Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Boot crossed comfortably over one knee, hat and gloves laid neatly beside him, Milton leaned back in his seat, a brandy in hand.
He’d enjoyed watching his bride-to-be stripped to her smalls and measured head to toe.
Miss Winthrop stood in the center of LeBrecht’s fitting room attended by three comely maids, while the modiste displayed bolts of cloth for his approval.
Li, or Madam LeBrecht as others knew her, sat to his left thumbing a pattern book she occasionally thrust in his face. He’d known Li for years, and her staff knew him too—as well they should, considering Milton’s own mother ran Li’s other profitable business: prostitution.
He imagined Miss Winthrop’s horrified reaction the day she discovered her husband’s unsavory lineage. Then again, half his sodding blood was more blue than hers; she’d recover.
Li’s maids threw him glances, for he was no stranger to their ranks. He’d grown up with whores and respected them for their ability to retain dignity in the face of pure debasement. And these three were whores turned seamstresses, though he suspected they still turned tricks on the side.
His mother had made sure Milton understood the difference between feigned deference and true submission, because after his sire’s cruel dismissal of her, she’d never submitted her heart to another man.
Of course she’d degraded herself plenty for men’s pleasure, but it was for her coin, for survival.
Even when Milton had been forced to grovel—clawing his way up the ranks at first wharf then warehouse, from sailing ship to gaming den, moneylender to investor—he’d retained his dignity. And damn well always would.
He’d make his rotten sire acknowledge his existence just as soon as he gained entry to the Ton thanks to a wife of the right kind.
The bloody bugger still held too much influence in upper echelons to allow his bastard son a British baronetcy, but in Scotland they’d cared only for whoreson Jasper Audrey’s money, not his birth.
Which was why the deceased Baron of Milton’s Scottish title and lands were now his.
With Miss Winthrop as his wife, he'd show London’s toffs he was their equal.
Though at present his betrothed could barely see the nose on her face.
Li’s maids had snatched her spectacles, reminding him of Elizabeth’s defiance in his carriage, of how deliciously she’d knelt before him, hips flaring over a backside that begged to be slapped.
She’d passed his test spectacularly by showing such serious mettle, for he knew the Ton would taunt her for her unfortunate eyepiece. Still, if she could withstand him, she could withstand society’s titters.
He peered more closely at his bride-to-be, whose nape flowed in perfect proportion to her skull, her neck in lovely concert with the rest of her torso.
How in the world he’d never noticed the shape of a woman’s head before perplexed him.
Perhaps it was those spectacles hooked over her dainty, elfin ears, but she was like a lithe sprite from the waist up, and a lush Rubens from the waist down.
The last time he’d stared so intently at a woman in LeBrecht’s was when the Duke of Allendale had all but ordered him to seduce his future Duchess in Li’s Messieurs room.
No, his conscience corrected. Wellesley had ordered him to protect and test, not seduce. He could still picture Lady Wellesley’s stocking-clad calves and ample bosom, though Miss Winthrop was endowed enough not to disappoint.
Milton shifted in his seat, his trousers tightening as Li shoved yet another dress book at him. How many bloody gowns did one woman possibly need? Though he’d not question Li’s judgment. She’d been remarkably astute over the years, enough that he’d trust Li with his life—and had.
***
Elizabeth stared into the blurry void that was her own private hell.
She was wilting on a dais in the middle of a room surrounded by women nipping and tucking, squeezing and fussing like gnats.
She was weak from hunger and worry and wanted nothing more than to run screaming from this shop, leagues away from this baron’s exacting bearing and miserable marriage suit.
Being robbed of her sight made the experience all the worse, because she could see nothing beyond a close face, though she knew he was there, watching.
He was choosing for her, too, outfitting her entire wardrobe without consideration of her own preference for color or style.
It infuriated her, his obvious need to control.
She would have to carve some shred of independence, some semblance of autonomy from him before he swallowed her entire being into his own.
Unless, that is, she managed to escape marriage altogether.
Elizabeth squirmed under his penetrating gaze.
He was a blur of indigo across the room, the woman by his side a haze of red silk and inky hair.
They were thick as thieves, the two, scheming up her wardrobe and wedding gown.
Her wedding! How she wished she had her spectacles, that she might shoot them dirty looks.
She stared in the direction of Milton’s muddied blue person, hoping she radiated rage, when he rose and approached the dais to bat away the maids.
