without me. I would not deny my father his tender reconciliation.”

  * * *

  Keanan chose the japanned high-back beech wood armchair for their confrontation. His fingers curled over the bold scrolled armrests, finding comfort in their rigidity. The day had come. The lecherous old rake considered it time to acknowledge his firstborn. He thought back to the thirteen-year-old boy who would have traded his soul for Reckester’s favorable notice but had the door slammed in his face, all ties denied. Now, the duke was willing to deal with him. Alas, it was his misfortune; he would discover the boy had been much more amenable than the man.

  Wigget entered the drawing room. The duke trailed impatiently in his wake. “Sir, His Grace, the Duke of Reckester.”

  Nerves he did not know he possessed churned just beneath the surface when eyes too disturbingly familiar met his. The look struck him like a punch. Masking the reaction, he said to his butler, “That will be all.” He did not stand, nor did Reckester step closer to offer his hand. In the background, Wigget closed the door.

  Each took a moment assessing the other. Deciding the advantage was his, Keanan inclined his head, gesturing to a nearby chair. Instead of coming closer, his sire picked the large jade tub chair opposite him. Majestic lions grinned at him from the regal mounts at the armrests.

  “You honor me, Your Grace. Considering the hour and our uncomfortable connection, I never expected your card.”

  The older man flinched, the lines above his brow becoming more prominent at the realization that someone he considered beneath him would dare chastise him for his breach of etiquette. Shaking his head, he shifted in his seat. “That is Reckester blood pumping through your veins. I don’t know why I assumed you would be any less mulish than your brother.”

  “Half brother,” Keanan coldly corrected. “I have never blurred the distinction. I wonder, why are you?”

  “Such bitterness,” Reckester lamented, removing his gloves. Grasping the pair in one hand, he playfully slapped them against his leg. “My handling of you has been, at best, deplorable. I blame myself, my wild youth. If I had been stronger, I might have been able to save your mother from her tragic end.”

  The anger itching just beneath his skin exploded into blazing fury at the mention of his mother. Like an unquenchable fire, it consumed his civility. All his muscles tensed, poised to spring and attack.

  “What outcome did you expect, Your Grace? You abandoned her. Unprotected, penniless, and stripped of her respectability because she had borne your bastard, she was tossed into the streets. Your actions denied her any respectable means of support.”

  His calm, merciless delivery battered his sire as efficiently as if he had used his fists. What suspiciously could have been interpreted as guilt, flickered in the older man’s gaze before he masked it. Keanan longed to unfurl his hands from the scrolled armrests and mold them around Reckester’s neck, choking him until that indignant expression of his had changed to terror. It was almost worth facing the hangman’s noose. Keeping his hands where they lay, he patiently awaited the man’s sputtering outrage. Despite his loathed cognomen, he rarely realized his aspirations in that manner.

  “O-of course, she twisted the tale, poisoning my son so she had her final revenge,” the duke bellowed, his body quaking. “Aideen Milroy was a tempting, ambitious, inconsequential actress before I lifted her skirts. The skills she acquired from my tutelage only increased her worth.”

  Distantly, Keanan recognized the baiting of a desperate man. He fought back the urge to strike him down, to break him as his sire had once physically and spiritually destroyed his mother. If he put his hands on him now, he would kill him.

  Reckester did not deserve swift punishment. The ghost of Aideen’s rigid, beaten body lay prone, dividing them. Even now, her dull opened eyes haunted him. Fixed in shock, the animated spark of her soul had been forever extinguished by the heavy hand of a drunken benefactor wielding a cane. Keanan had dealt with her murderer years ago. It had taken patience and cunning to get close to the man who through his carelessness had executed his poor mother, sending her worn shell to reconcile with the vitality Reckester had destroyed.

  “On the subject of my mother, there is only one detail you and I will ever agree upon, and that is, you are solely responsible for my mother’s fate.”

