Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | The Dangerous Debutante

The Dangerous Debutante
Kasey Michaels


A debutante deceived… is dangerous indeed! What makes a lady? Morgan Becket wouldn't know. The scandalous debutante is being sent off to London to have her first Season in hopes a gentleman will finally tame her. Yet shortly into her journey she meets Ethan Tanner, Earl of Aylesford–of noble blood, but surely too wild, too unprincipled, too unsuited for Morgan.Or perhaps too well suited. Since Morgan has always wanted anything everyone else says she can't have, Ethan is perfect for her. But upon arriving at Morgan's Romney Marsh home where Ethan wants to ask for her hand–he's already had her body–she realizes her suitor may have an ulterior motive for making her his wife. And a deceived debutante is a dangerous debutante…Lord Aylesford, beware!









Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author

KASEY MICHAELS


“Michaels has done it again…. Witty dialogue peppers a plot full of delectable details exposing the foibles and follies of the age.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review,

on The Butler Did It

“Michaels demonstrates her flair for creating likable protagonists who possess chemistry, charm and a penchant for getting into trouble. In addition, her dialogue and descriptions are full of humor.”

—Publishers Weekly on This Must Be Love

“If you want emotion, humor and characters you can love, you want a story by Kasey Michaels.”

—New York Times bestselling author Joan Hohl

“Kasey Michaels creates characters who stick with you long after her wonderful stories are told.”

—New York Times bestselling author Kay Hooper

“Kasey Michaels aims for the heart and never misses.”

—New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts




Kasey Michaels

The Dangerous Debutante








Dear Reader,

In the midst of the war with Napoleon, Romney Marsh is far removed from the remainder of England; not geographically, but in the minds of its inhabitants, who believe the English Crown cares little that the area’s precarious economy is being devastated by that war.

At the same time, those on the Marsh are grateful for this neglect, as this leaves them free to pursue that time-honored enterprise of Marshmen: smuggling.

Ainsley Becket had come to Romney Marsh to live in peace, raise his family and keep the dangerous secrets of their past well buried. But the winds of war blow where they will, and before long Ainsley and his sons are caught up in helping the Marshmen in their nocturnal pursuits, protecting them from a large, dangerous gang out to destroy any competition. The Black Ghost, so carefully hidden by the Beckets for more than a dozen years, has been resurrected, opening the family to danger that cannot be avoided.

When Morgan Becket is found riding out with the Black Ghost, Ainsley knows it is time for his headstrong daughter to leave Romney Marsh and discover the larger world that awaits, which hopefully is big enough to contain her strong will and even banish her own lingering demons.

As England looks to wage war on yet another front, Ainsley Becket’s carefully constructed new world faces danger and discovery yet again…and this time it is Morgan who unwittingly brings that danger home in the person of the man she loves.

I hope you enjoy this second book in The Beckets of Romney Marsh series. Don’t miss Beware of Virtuous Women, Eleanor’s story, available next month.

Sincerely,







To Bob and Maryjane Daday.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE




CHAPTER ONE


11 March 1812

My dearest Chance and Julia,

Warmest greetings from Becket Hall, my children.

It seems so long since your visit at Christmastime, but we understand how occupied you must be at the War Office, Chance, what with our new Lord Wellington so busily preparing to storm Badajoz now that he has at last dispensed with opposition from Ciudad Rodrigo. Wellesley now an English duke, and even Duque de Ciudad Rodrigo into the bargain? ¡Madre de Dios! How we reward men for the efficient killing of other men in this upside-down world.

I wonder, do the honors change him, or will his good common sense prevail? With the rumblings we hear about Bonaparte possibly setting his sights on Russia, Wellington would be wise to let the Little Corsican have his head, and concentrate on the Peninsula, as I have a great respect for the Russian spirit. No one, as we both know, fights with more determination than a man with his back to the wall.

But that is a discussion for another time.

There continue to be no red skies at morning, and only clear black nights, all of them without incident, and we rejoice in the fair weather. Courtland keeps himself busy about the countryside.

All else remains quiet here, or will be as soon as Morgan is dispatched to you on Friday. She’ll be heavily accompanied until well into civilization, and should be with you by dinnertime on Sunday, unless she bedevils Jacob into some mischief along the way. I have commissioned Jacob to guard her because the poor besotted boy would die for her.

I have, however, yet to decide whether this makes the lad eminently suited for the position, or fatally flawed.

Cassandra, of course, is exceedingly jealous of her sister, and has demanded I remind you that she will be needing a Season of her own in a few years, a truth this father greatly wishes to ignore.

Fanny has not asked for the same consideration, as she remains more invested with her horse and Romney Marsh, and you know that Eleanor has made it quite plain she has no intentions of traveling to London, much less considering marriage.

I say this only in the hope you will not envision the whole of the thing at once, this continuing sponsoring of your sisters, and decide to pack your bags in the middle of the night as you and Julia flee to America.

As to America. Forgive this recluse his interest in the world. What hear you at the War Office about the possibility of war between our countries? Someone here has heard rumblings, although you, of course, cannot mention your most unreliable source if you speak to your superiors.

Were I a betting man, however, I would place my wager on the rumor becoming fact before summer.

Spencer and Rian keep themselves busy, with Jacko and some others beating in their heads with knowledge that should have been theirs years ago, while I have, as you know, made Courtland my special project for the nonce. So I suppose I should correct myself. All is not quiet here at Becket Hall, and I must say, life grows more enjoyable by the day.

Monsieur Aubert, the dancing master you were so kind to dispatch, has left here a fortnight past, contemplating the pursuit of another calling, and with the protective gad a sympathetic Odette fashioned for him. But Morgan has learned her steps, if she does tend to move with a bit more flamboyance than the good monsieur felt he could countenance. Mon Dieu, but that Frenchman could weep!

I do feel I also must tell you that I have just yesterday received a rather impassioned note from the good monsieur, apologizing most profusely for allowing Morgan to tease him (the man said tease, and I shudder to consider the implications!) into teaching her the steps to the Viennese waltz, supposedly considered quite acceptable in Paris, yet, mourns Monsieur Aubert, totally offensive to London society.

Yes, son, this all comes to you in the way of a warning. If, at a ball, you hear the strains of anything you believe even vaguely Bavarian or German in tone, you might wish to grab Morgan by the ear and drag her to the nearest refreshment table, so that she cannot disgrace you in public.

Although I must tell you that Eleanor and I are pleased with the modiste that accompanied the monsieur, and Morgan’s wardrobe should be most fitting for a London debutante with aspirations to set the ton on its collective ear.

It is Morgan herself, as you know, who is not quite so demure, as she is, physically, her mother’s daughter. Clad in fine silks or sackcloth and ashes, our Morgan remains impossible to overlook.

But I need not tell you any of this. I know Morgan is in good hands, thanks to my dearest Julia, who could most probably whistle a herd of stampeding elephants to heel.

You will see us all soon enough, God willing, and your siblings send their love, with Courtland adding a special message that he fully expects you to pop Morgan off on some unsuspecting Romeo before the man has a chance to see her with both eyes open.

Keeping you both to your promise to accompany Morgan back to her family at the end of the Season, I look forward to regular reports of the girl’s progress. Do think to spare this old man’s blushes, however, and don’t tell me everything my dear daughter might do. My imagination is terrifying enough. I shall hold out only faint hope there exists a man in London who will be up to the challenge she presents.

A grateful parent’s thanks, blessings, and prayers on you both.

Your loving father,

Ainsley G. B. Becket

“YOU’LL BE DELIGHTED to know that my father remains the master of understatement,” Chance Becket said, then handed the two-page letter to his wife before heading to the drinks table in the drawing room of their Upper Brook Street town house, to pour himself a glass of wine. “Would you care for some lemonade?”

“No, thank you, dearest,” Julia said, quickly scanning both pages, then putting them down beside her. “Ainsley never worries about the cost of postage, does he? I’ll read this later. Why don’t you tell me what he has to say—and what you believe he was really saying.”

Chance sat down beside his bride of nearly a year and took her hand, raised it to his lips. There was no sense in lying to her. “I believe, sweetings, he was warning us that Morgan could present a problem.”

Julia rested her head against her husband’s shoulder and sighed, for she knew Morgan, and believed Chance’s words also to be in the way of a gross understatement. “Oh, is that all. I’m already expecting problems, and I’m certain the last thing Morgan would want to do is to disappoint me. What else did he say?”

“The Red Men Gang is still happily absent from Romney Marsh, Court’s still in charge as the Black Ghost, and everything continues to run smoothly on that head.”

Julia straightened, thoughts of their time spent at Becket Hall rising to the surface, bringing back old memories, old fears. She’d first met Chance, met the Beckets, when she’d answered an advertisement and became nanny to Chance’s young daughter, Alice. And her life had never been the same. “He actually said that?”

