The Bastard: in her Boudoir (The Dubious Mates #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“Fold.” Milton laid his cards face down while the prig across the table gleefully gathered his winnings.

Tonight was going altogether well. Boring, even.

“Thank you, sir, thank you indeed!” The man beamed, his cheeks flush with luck. The old fool should walk, yet he wouldn’t. In his head he’d already paid off his accounts, already ordered his titled friends a round of drinks at his club. It’s what sixes and sevens always did.

They really shouldn’t.

Milton leaned back in his chair and feigned defeat, proclaiming, “Fortuna audentes juvat, sir. Fortune does in truth favor the bold. Still, I’m not opposed to one last match before we call it a night, are you?

” He arched his brow in a stare meant to sway, knowing the moment was his to plunder.

The room had nearly cleared, though the hour was hardly late; this particular gaming hall would remain open for as long as he needed.

A perk of holding shares in an establishment owned by one’s best friend.

His opponent hesitated and Milton narrowed his gaze, willing this pathetic lord’s backside stuck to its seat.

Li had tipped him off, known all about the fellow’s sorry state of affairs.

No ‘bees and honey’ in this bloke’s house.

She also knew this man had daughters, one of whom was purportedly pretty enough—and proper enough—to be ripe for plucking.

The fellow chewed his mustache a minute longer before he pushed his earnings forward.

“Vingt-et-un?” Milton was satisfied his prey would no longer walk.

“Fine, yes. Why not?” The poor sod grinned, back in the game. His recent rush of victory had nicely warmed his veins.

“Excellent.” Milton allowed himself to smile. “Your draw, sir.”

They played another round, Milton counting all the while in his keen numeric head. He knew precisely when to time this fool’s fall, and so game his desired end.

Come morning, Milton made good on his win by calling at the lord’s house.

“Bring me your daughters.”

“B-both of them, Baron?” The pathetic toff quaked in his boots.

“Of course both of them,” Milton snapped. “I must pick one, mustn’t I?”

“Y-yes of course, I’ll be but a moment.” And off he scuttled.

Milton paced the man’s drawing room. He hadn’t liked the fellow last night, and he liked him even less now, but such was the way of the world.

He needed a wife from a titled family, the more broke the better, and judging from the threadbare rug beneath his feet and moth-eaten drapes about the windows, this lord’s family was ideal.

He hoped one of the daughters was passably fair.

“Oh, I beg your pardon.” A bespectacled young lady abruptly popped her head into the room as Milton unwittingly met her eyes.

She flashed him an apologetic half-smile. “I am looking for my father, Lord Winthrop.” She stared expectantly at Milton, who simply let his gaze appraise the lady’s figure.

“He’s just stepped out.”

“Ah.” Her smile tightened. “That is indeed unfortunate.” She hesitated a beat before she entered the room and boldly took his arm. “Then I’m afraid you shall have to do instead.” And the brazen miss proceeded to drag Milton out and down the hall.

He was so shocked by her behavior that he allowed himself to be led, his frown fast becoming a scowl. As they descended the servant stairs, he was about to berate her audacity when she placed a finger to her plump lips.

He chose to let the chit further surprise him.

She stopped him just outside the kitchen, her eyes pleading mutely at him through her spectacles, while a frail, female voice quavered from inside.

“As I told you before, Butcher Wilkes, the master’s not in. Won’t be till next—”

“An’ a bold-faced lie ’tis, woman!”

From Milton’s vantage outside the threshold, a barrel-chested man stood perilously close to a stooped, elderly woman he assumed was this household’s cook.

“I’m past due me pay an’ I’ll not leave till I has it. An’ if you’ll not give it, I’ll take sommat else fer it instead.”

At which point the young lady inserted herself directly between the burly butcher and cowering cook, but not before pasting the most ridiculous, false smile upon her face that Milton had ever seen.

He remained just out of sight, transfixed.

“Mr. Wilkes, I apologize for keeping you waiting.” She spoke with forced vigor.

“Alas, it appears my father is indeed nowhere to be found. However, I can assure you I will come round tomorrow to pay in full what you are owed. You have my word, sir.” She bravely met the man’s eyes, though her hands trembled at her sides.

Oh, this was the perfect family from which to steal himself a wife, Milton thought, for to behold a respectable—albeit bespectacled—proper lady degrade herself before a mere tradesman was utterly delicious.

The butcher stepped forward and gripped the lady’s slender throat.