He slipped her spectacles over her nose. “You look as if you are about to faint.” His hands encircled her waist. “You are also more attractive than I thought.”
“And you are an even greater blackguard than I thought.”
“I am indeed, Miss Winthrop.” He laughed and drew her closer. “You amuse as much as you infuriate, a pleasant surprise indeed.” He began to pet her. “You’ll suit.”
Elizabeth was shocked by his words and his pleasant male scent, close as he stood. He suddenly buried his nose in her hair, but she pulled from him. “You have taken one too many liberties, Baron. Have you no sense of decorum at all?”
“Admittedly none, Miss Winthrop, which is why I am in dire need of a wife.”
She frowned. “You are a rake, sir, but at least you admit it.”
“Oh I’ll admit to worse than that.” He grinned. “But come, you must dress so we may eat. I am famished. And after, I promise to leave you alone with the modiste, because I cannot bear to sit through more fittings. Who knew a wife required more uniforms than an entire regiment of soldiers?”
He helped her off the platform and into her modest house dress, which lay draped over a waiting chair. Elizabeth felt shy, though he’d seen her from every angle already. He hooked her efficiently from behind, as if used to fastening a woman’s many small clasps.
Half an hour later, they were seated in a respectable tavern a short walk away, though the blasted man had ordered for her, a habit Elizabeth despised.
She’d like to see his choice of meal taken from him.
Yet she bit her tongue, biding her time and barely picking at her plate, eating next to none of the artfully arranged sandwiches before her.
“Are you not hungry, Miss Winthrop?” Milton devoured his without ceremony.
“Oh no, sir.” She forced a smile. “I am ravenous.”
“Then why do you not eat?”
“Because I dislike this watercress.”
“Ah,” he said. “Then you’ll not mind if I…?” He reached across her plate to steal one.
“By all means, sir, be my guest.” She rolled her eyes as he inhaled her sandwich.
“Pray tell me what you’d prefer, Elizabeth, and I shall order it for you.”
“Goodness, do not trouble yourself.” She motioned the waiter over. “I don’t mind ordering for myself.”
She was halted by his hand on her arm. “A gentleman always orders for a lady, Lizzie.”
How dare he continue to call her Lizzie! “Well, as you are admittedly no gentleman, sir, I’m sure you’ll not mind my ordering my own meal.”
He tightened his grip while he snapped his other fingers, making waitstaff magically appear. “Be so good as to bring the young lady whatever her heart desires.” His gaze locked on hers.
“Miss?” The waiter turned to her.
“A plate of watercress sandwiches, if you please.”
Milton flinched but quickly recovered. “Why Miss Winthrop,” he drawled, “I thought you did not fancy watercress.”
“I fancy it when ordered correctly, sir.”
Instantly his hand dropped to her thigh beneath the table, squeezing so that she jumped.
“Try that again”—his reach crept higher—“and I’ll be forced to punish your brazen attempt to outmaneuver me.
” His hand slipped between her thighs, to knead her there through her skirts, where he’d touched her before.
Elizabeth reeled from the intimacy of his action, though she would not be swayed. “Tell me, Baron, do you not long, sometimes, to let go of your perverse need to control?”
His hand worked her skirts more vigorously, making her cheeks bloom with heat.
“When you’ve lived a life such as mine, miss, you find it of great advantage to be in control.” He pressed deeper. “At all times.”
She gasped, but maintained her focus. “Is that why you purchased your title, sir?” She’d use what weapons she had, having pried the information from Papa last night. “What profession did you hold before acquiring your Scottish Barony?”
His jaw muscle twitched as he abruptly slid his hand off her. “Let’s see.” His eyes became slits. “Counting back I’ve been investor, swindler, pirate, prostitute, dockworker, gravedigger, and chimney sweep. Born, of course, a whoreson.”
Elizabeth sucked in her breath.
“So I assure you, Miss Winthrop, the merits of being in control of my destiny are indeed great.” His eyes flicked over her as if she were a crumb on his plate.
“I believe we’ve finished here.” He threw down his napkin, pushed back his chair, and yanked her from her seat.
Then he marched her out of the establishment, refusing even to look at her.
Elizabeth vainly attempted to slow her breaths as he dragged her down the street. Not only had she denied herself sustenance, she’d clearly struck a nerve. In fact, she was sorry she’d antagonized the man, now knowing his humble origin.