“No, not in so many words. But he did say it.” Chance put down his wineglass and became occupied in twirling a lock of his wife’s blond hair around his finger. “He also sees a defeat in Bonaparte’s future and an English war with America. Why a man who never leaves Romney Marsh is still so interested in the rest of the world amuses me. That he can know so much, analyze and deduce so much, amazes me. I wish he’d come to London, join me in the War Office.”

Julia squeezed Chance’s hand, the secrets they shared about Ainsley Becket, all of the Beckets, already holding them fast. “But he won’t. He doesn’t dare be recognized, or else everything he’s so carefully built will come tumbling down.”

“I’m not sure even he believes that anymore. He’s been safe for more than a dozen years. Well, we’ll soon have Morgan, at least. That’s a start. Then possibly Spence and Rian will come for a visit, and I can chase them out of every gambling hell and whorehouse in the city.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Julia said, then bit her bottom lip for a moment. “Yes, they would, wouldn’t they? I think I’ll allow you to be in charge of your brothers when they visit, and I’ll watch over the girls. Do we have a bargain, sir?”

Chance grinned, then kissed her cheek. “If I’d known how easily I could be shed of responsibility for Morgan, madam, I would have been a happier man these past months. So it’s a promise? You’re in charge of bearleading Morgan, and any of my sisters who want to cut a dash in society, and I’m in charge of my brothers?”

Julia saw her husband’s smile and reached for Ainsley’s letter. “Before I agree to that, I think perhaps I ought to read your father’s warnings for myself.”

Chance rolled his eyes dramatically and picked up his wineglass again. “So much for my hopes. Did I tell you, dearest, that I’ll be needed at the War Office almost continuously for the next three months?”

Julia’s eyes had already widened as she read about Monsieur Aubert. “Oh, I doubt that, Chance. I doubt that very much. The waltz? She wouldn’t dare. I may be new to society myself, but I know the waltz is frowned on—why, even Lord Byron condemns it.”

“As being unchaste. Yes, I know. While Byron himself, of course, is virgin as a new-fallen snow.” Chance took a sip of wine. “Ainsley seems to want Morgan married off quickly. I think that’s fairly clear. Do you think we should be drawing up a list of eligible bachelors?”

“And then steer her toward them? Oh, I don’t think so, darling. It’s the one we’d steer her away from that she’d most likely find interesting. That said, yes, I believe I’ve reconsidered, and will join you in a glass. And not lemonade.”




CHAPTER TWO


JACOB WHITING WAS SO upset he could barely keep from wringing his hands like some fretful old lady as visions of disaster evilly danced in his head. He’d thought this would be such a grand adventure.

Just once before in his twenty years had he been anywhere interesting, when he’d been taken to Dymchurch to have a tooth drawn. Traveling up to Londontown had come to him unexpectedly, like a special treat from Father Christmas, and traveling there with Morgan Becket was like all of Christmas and his birthday combined.

And now, not even two days into his grand adventure, Morgie was ruining everything and he wished himself back at Becket Hall, or snug in his bed above The Last Voyage in the small village Ainsley had built for everyone, listening to the old sailors telling tall tales as they drank their rum in the tap room below him.

“Morgie—that is, Miss Morgan, please. Your papa will have my head on a pike if anything happens to you.”

Morgan Becket frowned at Jacob, who was proving unusually uncooperative, not to mention melodramatic. She was much more used to having him twisted neatly around her finger, as he had been from the first day he’d laid eyes on her, more than a dozen years ago.

But this time, smiling hadn’t worked. Teasing hadn’t worked, either. Her papa must have truly put the fear of God in the poor fellow. “Very well then, timid-toes. I’ll saddle her myself. I can do that, you know.”

“No!” Jacob protested, then quickly ran after Morgan, who was grinning as she marched, chin held high, across the dusty inn yard toward the stables. She’d been waiting for this moment, when the outriders her papa had sent along with them had been dispatched back to Becket Hall, and only Jacob stood between her and adventure.

“Please, Miss Morgan,” he repeated, fairly dancing along beside her as she ate up ground easily with long, fluid strides that might look distressingly mannish on some females…females with less curves, that is. “You can’t be riding into Londontown on Berengaria, you just can’t.”

And then Jacob winced, because he knew immediately that he had made a fatal mistake.

“Can’t, Jacob?” Morgan asked, turning to include him in her grin. “Well now, that fairly settles the matter for us, doesn’t it?”

She put her gloved hand on his upper arm, and Jacob’s country-fresh complexion turned beet-red as he felt his resolve fleeing out the back door of his brain-box.

“Morgie, don’t. Please?”

“Think about it, my friend. The entire world goes to London for the Season. Am I to be just one more country bumpkin sent off to snare a husband? I don’t think so. I don’t think I’d be able to countenance that. Besides,” she added, when her childhood friend seemed ready to weep, “Chance and Julia will be expecting something outrageous. We wouldn’t want to disappoint them, now would we?”

“Odette said you’d behave, just like a little lamb.” He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a small brown bag tied up with multicolored ribbons, looked at it in some disgust. “This is what I think of her voodoo!”

“Stop!” Morgan, genuinely alarmed, caught his wrist before he could throw the bag to the ground. “Are you out of your mind? Odette made that for you.”

Jacob nodded, wide-eyed as he wondered if Morgan had just saved him from having a lightning bolt reach out of the sky to explode his intestines. “She said I could control you with it. I didn’t believe her, not really. I’ve heard the stories. About how she’s been wrong before, how she promised safety all those years ago when you all were on some island, and—”

“Jacob Whiting, shut your mouth,” Morgan warned tersely, then looked about to see if anyone was watching, had overheard. She moved closer and continued, “God gave you a brain, or at least one could hope so. Use it. And use your mouth less, or you’ll be on your way back to Becket Hall before you can so much as plant a foot on the cobbles of Upper Brook Street—and you’ll be walking all the way, my friend, still with the feel of my boot on your backside.”

“I’m sorry, Morgie. I know I shouldn’t have thought to throw…And I shouldn’t have said what I said about,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “the you-know-what. You’ve got me so I don’t know if I’m on my head or on my heels. I thought we’d be just fine for these last few miles. Only two more hours, after all, and in the light of day, with plenty of other folks on the road to keep us company. I wasn’t counting on trouble from you the moment the others left us. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Jacob knew as well as she did that the outriders had been sent back to Becket Hall because tempting fate by allowing any of their faces to be seen so far from Romney Marsh would be foolish in the extreme. It would mean certain destruction, allowing any of them who had been fully grown and fully formed when they had all “died” and come to England, to be recognized.

Morgan and her siblings were safe, except perhaps for Courtland, who had already gone ten and seven when they’d arrived in Romney Marsh. Chance had also been older, but he’d changed so from who he had been that no one had yet made the connection between the gentleman he’d become and the man he’d been.

No, there was little fear that the child Morgan had been would be remembered, or recognized in the young woman she was now.

“It’s all right, Jacob,” Morgan assured him quickly. How could they be nearly the same age—with Jacob the elder by two full years—and yet him still so much the child? “But no talk of times past, remember?”

“It…it’s not like I know anything, anyway, is it?” Jacob’s complexion, a moment before so colorful, had paled dangerously. “You won’t…you won’t tell anybody?”

“Not a soul, I promise.” And then, to take the look of worry from his face, she asked, “Did Odette actually promise that little bag would give you control over me?”

He shook his head. “She said it would keep me from being trampled.” And then he smiled, his humor restored. “And, thinking on it, if I stand back out of the way when you have the bit between your teeth, I suppose she might be right. But you will be wanting the new saddle? I don’t think my heart could take anything else.”

Morgan laughed, and the two of them headed toward the stables once more. She’d been in the coach all day yesterday, acting the lady, and for most of today, and she didn’t believe she could stand another moment of being so confined. Especially now, when they were so close to London.

Which was why she had asked Jacob to bring her second largest trunk into the inn while she dined in a private room that had been arranged for her, then quickly dressed herself in one of her new riding habits. The marvelous dark green creation, with its tight-fitting, short velvet jacket held closed with braided frogs, and the shako hat with the dyed green feather, seemed perfect for the day and her mood.

The skirt was split, but daring as she was, she was not foolish enough to believe riding astride to be an option. Besides, she rather enjoyed the sidesaddle, which had been a parting gift from her brother Spencer. He’d told her he doubted he could sit a horse half so well if he were forced to ride in skirts and with both legs dangling over the same side of the animal.

She’d known her brother’s compliment had been meant to cajole her into not arguing about the sidesaddle, but she’d allowed herself to be flattered.

She’d also made sure Jacob had sneaked out to the traveling coach before dawn yesterday, to hide her usual saddle in the boot.

“I thought Papa’s guard would never leave us, you know. Berengaria must be itching for a run as much as I am,” she commented as she stopped outside the stables, allowing Jacob the face-saving gesture of ordering one of the ostlers to fetch the mare.

