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Wharton squinted as if trying to place the name. Of course, he didn’t spend much time fraternizing with polite society.
“I’m primarily known for my fortune,” Miles said, solving the problem for him.
“Whoever you are, you married my daughter without asking for my permission,” Wharton crabbed, his expression indicating that was a stupendous calamity. He sat down opposite Miles, plucking at his pantaloons to make certain that the openings at his ankles didn’t bunch up.
“As I said, I married her this morning.”
“I had no chance to walk my only daughter down the aisle!” Lord Wharton cried with a fiery emphasis that suggested his emotions could only be alleviated by money.
Only daughter?
Miles felt like a shark closing in on a mackerel. “I married Daisy after she arrived on my doorstep with a baby,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Balderdash!” her father spat. “My daughter is as innocent as the driven snow. Her mother would allow no less. Besides, she’s not exactly the kind of woman who has men sniffing at her heels, is she?”
Miles suddenly realized that while he had idly contemplated challenging his father-in-law to a duel, at this moment he would prefer to strangle him. Strangling felt more satisfying than leveling a rapier. “Your daughter is a beautiful, charming woman who had a circle of men at her feet before marrying me,” he said through clenched teeth.
“You must be infatuated,” Wharton said with a crack of laughter.
Seized by rage, Miles lunged out of his chair, twisting his father-in-law’s neckcloth and jerking him to his feet. “You willnever speak of my wife again in such an insolent manner.”
“My cravat!” Wharton squawked, pulling away. Miles let him go. “The Trone d’Amour took me well over an hour to perfect.”
“Throne of love?” Miles asked. “Ironic.”
Wharton ignored him, running to a glass on the opposite wall. “Ruined,” he moaned. “Ruined.” He soothed the crushed folds of starched silk as if he were patting an outraged cat.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Miles said, dropping back into his chair.
Wharton’s manservant carried in two glasses of sherry on a silver tray. He registered the state of his master’s attire with a yelp.
“Just so,” Wharton said mournfully. “I shall be very late to the club this evening, Manning. Please send a message to Chesney.”
Apparently too shaken to offer sherry, the valet set down his tray and left.
His lordship strolled back across the room and seated himself, shaking his pantaloons again before he looked at Miles with a peevish expression. Not a drop of fear, Miles noticed. Daisy’s plucky nature had apparently been inherited along with her hair color.
“So you married my daughter,” Wharton stated. “I am shocked, sir. Shocked. In my day, we didn’t behave with such raffish haste.”
“Really?” Miles said genially. “I was under the distinct impression that you eloped with Daisy’s mother. Aren’t you going to ask anything further about the baby?”
“My daughter’s by-blow? I see nothing to discuss.” He narrowed his eyes. “Unless you took her precious virginity, a woman’s greatest gift to her husband.”
“I did not.”
“Then I suspect you hope for a larger dowry under the circumstances, but you shan’t get it from me. You could try her mother. I don’t mind telling you that Lady Wharton is a terrible nipcheese. Her behavior throughout our marriage has been dishonorable and unprincipled. I say that only to you, since you’re a family member.”
“Actually, I’d describe you as ‘dishonorable and unprincipled,’” Miles remarked.
“Don’t tell me the bailiffs have been after you already, and you only married Daisy this morning!” Wharton said, straightening and looking truly indignant.
“They have not.”
“They will,” he sighed. “You can’t imagine how persistent those fellows are. The tailor who made these pantaloons proved himself a hawk.” He leveled a finger at Miles. “Don’t pay him. He doesn’t deserve it.”
“I shan’t,” Miles said. He was beginning—despite himself—to feel a touch of wry amusement. “What I shall do is care for your offspring. I have the feeling the child’s mother first applied to you for help.”
Wharton let out a loud cry, throwing his hands into the air. “Is there no stop to the lunacy to which a gentleman is subjected? The child is surely not mine, and I know nothing of it. If you wish, you may bankrupt yourself supporting the tarnished progeny of brothel dwellers. It is not for me to say. But I have no part in that girl’s conception!”