“I’ll not wait more, miss. An’ as yer dear papa ain’t here, y’ can pay me yerself, on yer knees, like t’ other girls do.

” He promptly pushed her to his crotch, then gripped her head to thrust his hips at her face in a lewd manner.

The lady began to beat at his legs with her fists, but he harshly snapped her neck back.

“None o’ that now, dearie.” The butcher’s leer deepened as he pressed his crotch closer.

“You’ll pay e’en if his lordship won’t.”

The cook screeched as she reached for a fry pan, making Milton, at last, shake off his stupor—thrilling though it was to see so common a drama played out not on a London backstreet but in a lord’s lofty home.

He removed one kidskin glove with his teeth, then stepped into the kitchen to plant the butcher a facer, sending the man reeling and the young lady lurching back.

A gasp from the cook and a groan from the butcher diverted Milton’s focus before he helped the lady up, who, to her credit, righted herself quickly, her look of gratitude almost embarrassing.

He then tossed the butcher directly out the kitchen’s back door into a courtyard, before he bolted the door behind him and acknowledged the cook with a nod.

Only then did he take the young lady in tow to march her back in the direction from whence they had come.

“Kindly return me to your father’s drawing room, miss,” he instructed.

“Of course, sir.” She kept her eyes averted, for modesty or shame he wasn’t sure. He was only sure her bosom heaved nicely. “I must apologize for such unpleasant exchange and thank you for coming to my aid.”

“You dragged me to your aid,” he tersely told her.

“Yes, well, I hadn’t much choice, had I?” she grumbled back.

Before he could retort they reentered the drawing room to find both her father and, Milton assumed, the lady’s sister in wait.

Lord Winthrop took one look at his daughter’s disheveled state and froze.

Not only was her hair mussed and spectacles askew, the lady’s neck was blotched red from the butcher’s thick thumbs.

“Lizzie!” her father sputtered. “Where the dickens have you been?”

“Apologies, Papa.” Her lips thinned. “Butcher Wilkes stopped by to hassle Cook. Again.”

“Well I hope you sent him packing.” Winthrop huffed.

She bit her lip with a pair of pearly whites Milton found rather fetching. “Father, in your absence it was your visitor here”—she nicked her head at Milton—“who assisted me in sending Mr. Wilkes packing.”

Winthrop begrudgingly met Milton’s eyes. “I apologize, sir, for the manner in which my daughter so rudely—”

“Enough!” Milton cut him off, ready to be done with their polite charade. He removed his remaining kidskin, irritated he could not find the other. “I wish to settle matters. How old are your daughters?”

Both girls swiveled their heads at him, the bespectacled one fastest.

Winthrop swallowed. “Elizabeth has two and twenty, sir, and Annabelle nineteen, both given the finest educations young ladies could possibly—”

“Turn around,” Milton ordered both women. The one named Annabelle looked to the older Elizabeth in shock.

Clearly, their father had failed to inform them of his visit.

“Well, go on then,” his lordship urged. “Do as the gentleman says.”

Annabelle turned for Milton’s perusal, while ‘spectacles’ stared him down, biting that plump lip of hers again.

“Lizzie,” her father hissed, “do not embarrass me, girl.”

Miss Elizabeth did not budge. “I will not demean myself by submitting to your guest’s review, Father,” she ground out, “especially when he has not deigned to introduce himself nor state his business with us.”

Milton’s lips twitched. “And yet the young lady was willing to demean herself in lieu of payment for the butcher’s pleasure, if I recall.” His eyes slid over her figure once more. “No matter,” he scoffed. “I daresay I got a fair enough look at you then.”

Her eyes blazed at him through her lenses; he did not flinch.

“As to my name, Miss Winthrop, it is Jasper Audrey, Baron of Milton, and as for my business, it is very simple, though I expected your father to prepare you for it.” He shot Winthrop a glare. “I require a wife, and as your papa is in dire need of funds, I will pay handsomely for one of you.”

If looks could kill, Miss Winthrop should have slain him on the spot.

“Erm, just how handsomely, Baron?” their father ventured, unabashed.

“I will forgive the three thousand pounds you owe me, Winthrop.”

“What?” Elizabeth Winthrop burst out.

“No?” Milton arched his brow at her. “Four thousand then.”

“No!” she got out, louder. “That is not what I—”

“Five thousand is my final offer, miss.”

Disbelief marred Miss Winthrop’s brow. “Father, you cannot allow this man to enter our home and so blatantly disrespect us by—”