“Not a run, Miss Morgan,” Jacob said, for once looking as if he meant what he said. “You said you wanted to ride right out in front of the coach for a ways where we could see you, that’s all. There’ll be no runs, or else—”

“Don’t say any more, Jacob,” Morgan warned cheerfully, “because we both know how difficult it would be for you to carry through on any threat.”

Not caring who saw, because Morgan never cared a snap for what anyone else thought of her as long as she was happy with herself, she raised her arm and draped it around Jacob’s shoulder, then leaned her head against him. “Ah, Jacob, we aren’t children anymore, are we? Isn’t that incredibly sad?”

He turned adoring blue eyes on her for a moment, then quickly put some distance between them, his heart aching. “We could go back, Morgie. We don’t have to go on. You don’t need no London gentlemen to be looking at you, pawing over you. You know I—” He stopped, appalled at himself for almost saying the words. “That is…you shouldn’t have to do anything makes you unhappy, Miss Morgan, so if you want to turn back to Becket Hall, I—”

“Oh, Jacob,” Morgan said, hating herself for upsetting her friend, who only meant the best for her. But now, almost overnight, she was Miss Morgan, not his playmate, his cheerful nemesis, and the sudden transition was proving troublesome for both of them.

She would be a terrible person, indeed, to make the situation even more difficult. “Please stop apologizing, Jacob. I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m horribly selfish, and I’m mean. What’s worse is that I know I am, and I still behave so badly to people who certainly don’t deserve such treatment. But, truth to tell, and only between us, I’m nervous, too. I don’t want to disappoint everyone who believes I’m going to have such a brilliant Season.”

Jacob’s slow smile was Morgan’s first warning that she’d almost talked herself into behaving. “Then you’ll ride into London in the coach?”

She jammed her gloved fists against her hips and glared at him. “Jacob Whiting, when did you get so smart? What do you think you just did?”

“I handled you? Well, almost,” Jacob said, his smile fading as he realized perhaps he’d been just a tad too proud of himself. “At least that’s what Mr. Courtland called it. ‘She seems heartless, but she wouldn’t hurt a fly, not on purpose,’ he told me, ‘so just fold on under like a blanket on a bed, and she’ll come around and stop her nonsense.’”

Morgan tried to raise a wave of anger, but found that, try as she would, humor was winning out. “I’ll kill that stick of a brother of mine,” she declared without heat, and then began to laugh. “Oh, Jacob, I don’t know which of us is the worse. You for being so truthful, or me for being so bad. And here I am, going from worrying Papa and my meddling brothers to yet another meddling brother. Why do men think they are here to protect us fragile females? How I long to be in charge of my own life.”

“There’s many who’d say you already are,” Jacob said, his smile wide as he felt that, just this once, he’d had the final word with her.

“Not really, Jacob, but I soon will be, I promise you that. Starting now. That ostler’s taking forever. What do you say we saddle Berengaria together?”

Jacob shook his head. “No, Miss Morgan,” he said, suddenly very serious. “I know my place, and you have to be learning to know yours. You just stand yourself there and be a lady while I go take care of Berengaria.”

“Yes, Jacob,” Morgan said with mocking obedience, lowering her head so that she could look up at him from beneath her dark lashes. “I’ll be very good, I promise.”

Jacob sniffed. “And I’ll be very quick, because you won’t be very good for very long.”

Morgan watched him go, idly tapping the riding crop against her gloved hand, and wondered if perhaps it was time to stop teasing Jacob as if they were still children. He’d almost said something they would both regret forever. He didn’t love her, not really. But he might think he did, and that would be too bad, because her affection for him was real, but quite different in nature. She could never be in love with Jacob. It was much too easy to control him.

Feeling rather ashamed of herself—yet unable to help rejoicing that she would get to ride Berengaria into London, which had been, after all, the point of the entire exercise—she turned on her heel and began to stroll around the yard of the country inn. Perhaps someone would see her in her lovely new riding habit and be impressed all hollow. She’d like that, and it would be a good omen perhaps, a hint of how she and her wonderful new wardrobe would be received in London society.

Except, she realized, frowning, she was very much alone, save for a man just now leading his mount into the yard. No, not leading the stallion, for the reins were loosely tied up on the saddle. The horse was following him like a faithful hound, not looking at all subservient, but more as if he accompanied the man only because it pleased him to do so.

Morgan laughed out loud at the sight, then concentrated her attention on the animal.

The stallion was magnificent. Beyond magnificent. Nearly white in the sunlight, its hindquarters dappled-gray, with a thick silvery mane that flowed to its shoulder, and a proud tail that nearly skimmed the ground.

Not a huge stallion, although the chest was fairly massive for its size, which had to be between fifteen and sixteen hands. Probably closer to fifteen. The ears were small and perfect, and when the horse turned toward her, as if aware she was admiring him, Morgan saw huge, intelligent eyes in a finely shaped head with a slightly convex nose.

Without a thought to convention—something she was definitely unaccustomed to considering at the best of times—Morgan set out across the yard, calling out to the man as she neared, “What a beauty!”




CHAPTER THREE


ETHAN TANNER LOOKED TO his right at the sound of the female voice, and was quick to agree. A definite beauty. He watched, caught between amusement and fascination, as the young woman advanced toward him, walking with the confident, long-legged stride of a man, except that she was most amazingly female.

Lush. Tall, but far from angular. The breeze whipping through the inn yard all but plastered her divided skirt against her long thighs with each step she took, clearly delineating them, and Ethan unexpectedly felt a familiar stirring.

He continued his inspection of this exotic beauty whose appearance was so at odds with the current fashion, which centered on petite, blue-eyed blondes.

Her nearly black hair was brushed sleekly back from her head, probably twisted into a knot at her nape. God, he hoped so, because a man should be able to see that dark silk tumbled over her bare breasts and back before he lowered her onto his bed. The green shako hat was set at a provocative tilt on her forehead, while a thick, sleekly curved lock of almost shoulder-length hair caressed the creamy ivory skin of her flawlessly beautiful face.

She came closer, and Ethan’s inspection continued unchecked by any thought he might be staring like some starving fool with his nose pressed against the pastry shop windowpane.

Dark winglike brows over unusual gray, smoky eyes that seemed to hint at all the sensuous mysteries of the ages. High cheekbones that gave her a slightly exotic look. A wide, full mouth that lifted faintly at the corners.

Her riding habit was of the first stare, although it was doubtful any modiste had ever dreamed any of her creations could be so flattered, or look so circumspect and so wanton at one and the same time.

As a package, taken altogether, Ethan decided, this woman was Original Sin. And Adam had his full empathy.

He amazed himself at his almost embarrassingly poetical mental impression of the female, although he was not surprised to feel eminently attracted to her face and form. This female was fashioned to be alluring. This female who, he finally realized, was so blatantly ignoring him.

“Alejandro, you’re being admired, you lucky bastard,” he drawled quietly. “Bow to the lady.”

Morgan, still fairly oblivious to anything save the magnificent horse, stopped short when the stallion turned toward her, then slowly, gracefully, bent his left knee to the ground as he extended his right leg and lowered his head.

“Oh, you brilliant, handsome boy!” Morgan walked straight up to the horse and placed her gloved hands on either side of its muzzle before planting a kiss between his ears. “What’s his name?” she asked, looking adoringly at the stallion.

“Alejandro,” Ethan answered. “And damn me if I don’t find myself jealous of a horse. Here now, up, you toadeating sycophant.”

Alejandro smoothly stood up once more, and swung his handsome head toward Ethan, showing his teeth in a horsey smile.

Morgan laughed in genuine delight, neither seriously considering the hinted flattery nor insulted by the swear word. After all, she knew who she was, how she looked, and she had grown up at Becket Hall, with brothers who rarely watched their words around her. “It’s as if he understands you,” she said.

“If so, he’s got the advantage of me,” Ethan said, his gaze still drinking in the sight of this gorgeous woman. This gorgeous, well-dressed, unchaperoned woman who didn’t seem to entertain the slightest hesitation to speak with an unknown man.

“Is he Andalusian? I’ve seen a few drawings, but this is the first time I’ve ever—”

Morgan had at last drawn her attention away from Alejandro, to speak with his owner. Whatever she’d planned to say—had she planned to say anything?—became lost as she looked at him.

Simply looked at him. As if she’d never seen a male of the species until that moment.

His eyes attracted her first. Nearly straight brows, low over long, green eyes, with the whites accentuated by thick, dark lashes, those eyes seemed amused and unreadable at one and the same time, as if the laugh lines that fanned from the outside corners could be genuine, or were just a clever facade meant to keep anyone from looking any deeper.

