Page 12 of A Lady's Lesson in Scandal
She planned this whole thing.
The deceitful damsel had duped Drake.
Sometimes, rage ran hotter than molten iron. Sometimes, it was colder than a tempered blade in winter and just as sharp. The whisper in his chest went silent as ice filled his veins. He watched Millicent’s face crumple. She had doomed them both. Intentionally. But why?
I suppose she prefers a scarred dragon to a red-faced, wheezing elephant three days older than dirt.
Without a word to her, he turned and strode toward Lord Whittenburg and Lord Tread.
‘Gentlemen, I think it best we retire to Lord Whittenburg’s study.’ His gaze flicked over to Millicent. ‘You shall join us.’
Lady Patricia – who was leaning heavily on Reynard and furiously fanning herself – perked up at Drake’s command. ‘Yes, as will I.’
She directed her words to Lord Whittenburg, but Drake responded. ‘No. You will stay here. Reynard, please see to Lady Whittenburg.’ The last thing he needed was more females complicating an already disastrous situation.
‘Major General.’ Millicent rushed to him, gripping his arm. ‘There’s no need. I mean, please, let me explain.’
Using all the skills honed in combat, Drake turned to her, his face a mask of pure marble, any emotion hidden deep in the blackness of his core. ‘Explain exactly what, madame? That you are deceitful? Devious? Diabolical? Those terms are redundant, as you are a woman. No different from any other creature of your sex. You lie. Cheat. Scheme and destroy. I know this as well as I know my own ruined reflection in the mirror. I am only disappointed in myself for letting down my guard. I promise you it shan’t happen again.’
Millicent opened her mouth, no doubt to refute his claims, but he wouldn’t listen to further farce. The truth was painfully clear. In an effort to evade an old, lecherous man, Miss Millicent Whittenburg had forced a trade. If he wasn’t so disgusted with the entire affair, he would admire her enterprise.
Turning back to her father, Drake shook his head. Millicent didn’t understand yet, but her circumstances were exponentially worse. While Lord Tread was a miserable, decrepit man, Drake was a monster. If she was intent on cornering him into a forcedmarriage, he would make sure she paid her part of the bargain. Even dragons were allowed to savour their spoils.
Millie followed the men into her father’s study, refusing to show any nerves.
Major General Drake took control of the meeting as soon as they entered the room. ‘Lord Tread, obviously you have been grievously mistreated. For my part in this mess, I apologise.’ Drake sent Millie a scathing glare.
If Major General Drake was expecting her to follow his example, he was destined for disappointment. She would apologise to no one.
Moving to the leather couch, she sat, inhaling the comforting scent of sandalwood. This room was once her favourite place. Her mother died bringing Millie into the world, and her father developed a fear of losing Millie as well. So, he kept her close by his side, always. She was his shadow, following him everywhere. He taught her to ride, shoot, climb trees, and capture frogs. They spent hours together in this room, Millie drawing horses or planning epic adventures while her father worked on business.
Until she let St George seduce her. She broke her father’s heart that day. Then Patricia arrived. She won his affections and weaselled her way into his broken heart, ensuring Millie’s complete rejection.
Patricia banned her from disturbing her father while he worked. They no longer read together by the fireplace in the evenings, sharing their favourite passages. Patricia preferred to play cards. Always Piquet or Quinze, games involving two players with no room for Millie to join. Slowly but surely,Patricia pushed Millie out of every corner of Lord Whittenburg’s life.
There was a time Millie would have given anything to be invited back into her father’s sanctum. In all her wild imaginings, she never expected to return under such dire circumstances.
Well, that cat is well and truly out of the bag. No putting it back.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she stuck out her chin. Millie might be here under duress, but she’d be damned if she let any man shame her for fighting to claim her freedom. She would never ask for Viscount Tread’s forgiveness. No matter how viciously Major General Drake glared at her, silently demanding she do just that. Viscount Treadful hadn’t even courted her, deeming the effort worthless as Patricia had already promised Millie’s agreement to his suit. He had given nothing to Millie and now, he would get nothing from her. He deserved nothing.
‘Henry, I must say, I can’t believe your daughter is such a wilful, obstinate child. I’m only glad I found out before being leg-shackled to a harlot.’ The viscount’s watery gaze turned to Millie, filled with hatred.
Her face heated as Drake growled an oath, taking a menacing step closer to Viscount Tread.
Why he cared about the viscount’s insults, Millie couldn’t guess. Only moments before, Major General Drake called her devious and deceitful. Surely harlot wasn’t any more offensive, although it felt worse.
Her father stepped between the men. ‘I am sorry, Bartholomew. There is no excuse for Millicent’s behaviour. You are obviously released from our agreement. I only hope we can remain friends.’
Dear God. Bartholomew? I was almost married to a man named Bartholomew Tread?
Nothing about this situation was funny, but manic bubbles of mirth frothed up Millie’s throat. She turned the laughter into a cough.
‘She should be locked in an asylum. Or thrown out on the streets to earn a living in one of St Giles’ whore houses.’
‘Enough, sir.’ Major General Drake spoke softly, but the small hairs on Millie’s neck rose to attention, sensing violence. ‘The events of this evening are regrettable. But Miss Millicent is no longer your concern. I recommend you leave. Now.’ Major General Drake’s gravelled voice created a buzz along Millie’s skin.
Viscount Tread’s face darkened from red to crimson. He must have sensed the threat emanating from Major General Drake like an arctic blast of chilled air. Without another word, Viscount Treadful turned, leaning heavily on his cane as he shuffled to the door. ‘I shan’t forget this, Henry. Never in all my days have I been treated so rudely.’