  The silky menace threading through his calm facade must have finally alerted Reckester to the risks of challenging an angry son’s memories of his mother. If it had given him an advantage, Keanan would have explained to his sire that his plan of attack was weak and futile. Time had not glossed over the flaws of his mother. Even so, he had loved her as much as she had allowed. It just had never been enough. The duke cleared his throat and glanced away from his son’s unwavering, fuming stare.

  “I have not sought you out to speak of your mother.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed too pleasantly. “She was not worthy of your regard.”

  “Damn you, must you continue to bait me? When you have lived as long, will you be able to proclaim yourself guiltless of misdeeds?”

  “No more than any other man.”

  The image of Wynne in his arms surfaced in his mind, distracting him. Her guileless face glowing with affection for him stirred the remorseful specter that had lately bedeviled him. Mercy. It was a feeling only she had been able to draw out of him, one he had never been able to afford. Not now, never for this man.

  “Speak quickly, Reckester. My meal awaits, and reminding me of our connection disagrees with my digestion.”

  The duke stiffened in muted affront. “You have no notion of what I’ve come to offer you, Milroy. I wager a part of you has longed for this moment for a lifetime. It merits a few minutes of your attention.”

  “Come to welcome me into the family, Your Grace? The last time I knocked on your door, I had it slammed in my face.”

  “Forget the past!” the older man roared. His gaze flickered to the door. “I cannot alter history, but I can amend it. There are details”—he lowered his voice—“crucial ones, which can make a nobleman, a bastard. And a bastard—”

  “A nobleman,” Keanan whispered, almost afraid to speak the words aloud. He closed his eyes, hiding the pain and hope he felt. “You are telling me that you married my mother?”

  “An impulsive action. I lov—” He swallowed the word, when Keanan’s eyes snapped open, daring him to finish the lie. “I lusted after her. Aideen was the most beautiful woman I had ever encountered. There was only one way I could claim her, and I was reckless enough to believe I could have her and satisfy the demands of my birthright.”

  “She never mentioned this marriage.”

  Reckester shifted closer, but he remained seated. “My family acted quickly when they learned of my blunder. You see, because of my father, I was already betrothed. Rae,” he said, scrubbing his face. “I had dallied with her, and she was already with child. Bri
bes were paid. All records of my marriage to Aideen were supposedly destroyed.” Silence prodded him to continue. “You did not know my father. He would never have accepted a lowborn Irish actress as my duchess. I owed my family. My marriage to Rae glutted the Reckester fortune, restoring it.”

  Keanan thought of the poverty he and his mother had endured. He nodded, absorbing the confession. “All it took was the ruination of a woman whose only sin was to have loved you.”

  “Aideen prospered from the bargain. She was recompensed with enough gold to buy her silence. All I had to do was disavow the union and her child.”

  The pieces of the past whirled in his mind like colorful tops. They collided with his memories, only adding to the chaos instead of giving him answers. “So she was offered her congé, like a discarded mistress instead of your true wife.”

  “She was recompensed,” he insisted, still denying any part of the blame.

  “Was she?” Keanan echoed. The old man’s presence, his unexpected declaration, and his own turbulent feelings had blinded him. He had always trusted his instincts, but he had allowed old dreams to cloud a harsher reality. His father had never wanted him. If he was extending his hand, then there was a benefit to be gained.

  His mouth took on a cynical slant. “Forgive me, Your Grace. You’re either too befuddled by drink for me to credit this tale, or you lie. Neither explanation amuses me. Good day.” He rose to summon his servant.

  Reckester followed on his heels, grabbing his arm before he could reach the door. Keanan shook off his touch. “Why are you being so bloody stubborn? You cannot tell me you have not secretly yearned for this your entire life. I’ve watched you over the years, quietly maneuvering your way into polite society, never hiding your hatred of all who disclaimed kinship to you. I’m handing you your birthright, Milroy. All you have to do is take it.”

  He stared at his sire’s hand. It was large, white, and probably as smooth as any lady’s—the hand of a gentleman. How many times as a child had he dreamed of that hand tousling his hair or tanning his arse when he needed it? “You have proof?”