His nose was magnificent. She’d never thought a nose could be described that way, but this one could be—so wonderfully straight, the nostrils slightly flared above a most…a most intriguing mouth. Even his ears seemed perfect, lying flat against his head and visible because his darkly blond hair had been ruthlessly combed straight back off his only slightly lined forehead to brush at the collar of his shirt.

His long, leanly muscled body was clad seemingly carelessly in that open-necked white shirt, a dark leather vest, fawn buckskins and high-topped riding boots.

Her brothers dressed much the same way at Becket Hall. But this was different. This was…this was dangerous. Personally dangerous.

And she was being silly! She wasn’t intimidated by a man. Why would she be? Men were intimidated by her.

But not this one. He was the most man she’d ever seen.

A dangerous man. Definitely dangerous; a clear warning positively radiated from him. She could all but see it, an aura of deep red ringed with yellow surrounding him, which could be some trick of the sun but she was certain was not.

Years earlier, Odette had told her about such things, how certain creatures, human or beast, stood apart from others merely by being alive. Their power was stronger, for good or for evil, and a wise person who encountered one of these creatures recognized that and made subsequent choices, decisions, accordingly.

Odette had told her that Ainsley Becket was one of the dangerous ones. Odette had seen that in an instant and she had followed him, because to be with him was much preferred to being against him, as she had also sensed his good heart.

“But he’s only Papa, he’s not dangerous to me, not at all. What should I do, Odette?” Morgan remembered asking the voodoo woman. “If I ever see one of the dangerous ones, I mean? What should I do?”

Odette had laughed, that deep, rich laugh that came from somewhere deep inside her. “Child, you already know the answer. You are one of them, one of the dangerous ones. You do not pick the danger, it chooses you, and only a foolish woman would deny that truth. But, inquisitive child, to answer your question…the good Virgin only knows what would happen if you ever came up against one of your own kind, one with your own powerful will.”

Morgan wondered what the good Virgin might be thinking if she chanced to be looking down from heaven at this moment.

She really should stop staring at him. But he was staring at her, and fair was only fair.

He waited, watching her look at him, enjoying the luxury of looking at her, then finally broke the silence. “You were about to say something?”

Morgan raised her chin slightly, refusing to be embarrassed that she had been staring, and instinctively went on the attack. “And who, sir, are you?”

“Me?” His grin was boyish, unaffected, carving long, slashing dimples into his lean, tanned cheeks—which made him seem even more dangerous than before. “Why, I’m abashed,” he drawled, slowly advancing toward her. “Bedazzled. Enchanted. And, for my sins,” he added, bowing from the waist, while keeping his amused green gaze on her, “I am also Ethan Tanner, Earl of Aylesford, at your service and your every command, madam.”

“Really,” Morgan said, wishing her heart would show some sympathy and slow from its furious gallop. She’d already half expected him to be somebody important, as he was dressed well, if casually, and his horse was not the possession of a simple country squire.

As the stallion nuzzled her shoulder, she schooled herself to calmly raise one hand to stroke Alejandro’s strong neck, never realizing how striking woman and animal looked together. “How wonderful for you.”

Ethan tipped his head slightly to one side, looking at her quizzically. How wonderful for him? Harriette Wilson wouldn’t be so bold, and she was a practiced courtesan. And damn Alejandro for the traitor he was.

Who did this luscious woman belong to? And how much would it cost him to take her away from any fool so stupid as to let her roam free? Half his fortune didn’t seem too much to pay.

“Yes, thank you,” Ethan said, “I am rather pleased my mother had the good sense to marry well. And, if I may be so bold, as no one else seems to be present to do the honors, may I ask your name, beautiful lady?”

Should he have called her a beautiful lady? Morgan doubted that he should. She more than doubted it, after enduring long hours of Eleanor’s lessons on how one behaves in society. Still, he intrigued her, and she’d never backed either away or down from anything or anyone that intrigued her.

She’d play his game to see where it might take her, but she’d be damned if she’d curtsy. “I suppose turnabout is only fair. I am Morgan Becket, of Becket Hall. That’s in Romney Marsh, so you probably won’t have heard of us or it.” And then, before she could bite her tongue, she added, “I’m on my way to London for the Season.”

“Is that so?” Ethan said, hastily attempting to reshuffle his initial conclusion that she was a kept woman. “Unaccompanied, Miss Becket? How…very original.”

Morgan blinked at this, at the earl’s tone that suddenly seemed entirely too familiar, as if, in the blink of an eye, the game had turned serious. She suddenly wished the six outriders back. She looked toward the stables just in time to see Jacob leading Berengaria out into the yard.

Yes, there he was. Her remaining “accompaniment.” And here she was, having disobeyed her papa’s strict orders to stay as private as possible and for God’s sake not cause any disasters between Becket Hall and Upper Brook Street. “I can rely on you to do this one thing,” Ainsley Becket had asked her, “can’t I?”

Obviously her papa had overestimated both her limits of obedience and Jacob’s power to control her.

But if she was in a pickle now it was through her own fault, and she couldn’t allow Jacob to become involved, try to defend her honor or any such nonsense. Not with a man like the earl, who could easily chew up Jacob and spit him out again before the younger man could count to three.

She quickly looked at the earl once more.

He was still smiling at her. As if he knew something she didn’t know, and delighted in that fact.

Damn. This was no longer even in the least amusing. Now she truly understood why she was supposed to stay in the coach, or in her private dining room when they stopped for meals, and in her private bedchamber at the inn where she’d passed the single night they needed to be on the road.

Bringing a maid from Becket Hall had been out of the question, partly because Morgan didn’t actually have a personal maid there, partly because no one at Becket Hall had the faintest idea of how to properly dress a lady’s hair or such things…and mostly because the fewer tongues hanging about and liable to flap, the better.

Careful. Through years of practice, the Beckets had learned how to be careful. Too careful, Morgan had always believed, which was one reason she’d always tugged so hard on the reins. After all, the island had been so many years ago….

Yet now here she was, alone and seemingly unprotected, strutting about as if she had an army at her back, when Jacob was her only soldier—and with no reason for the earl to believe her better than it had to appear she was.

How different from Becket Hall, where everyone knew her and every last man there would stand in her defense against any danger. Why, if Jacko or any of the others had heard the earl’s words, even seen the unnervingly familiar way he was now smiling at her, Ethan Tanner’s life wouldn’t be worth a bucket of warm spit.

But Jacko wasn’t here. The outriders weren’t here. Nobody was here. And Morgan couldn’t simply stand here and brazenly stare back at the earl while waiting for Jacob to do something that would probably get his nose broken. She had to talk her way out of the predicament she’d created.

“My maid has taken ill, my lord,” she improvised quickly, “and therefore is on her way back to Becket Hall in the company of my outriders. I know my position to be precarious at the moment, except for the fact that my groom, Jacob, along with my coachman, would skewer anyone who dared to so much as look at me crookedly or take insulting notions into his head. You wouldn’t be addlepated enough to do either of those things, would you, my lord?”

Ethan bowed again, amused by her sudden vehemence, and very much pleased that he would appear to be without competition. Miss Morgan Becket wasn’t a kept woman, a high-flying concubine. She was simply badly managed by her keepers and more accustomed to free and easy country ways. In short, she was marvelously unencumbered, and his for the taking if he played his cards correctly.

Until she showed her face, and that body, in London society. After that, she would set her own style, and he could end up as one of many vying for her favor.

The devil he would! He’d noted the way she’d looked at him. He knew how he’d felt when he’d first caught sight of her, would not easily forget that figurative punch to the gut that had all but bowled him over. The attraction had been instant, and definitely mutual. Even Alejandro seemed to know, for God’s sake. The horse also appeared to be smitten, which simply showed how a man could never quite trust other males when a beautiful female was added to the mix.

In fact, there was now only one new problem to supplant what he’d believed his previous problems. Miss Morgan Becket, if truly a hopeful debutante, was also most certainly a virgin. He’d always made it a point not to come within ten yards of a virgin.

Then again, in exceptional circumstances, exceptions could be made. In this case, the exceptional circumstance was that he felt reasonably sure he’d never want another woman until he’d first had this one beneath him.

Ethan searched for something to say, anything that couldn’t be misconstrued.

“Far be it from me to reprimand you, Miss Becket, and you must be sad about the loss of your maid—but you should not be standing out here alone. People, some people, could not be faulted for thinking you less than you should be.”

All right, she was standing on firmer ground here. She knew a veiled insult when she heard one, and was not the sort to pretend she hadn’t. She much preferred to take the gloves off and lay them on the table—challenge him to either say what he meant outright, or shut up. “You wouldn’t be one of those people, now would you, my lord? Or would you? Come, come, my lord. Have you been thinking me less than I should be?”

Ethan scratched at his temple, trying to hide his surprised smile with the gesture. “Polite ladies don’t as a rule confront gentlemen, Miss Becket.”

