The Good McCoy Lad POD Print
By Toni V. Sweeney
Colin McCoy has spent most of his adult life trying to live down the reputation his older brother and idol Padraig left behind when he was exiled.
So far, he’s managed to avoid the least breath of scandal, only occasionally acting in a way expected of a well-to-do young man in the mid-19th century, and his few lapses have been so rare they could be ignored.
Then he meets smart and beautiful Fiona Leary, daughter of Lord Allerdyce, his father’s employer, and all good sense and control flies out the window.
Colin’s in love and he has no idea what to do about it…
…unless he takes a seductive page from older brother Padraig’s book…
Genre: Regency/Romantic family Saga
Sensuality rating: 3
Cover Art by James Robinson
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“And this, my dear, is Mr. Quinton McCoy…and his sons…”
“McCoy?” The older lady in the party spoke.
Surely not Lord Allerdyce’s wife but perhaps his mother? Colin decided.
She was gowned as lavishly as the others but in more subdued tones, deep maroon, almost black, trimmed in ebony lace interspersed with jet beads. Her hair was snowy-white and though she wasn’t very wrinkled or waddled, her movements and voice bespoke much more age than His Lordship.
“Not related to that raspscallion Padraig McCoy, I hope?” she asked, in a tone carrying past their little group and seeming to echo about the hall. “The one Lord Cornwell might’ve challenged to a duel if he could’ve caught him?”
“I say…is that true, Quinton?” Robert William Leary, Lord Allardyce, asked, interest quickening at a bit of gossip.
In spite of his name, he sounded very English.
“My second son,” Quinton admitted, glancing around and seeing with relief no one else paid attention to her question.
“Not the same one I wrote to the Vice-Chancellor of Oxford about? To keep the boy from being expelled?”
“The same, I’m sorry to say,” Quinton’s answer was a bare murmur.
Even absent, Padraig was a source of embarrassment to his father. Quinton couldn’t very well deny the relationship. Everyone was aware of it, for the McCoys had lived in Tipperary long before Quinton was born and all his sons had grown up there.
“We don’t speak of him.” Donal, looking dour and formal, interjected in his well-modulated and very British-sounding tones, being careful not to allow any tinge of reprimand in his voice. After all, he was speaking to a nobleman.
Colin thought Donal looked perfect. He had to admire his brother’s choice of garments. The only item of clothing breaking the black monochrome of his evening clothes were his white shirt and the embroidery on his satin waistcoat.
“You’ve a right to be afraid,” the dowager Baroness Allardyce retorted. “From all I’ve heard, that boy was full of dash-fire, but deserving of the infernal cut, not only by our entire society but also his family.”
“Good God, mother, where do you get those phrases?” Allardyce asked. “You sound as if you’ve been hobnobbing with the footmen again.”
“You should try it, Robert,” the old lady rejoined. “That’s the best way to get the gossip while it’s still fresh.”
“Where’s the lad now?” Allardyce inquired, calmly ignoring Donal’s statement as well as Quinton’s scowl at his pursuing the subject of his second son.
Briefly, Colin was glad his mother and sister-in-law weren’t with them just then but had been left chatting with some other matrons in a little group gathered near the edge of the ballroom.
“Padraig is no longer here,” Donal said quickly, his expression denoting plainly he hoped that would end the conversation.
“Lord, you don’t mean he finally got his?” Allardyce looked surprised but not sympathetic, rather greedy for more details. “Which one of the cuckolds did it?”