Morgan shrugged. Her heart was pounding hard again, but this time with excitement, delight, because she wasn’t backing down, and doubted he would, either. “I’ve never been accused of being polite, or overworried about rules. Although I’m quite convinced you’ve often been accused of being quite rude.”

“Guilty as charged, madam,” he said, bowing to her.

Then he looked past her, to watch as a dainty, high-stepping black mare was led toward them, the groom holding the mount’s bridle looking like a fellow caught between recognizing his betters and contemplating mayhem. And mayhem appeared to be winning.

Morgan, watching the earl’s eyes, turned to see what had caught his attention, and nearly groaned aloud.

“We’re less than two hours from London, my lord, and well into civilization,” she pointed out quickly as she faced Ethan once more. As she spoke, she put one hand behind her back, waving Jacob away, while hoping her childhood friend wouldn’t go making a cake of himself. “I will be safely under my brother’s roof before dark.

“Not that my traveling plans are any of your concern, you grinning idiot,” she added as she pointedly turned to say goodbye to Alejandro, stroke his mane, her temper beginning to rise past levels she knew to be controllable. But she had every reason to be angry. After all, she wasn’t the one who was looking at him as if he were a particularly tasty plate of mutton chops, was she? Had she been?

Possibly, she realized.

“I’ve fetched Berengaria for you, Miss Morgan,” Jacob said from behind her, his voice unnaturally deep, as if he wanted to sound menacing and, if he believed the ploy successful, deluding only himself. “I took the liberty to order the carriage horses ready, and told Saul to haul himself out of the common room and back up on the box, so we can be going now. Don’t even have to wait so much as a minute, Miss Morgan.”

Morgan didn’t have to turn around to know that Jacob had his free hand resting lightly on the pistol tucked into his waistband, the romantic fool. They’d practiced shooting pistols together over the years, and Jacob still would have to consider himself lucky if he could hit the Channel if he was already standing knee-deep in the water.

“Yes, thank you, Jacob. If you’d please lead Berengaria over to that mounting block?”

Ethan had been enjoying himself, watching varying emotions pass across Miss Morgan Becket’s expressive face, but now he was actually concerned. The chit was going to ride into London? And with that hotheaded halfling as her only protection? Not that he saw a second horse. No, the idiot thought he could guard her from his seat on the traveling carriage now being led out into the yard.

There was no more time for bantering, for relishing the situation. This was serious, and now that Ethan was in it, he knew he could not walk away. He didn’t want to walk away.

“Forgive me, Miss Becket, but I’m afraid that I, as a gentleman, cannot countenance what you seem to be planning.”

Morgan glared at him. “You cannot countenance?” And she’d thought the man handsome? Even intriguing? He was only any one of her tiresome brothers, looking at her as if she was being fractious on purpose.

Which, she knew, she usually was. And, over the years, she had become very, very accomplished at it. But that had nothing to do with the moment. She wanted to ride, and she would ride.

Before she could say anything else, Ethan stepped past her, leaving her to stew where she stood. “Jacob, is it? I am the Earl of Aylesford, although you may feel free to look upon me as your temporary savior. It is my understanding that Miss Becket’s maid—chaperone—has been dispatched home, leaving her under your, I’m convinced, well-intentioned protection. Is that correct?”

Jacob was rapidly reconsidering his ability to beat this man into a jelly. An earl? What was he supposed to do with an earl? “Um…”

“Yes, I thought I’d concluded correctly,” Ethan drawled as he took the lad’s arm and led him out of earshot. “You may not be aware, Jacob,” he continued quietly, “that such an arrangement is wholly unsuitable, or that I, as a good friend of Miss Becket’s brother in London, would be remiss indeed, even criminally so, if I did not step in and rescue both you and Miss Becket from what is only to be termed an untenable situation. I’m sure you’ll agree.”

Jacob held up one finger as if to lend emphasis to whatever he planned to say in response, but he didn’t say anything, as his brain had begun to cramp halfway through the earl’s statement. He simply stared…not at the earl, but past him, to Morgan. He looked positively petrified, which he was, because Morgan was staring at him as if he should be counting the remainder of his life in minutes. “Um…”

Ethan leaned closer, deliberately placing himself between the nervous groom and his view of his glowering mistress. “Women can be so headstrong, can’t they, Jacob? Leaving us men to either be brutes, or give in, hoping for the best. And, of course, then praying that the lady in question does not toss her reputation to the four winds with a single, unintentional mistake brought on by pure female bullheadedness. And all of it inevitably to end with some poor, well-intentioned fool forced to take the blame. In this case, my friend, that poor, well-intentioned fool taking the blame? Well, I’m very much afraid that would be you.”

Jacob frowned in confusion. “You say you know Mr. Chance Becket. But it sounds like you know Miss Morgan, too.”

Ah, a name. Jacob was proving quite helpful.

“We’re men, Jacob, you and I,” Ethan said, winking conspiratorially, purposely placing himself on the same side with the groom, the side that needed to find a way to make the contrary Miss Morgan Becket behave. “We all know women. We just don’t understand them, which, rather happily, accounts for much of their charm. Now, you help Miss Becket mount, and then order the coachman to follow us to Tanner’s Roost, where I will change into something more suited to town wear, and provide one of my maids to accompany Miss Becket to her brother. He still lives in—damn, I’ve quite forgotten his direction.”

“Upper Brook Street, my lord. Just on the right, three doors off Park Lane and Hyde Park. That’s what they told me. Told me his number, too, but I’m not so good with numbers. Three doors off Park Lane, on the right,” Jacob repeated helpfully, already more relaxed. Or at least he was, until Morgan Becket approached, her fists jammed on her hips.

“What do you two think you’re doing?” she asked, not caring that the lordship was a lordship and the groom was her good friend. Not caring about anything save that she had been summarily dismissed by both of them. Even Alejandro had ambled off to a nearby water trough. “Jacob—I want to mount Berengaria.”

Unspoken were the words, And if you don’t help me I’ll do it myself, damn your eyes, you traitor.

Ethan bowed to her. “I’ll be more than happy to assist you, Miss Becket, while Jacob attends to other matters. Jacob and I, and we do apologize for keeping a lady standing out here in the sun, have just been debating how best to handle the logistics of the thing.”

“What thing? There is no thing, my lord. And I don’t care a fig about standing in the sun. Now go away.”

Jacob made a short, strangled sound, handed Berengaria’s reins to Ethan, then hastily trotted off, to climb up on the traveling carriage.

Morgan, sudden confusion mixing with her anger, watched him go. “What does he think he’s doing?”

“He’s behaving with good common sense,” Ethan told her, taking her by the elbow and leading both her and the mare to the mounting block beside the stable yard fence. “Now come along. We’re a good two miles from Tanner’s Roost.”

“Tanner’s—what’s that?” Morgan asked, digging in her heels. “What did you say to Jacob?”

“Nothing I should have liked to have said,” Ethan told her, leading her forward once more, not terribly delighted in her reluctance, yet happy to know she wasn’t featherwitted enough to easily go off with just anybody.

After all, she had only his word that he was an earl. He could be an out-and-out rotter. In fact, there were many among his wide acquaintance who might consider him so. “If he’s the one who agreed to send your maid packing, I should have torn a strip off his hide, in fact.”

“You, my lord, have no right to say or do anything where I am concerned.”

“Oh, how wrong you are, Miss Becket. It would be my good friend Chance tearing a strip off my hide, if I were to wave you merrily on your way as you go riding off to be murdered—or worse.”

Well, that stopped her. At last.

“You know Chance?”

The lies unrolled like silk from Ethan’s tongue, even as he marveled that she had gone slightly pale at the mention of her brother’s name, and not the broad hint of murder, or worse. “Yes, of course. I didn’t make the connection at first. Becket. Chance Becket. Resides in Upper Brook Street, only a few steps from the Park. Good man.”

“Oh.” Morgan considered this as she accepted his assistance when she put her foot on the mounting block. “All right. You know my brother, so I suppose I should be gracious if I don’t want to have him bring his wrath down on me, which would be stultifyingly boring, to tell you the truth. Now, what about this Tanner’s Roost? It sounds like a thieves’ den.”

Ethan smiled as he watched Morgan mount the mare. “An interesting observation, Miss Becket, and so eminently gracious. I must remember that, next time my mother tells me how much she admires the name.”




CHAPTER FOUR


THEY HADN’T GONE a half mile before the thrill of being on Berengaria’s back, even on a sidesaddle, had faded enough for Morgan to wonder what on earth was wrong with her.

What had caused her to so easily agree to ride off willy-nilly with this man she did not know, to go to a place she did not know, to do—well, nothing was going to happen. The man was an earl, for pity’s sake.

Or at least he had said so, then had convinced Jacob to trust him. Which wasn’t much of an endorsement, for Jacob trusted her, too.

At least they were still on the main road, or what she believed to be the main road.

When she got straight down to it, she didn’t know much of anything. Except that Chance was probably going to ring a peal over her head that her papa would hear all the way back in Romney Marsh.

No longer able to enjoy her view of the countryside or the fresh, sweet smell of the country air, Morgan slid her gaze toward the earl—if he really was an earl.

He sat Alejandro as if born to the saddle, controlling the stallion simply by being in that saddle, moving effortlessly, as if the two had become one, man and horse looking so stunningly complete together.

Morgan felt heat running into her cheeks as another thought struck her. Alejandro and Berengaria also looked good together, the bright and the dark.

But not as good as she and Ethan Tanner would fit together. Her dark to his light. He, so very English. She, so very Spanish, at least the parts of her she’d taken from her mother. Her true father could have been English, for her skin was lighter than Spencer’s, at least. But her sire could also have been Austrian, or Russian, or any one of the mongrels that had relieved himself of his seed inside her two-penny-a-poke mother.

No. She wouldn’t think of that. She was Morgan Becket, of Becket Hall. Ainsley Becket was her father. She was who she believed herself to be, and now that she was grown she would become what she wanted to become. A person in her own right, free of the past.

And what did any of this matter now? She had to keep her concentration on the moment, and this moment seemed terribly important.

“How do I know you’re really the earl of wherever you said you’re the earl of?” she heard herself ask, her lips moving before her brain could even hope to catch up, let alone shove a gag in her mouth.

Ethan, who had been amusing himself imagining Morgan Becket’s reaction to meeting his mother—he could learn a lot about her when he saw that reaction—found her question highly amusing.

“You doubt me, Miss Becket?” he asked as he looked over at her, one eyebrow raised speculatively. “Are you saying that I don’t have the presence, that ineffable air, of a peer of the realm? And that’s Aylesford, by the by. Aylesford’s not much in the great scheme of things, I’ll grant you, but we’re rather proud of it nonetheless.”

“I’m sure you are,” Morgan said, knowing he meant his words as a bit of a setdown, even a reprimand, and then ignoring that fact as unimportant to the moment. “So, my lord, you were simply out riding?”

“And then stopping for a cold mug and a slice of ham, yes. Which reminds me, I’m hungry. I believe you’ve made me miss a meal, Miss Becket.”

“How terrible for you. I seem to have been nothing but trouble to you, my lord. Perhaps we should simply part ways now?”

Ethan smiled, finally understanding her problem. “You’re afraid of me, Miss Becket? How wrong of you. And, although it’s unconscionably rude to point this out, how very tardy of you. You should have run screaming from me some time ago. It’s miles too late now to think about your possibly precarious position.”

Morgan laughed, in real delight. “Whose precarious position, my lord? I am quite safe. It’s you who should be concerned. Out here, alone with my protectors.”

Ethan laughed along with her, happy to see that she was far from missish and wasn’t going to suddenly go all hysterical on him. “You mean that unwashed cub up behind us on your coach?”

“No, not Jacob. You have him thoroughly cowed, and you’re even proud of your achievement, which you shouldn’t be, because Jacob could be cowed by an angry ladybug. I meant one of my papa’s most trusted men for more years than I’m alive. Saul.”

Ethan frowned, trying to remember who Saul might be, and then smiled as he recalled a gray-haired hulk of a man who had climbed up into the box with some difficulty, as he carried the weight of too many large dinners with him. “Your coachman? You consider him your protector?”

“Indeed, yes,” Morgan said, barely able to keep from bouncing in the saddle, because she was about to take that smug, satisfied smile off his lordship’s handsome face. My, how she loved to win! She really ought to consider scraping up some maidenly modesty from somewhere, now that she was to be a debutante. But how boring that would be….

She turned on the saddle, calling back to the coach, which was no more than twenty yards behind them, as Jacob knew to keep close. “Saul! His lordship would very much like to see Bessie.”

“Bessie?” Ethan also turned in his saddle, looking back over his shoulder, toward the coachman. “What’s a—my God.”

Saul, still with the reins wrapped around his beefy hands, had reached down into the depths of the box, to come up with Bessie—a short, lethal-looking crossbow, loaded and ready to loose an equally short, lethal-looking arrow straight into Ethan’s back.

“Thank—thank you, Saul!” he called out, waving to the man. “Bessie’s…quite beautiful. Truly impressive.”

Saul, his expression still fierce, lowered the weapon. Ethan couldn’t hold back the relieved sigh that escaped his lips as he looked at Morgan, although he was fairly certain he’d have an itch directly between his shoulder blades until they’d arrived at Tanner’s Roost.

“Do you have any idea how far one of those arrows can travel?” she asked him, her glee so clear Ethan wondered briefly if Adam hadn’t possibly had second and third thoughts before he took that apple. “I’ve seen Saul put one neatly through a—”

“Yes, I’m sure you have,” Ethan said quickly, then attempted to turn the conversation to something she’d said earlier, something that interested him very much. “Where did you say Becket Hall is located, Miss Becket?”

“Romney Marsh, directly on the Channel. Only a few dozen miles from Maidstone as the gull flies, as they say. Or an entire world away from here or anywhere else, as others say.”

“I’ve been to Camber, if we can really consider that a part of the marsh,” Ethan said, struggling with himself to not take another peek over his shoulder, to see if Saul seemed happy, pleased with his place in the world, and not liable to want to shoot anything at the moment. “That was a few years ago, for an uncle’s interment. I don’t know which was more depressing, the young widow trying to corner me in the morning room, or the cold, gray weather. And it was July, I believe.”

“I’ve never been to Camber,” Morgan said, ignoring the rest of what the earl had said, considering it wiser to ignore most anything he uttered, as a matter of fact. She’d much rather look at him than listen to him, because what he said was often nonsense or provocative, or both, but looking at him could become a lifelong obsession.

“Ah, but now you’ll be able to say you’ve been to Tanner’s Roost, just as one day, perhaps, I will be able to say I’ve visited Romney Marsh and even Becket Hall,” Ethan said, indicating that she should turn her mount to the right, head between two huge stone pillars and onto a smaller roadway that was, all in all, in much better condition than the main highway.

He didn’t realize he had been worried that she’d balk at the last minute until he felt his shoulders relax when she turned her mount onto the drive.

Saul followed, but even Saul and his crossbow didn’t serve to contain all of the butterflies now fluttering inside Morgan’s belly as they proceeded along the twisting lane cut through the trees, the branches overhead so dense they nearly blocked out the sunlight.

Romney Marsh was open. A person could see for miles and miles; a person could breathe there. Most importantly, strangers approaching Becket Hall from either land or sea would be noticed—and prepared for—a good quarter hour before they arrived.

“Are you certain your house is in here somewhere?” she asked, trying to sound faintly amused, when all she could think was that a person could ride into these woods, never to be seen again. Not only that, but Tanner’s Roost would be almost impossible to defend. Didn’t that bother the earl? Or perhaps only those who knew they needed protection ever considered such subjects.

“As this is my property we’re riding through now, I’m fairly certain the Roost is still here, as it was here at breakfast time, which seems so long ago now, Miss Becket, thanks to you,” Ethan answered lazily, knowing he could barely wait to see her reaction to his family home.

Morgan blinked. “What sort of a man blames a female for his empty belly? Oh, never mind, you all do, don’t you, just as if feeding you is our purpose in life. And you’re saying that this is all yours?”

“Again, with gratitude to my mother, for marrying so well. You’ll be meeting her, you know, when we get to the Roost, which you should be able to see just as we get past this final curve in the drive.”

“Uninvited guests aren’t welcome at Becket Hall,” Morgan said, beginning to worry about his lordship’s mother, and the reception she’d get when she was introduced to the lady she’d call…what did one call the mother of an earl? She knew the answer, had been well drilled by Eleanor in all the titles, but her mind had gone suddenly, frighteningly blank.

If her sister were here now, she’d probably not even say, “I did warn you.” Because Elly was a good person, with a good heart. Morgan knew she should strive to be more like her. She also knew she’d have the same luck with that as she would in an attempt to fly up to the moon.

“My mother feels quite the opposite when it comes to visitors.” Ethan ran his gaze over Morgan’s gracefully erect upper body. Would he be doomed to hell for wishing his mother away from Tanner’s Roost, so he could be alone with this intriguing woman? Probably. “She’s always happy to welcome guests, and there are usually several of them wandering about the hallways.”

Morgan shook off her worrisome thoughts and concentrated on the earl once more, feeling that paying him any less than her full attention could end with her deep in trouble. “And now there’s one more, although I won’t be staying above an hour, unless you are an inordinately slow dresser, as I’ve heard that society gentlemen can spend several hours just in tying their neck cloths.”

“Gentlemen don’t arrange their own neck cloths, Miss Becket, any more than they would take the pressing iron to them. We pride ourselves in being exceedingly and unremittingly useless. I know I do.”

And then, as Morgan struggled for an answer to such a damning admission delivered so joyfully, they were out from under the nearly quarter-mile canopy of trees and into the sunlight once more. An enormous expanse of lawn appeared, with a castle sitting on a gentle rise of earth smack-dab in the center of it.

Morgan was instantly diverted by the sight. “A castle. It’s an actual castle! All those turrets, and all with flags flying from them. How…how extraordinary!”

Ethan grinned, even as he had planned to remain expressionless, no matter what her reaction. “I ordered the moat filled in with dirt soon after I came into the title, which has cut down some on the damp but, yes, Miss Becket, a real castle. I take it you’re impressed? I’d been wondering about your reaction. Now, if you’ll please walk your mount in while I rush off to alert my mother? She enjoys guests, but hates being caught unawares. I’ll alert one of the staff, and he’ll arrange care of the horses and escort you to the drawing room.”

Before Morgan could answer, Ethan was gone, and she was dealing with Berengaria, who wanted to follow. Morgan pulled on the reins as her black mare danced in a full circle, then watched as Ethan and the magnificent Alejandro abandoned the drive, to ride across the freshly scythed acres of lawn toward the castle.

The sight had her breath catching in her throat. The snowy horse, its mane and tail caught by the breeze, its hooves throwing up green-and-black clumps of earth. The rider, the full sleeves of his white shirt billowing in that same breeze. Both outlined so clearly, first against the lush green of the grass, then against the dark, cold gray stone of the castle.

And she’d been wondering why she’d so blithely followed this man? How could she be, when the answers were so obvious?

Morgan hadn’t even noticed that Saul had brought the traveling coach up beside her until she heard Jacob say, “It’s like the drawings in the books in Mr. Ainsley’s library, isn’t it, Morgie. A fairy castle. Not even real. Morgie? You hear me?”

Morgan swallowed with some difficulty, then nodded, not trusting her voice. Lightly tapping her heel against Berengaria’s flank, she moved forward. She followed the path set by the earl, allowing Berengaria her head, just a little, so that they approached the castle at a maidenly, if eager trot. Her mount’s shod hooves made sharp, echoing contact with the thick planks of the lowered drawbridge that spanned the now wildflower-and-grass-clogged moat, and Morgan delighted in the sound.

Once she was inside the castle walls, a young boy wearing scarlet livery and a powdered wig approached, and reached for the mare’s bridle. “Afternoon, miss. His lordship says you’re to be taken straightaways to the drawing room, if that’s all right, miss.”

“Yes, thank you.” Morgan raised her leg slightly, lifting it out of the sidesaddle, then leaped gracefully to the cobblestones of the large courtyard, not even considering that she should wait for assistance, let alone that anyone would think she needed it.

As Berengaria was led away, Morgan turned in a slow circle, attempting to drink in her surroundings. She wasn’t an expert on medieval architecture, and had never wished to be, but this castle seemed awfully…young.

Castles, Morgan felt sure, should look ancient, and weathered. With moss perhaps, and definitely with ivy. And there should be more castle, too. Things like keeps and bailiwicks, whatever they were. And an array of stone outbuildings. This was just a huge stone box topped with fanciful turrets on all four corners, and with a sort of half house, half castle stuck inside.

New, if stones could look new.

A very large toy. A plaything. A child’s fantasy. As Jacob had said, a fairy castle…

“This way, miss,” the footman prompted her.

Morgan looked behind her, to be sure Jacob and Saul and the coach were on their way across the drawbridge, then followed the servant beyond the flagstone courtyard and up a few wide steps, into the castle.

The stone hallway was huge, and seemed to go up and up forever, until it disappeared into darkness. Morgan had a moment of silliness, wondering if there was an echo in the hall, and what the footman would do if she cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled “Bally-hoo!”

“This way now, miss.”

Biting her lips to hold back a giggle, she had only a few moments to take in the huge wooden tables and straight-back chairs that lined the hall, barely enough time to gawk at the dozen or so suits of armor, and no time at all to wonder if a retreat wouldn’t be prudent, before following the servant.

And it only got worse…or better, if she had set out on a hunt for the ridiculous. The drawing room had stone walls, and window embrasures that had to be four feet deep. The walls were hung with huge tapestries, and when she sat down, the furnishings, completely wooden, proved as uncomfortable as they were ugly.

Morgan shivered, the riding habit that had been just perfect for the day suddenly feeling thin and inadequate, because the castle interior seemed to have its own weather, a very different temperature from the outside. With no sun to warm her, she looked longingly at the huge stone fireplace that was, alas, without a fire.

The man lived like this? He forced his mother to live like this?

“I’ve blundered into a madhouse,” Morgan whispered to herself. “And no one in my family will be the least surprised.”

She then picked up her gloves and riding crop, deciding a hasty escape would be the only way to maintain her own sanity. She was halfway to her feet when the earl entered the room, stopping not six feet inside the doorway.

Ethan lifted a finger to his lips for a moment, warning Morgan to silence, then smartly turned to face the doorway.

This was the moment. Morgan Becket would either delight in his mother, or run screaming from her. You could tell a lot about a woman from the way she reacted to a man’s mother. Especially his mother.

Another liveried servant, this one older, thinner and terribly bent, entered the huge chamber, loudly tapped the floor with the long staff he carried, and announced in a rusty voice, “Hear ye, hear ye, presenting her ladyship, Druscilla, Dowager Countess of Aylesford!”

Ethan executed a rather elegant bow, and held it, then turned his head toward Morgan. He gifted her with a smile and a wink before turning his attention back to the doorway, which she then did as well…just in time to see the dowager countess make her appearance.

“God’s teeth,” Morgan whispered under her breath as she blinked, blinked again, and then hurriedly dropped into a curtsy.

She hadn’t run, screaming, from the room. Ethan grinned. So far, so good.

The woman who’d swept into the large room had once been very beautiful, and still was, in a faintly faded sort of way. Her son very much resembled her, as far as it went, and it didn’t go far, because the dowager countess seemed to have come from another time, one long since passed.

She was dressed in a sort of costume, her crimson brocade gown finished with huge, puffed velvet sleeves slashed through with ivory silk. A matching brocade beret covered most of her pale blond hair, and there was a huge emerald-and-diamond pin in the shape of a dragon attached to the very front of the thing. Her neckline was clogged with what could be a dozen different necklaces, and she had a heavy gold chain around her waist, from which hung a two-foot-long painted stick that ended in a clutch of red-tipped ostrich feathers.

She looked wonderful. She looked ridiculous. And when she winked at Morgan, just as her son had done, she seemed very aware of how bizarre she must appear.

“Welcome to Tanner’s Roost, my dear,” the dowager countess trilled. “How wonderful to have a fresh victim!”

Morgan looked to Ethan, who merely shook his head and scolded his mother. “Maman, don’t scare the girl off now that I’ve just found her.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense, Ethan. Look at that chin, that proud carriage. This one doesn’t frighten easily—do you, dear? Now go away and clean up your dirt, if you really plan to desert your poor mother and ride to London, and Miss Becket and I will have a little natter. Won’t we, Morgan—I will call you Morgan, because it’s such a lovely name. Except perhaps for Morgan Le Fay, or whatever that harridan’s name was. Ethan? You’re still standing there. Shoo!”

“He looks like any guilty son, doesn’t he?” Morgan commented as Ethan quit the room, enjoying herself again. She should have agreed to leave Becket Hall sooner, and would have, if she’d known being out and about in the world could be so very amusing. Then, waiting until the dowager countess had seated herself before sitting down beside her, she added, “Now, what is this about a new victim, my lady?”

“Druscilla, my dear. Just call me Druscilla. Everybody does. I do hope you’ll have time to meet some of my friends, although I doubt that, as Ethan warned me that you are pressed for time if you are to beat dusk to London. We’re practicing for tomorrow night’s performance—my guests and myself, that is. Not that you’ll be missing a marvelous treat by not lingering here to watch us. Poor Algernon makes for a very timid Henry, I’m afraid. Shall I tell you a secret? If Algernon had really been the king, he would have sent Anne Boleyn off to her chambers with no more than a mild scold and cold porridge for her dinner.”

The earl’s mother lifted the painted stick, pushed on a small button near the base, and the lush feathers opened into a fan, which she then began waving under her chin.

“Warm in here, isn’t it? I don’t know how the ladies of old Henry’s court stood it, I really don’t. All this heavy velvet? And you’d positively weep if you saw the ridiculous underpinnings those poor creatures were forced to endure, although I was thoroughly shocked when I realized what they didn’t wear. Perhaps a welcome breeze up under their skirts cooled them somewhat. In any case, it must have come as at least a little something of a relief when Henry chopped off their heads—took a bit of the weight off their shoulders, as it were.”

Morgan wasn’t used to being at a loss for words, but found she had nothing to say to her ladyship’s statements. So she merely smiled, fairly convinced that this strange woman was the sort who could hold conversations all by herself, if the other person just smiled or nodded in the right places.

And she was right, for Druscilla was off once more, barely taking a breath before saying, “You’re probably wondering if I’m a wee bit batty. Or prodigiously batty, and I suppose some would say I am. But I’m happy, and Ethan indulges me just as his dear father did before him. Neither of them cared a scrap about the scandal, which is just as well, because what is done is done, and can’t be undone. Oh, the marriage, yes, that could have been undone. God knows George’s family tried, insisting their poor boy had lost the reins on his brains. But not Ethan. Difficult to undo Ethan, don’t you think? And he makes a splendid earl, even if society still pretends to be all aghast about his dreadfully inappropriate mother.”

This time Morgan nodded, schooling her expression to one of mingled sympathy and disgust. Or at least she hoped so. Mostly, she wanted the woman to keep talking.

“It was a love match, you understand. George and me. We took one look at each other and that was that, and me only fifteen to his eight and thirty. We cared not a snap what the world would think. Well, George didn’t. I had no idea the fuss it would make, as George had somehow neglected to tell me he was, at the time, a viscount. And his title wasn’t really important, then or now, because we loved each other dreadfully. So we built our castle, and put up our walls, and never bothered about anyone. It’s been five years that he’s gone, and I still miss him so.”

The bright light in Drusilla’s eyes faded as she shrugged, sighed. “Well, enough of that. My only regret is that Ethan seems always to pay the price for his parents’ happiness. It can’t be comfortable being the son of a soft-headed fool and a common strumpet. But, still, the ton accepts him, if only on sufferance. Ethan says that’s because of the title and all the money, but I think it’s because he’s so pretty. What do you think?”

“I…uh…” Morgan hadn’t counted on being asked a question, so she quickly, and none too tactfully, responded by asking one of her own. “You weren’t really a strumpet, were you?”

Druscilla patted Morgan’s hand. “No, dear, but I certainly wasn’t acceptable, either.” She leaned closer. “You see, I was a performer.”

“An actress?” Morgan asked, rather excited to hear such a romantic story, certainly a happier story than that of her own parentage. Although, if London society looked at Ethan askance, what on earth would they do if anyone ever learned about her beginnings?

“Not then, no,” Druscilla said. “I had aspirations, yes, but I was still young, and was forced into company with a band of jugglers and magicians and miracle-sellers and their ilk. Would you like me to read your palm? I can, you know. Not correctly, but definitely convincingly. I would have done much better if I’d looked like you. I’m much too pale, too watery. You’ve the look, the fire, of a real gypsy. I had to wear a huge black wig, and it itched horribly, almost as badly as this horrid gown. Next year, and so I told my friends, we’ll perform a more modern play.”

“Maman? Have you quite talked Miss Becket’s ear off in my absence?”

Morgan watched as the earl reentered the room, looking every inch the London gentleman, and refused to acknowledge the small skip her heart gave at the sight of him. She could still see the raw power in him, but that power had been somehow leashed with the addition of finely cut clothing. It was the sure knowledge that the leash could be easily snapped that intrigued her. Almost challenged her, as if he had somehow flung a glove at her feet, daring her to try.

And all he’d done was walk into the room, smile at her.

Imagine what would happen if he ever touched her….

“Of course I did, Ethan, just as you knew I would. All our ancient scandal revealed. Why else would you have all but dragged me away from our rehearsal?”

“Yes, of course, Maman. Forgive me.” It was true he had counted on his gregarious mother to run her tongue on wheels, say everything that needed to be said. But did she also have to say, within Morgan’s hearing, that he had wanted her to do precisely that? No head for intrigue, his mother, much as he loved her.

The dowager countess turned her back on Ethan and took Morgan’s hands in her own, squeezed them. “He’d much rather, you see, have me tell the story, and not have you hear any nastiness about his mother from some muckraking dragon in London. At least, this way you know you’ve heard the right of it and can make up your own mind.”

She leaned close, whispered, “He’s a very sensitive soul, my dear, sweet Ethan is.”

“Oh, ma’am, I think you may worry yourself too much on that head. I may have only just met him, but I already believe your son more than capable of taking care of himself,” Morgan whispered back to her, smiling.

“Placed in uncaring hands, my dear, anyone’s heart can be broken.” Druscilla squeezed Morgan’s hands one more time, and got to her feet. “And now, if you don’t mind, Algernon is waiting, probably sharpening his ax down to a nub. Do come see me again, Morgan, as I’m sure you will, as Ethan has never before brought a young lady here. You must be very special.”

“Umm, thank you…Druscilla.” Morgan dropped into another curtsy, then watched as Ethan first bowed over his mother’s hand, then leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks, his mother holding him close as she whispered something in his ear.

He laughed, kissed her again and then watched her go before turning to Morgan. “My mother reminded me that I should ask if you wish to freshen up before we continue our journey.”

“Really,” Morgan said, tipping her head to one side as she considered this. “I doubt she was reticent to suggest such a thing to me directly, and had to beg you to ask the question. What did she actually say?”

Ethan stepped closer. Morgan was as beautiful as he’d remembered while he’d harried his valet into rushing through the quick change of clothes, then set the man to having his entire wardrobe moved to town by morning. Ethan had half hoped he’d had too much sun, and his reaction had been temporary…but this woman only improved on second sight, and his interest only deepened.

But that didn’t mean he’d tell her that his mother had suggested he should waste no time in having Morgan for his own as “you two would give me splendidly beautiful grandchildren. And she didn’t turn tail and run from this silly pile or your strange mama, Ethan. The girl’s got bottom!”

No, he wouldn’t tell her any of that. “Nothing important,” he said, offering his arm and leading her back into the cavernous foyer. “So. Did my mother produce a deck of cards from that fantastical costume and ask you to pick one, any card at all?”

“To tell my fortune, you mean? No, she didn’t.”

“No, not to foretell your future, although I’m sure she wished to. I was referring to her showing you one of her card tricks. She’s quite good with sleight-of-hand, but we’ve already seen all her best tricks a thousand times. It’s why she was so glad to see a new victim, as she calls anyone who has yet to watch her perform.”

Morgan withdrew her hand from his arm, pushing ahead of him through the doorway once the footman had opened the door for them. “Now you’re making fun of her. Your own mother. That’s despicable. I found her to be very nice…extremely interesting. People shouldn’t all be alike, or just what we expect. It’s our differences that make us so intriguing.”

Ethan relaxed, not realizing he’d been holding himself so tightly. She’d passed his impromptu test, more than passed it—she’d actually defended his mother to him. “Oddly enough, I believe you. Now, ask me your questions.”

“I have no—oh, all right.” Morgan stood in the courtyard and gave an all-encompassing sweep of her arm. “All…all this. Why?”

“Fair enough question, I suppose. Because my mother told my father that she’d always wanted to be swept up by a prince and taken to his castle. He wasn’t a prince, but he could build her a castle, so he did, although some might quarrel with the way it turned out—me, for one, because it’s wickedly drafty. I’ve set about correcting that, but the work is a slow process, I’m afraid. I’m drawing up plans for a second house on the estate, quite on the other side of the park. Brick, not stone, in case you might wonder. And there will be no moat. Tanner’s Roost will become the dowager’s residence.”

“Because your mother adores her castle.”

“Very much so, yes. Unfortunately, Tanner’s Roost also has become one of the many reasons anyone in London will be more than happy to tell you that the late Earl of Aylesford was a lunatic who eloped with a common piece who’d worked her dark magic on him. Right before they warn you away from the couple’s sure-to-be unstable progeny.”

Morgan thought about all of this for a moment, then said, “And you wanted me to know all of this. You brought me here especially to hear it, to see everything, to be introduced to your mother, and to have her tell me the story. You didn’t have to do that. You’re Chance’s friend. If he’s accepted you, nothing anyone else could say would mean anything to me. Besides, I make up my own mind.”

Ethan looked toward the pair of grooms leading Alejandro and Berengaria toward them, composing his thoughts. “Ah, yes, your brother. Chance. Would it bother you overmuch if I told you I’ve never met the gentleman, never had the pleasure?”

Morgan turned on him, her glorious gray eyes opened wide. “You lied?”

He grinned at her. God, she was gorgeous. Fiery. “Blatantly, yes.”

“But…but you said Upper Brook Street. I heard you. Only a few steps off Park Lane.”

“Your groom is quite gullible, and inordinately helpful. I’d slice out his tongue, were I you, if you have any secrets you don’t want told.”

Morgan shot a glance toward Jacob, a small smile beginning to play about her lips. She’d been fooled, tricked. Lied to. And she didn’t care. “I have considered that, from time to time.” Then she turned back to Ethan. “It isn’t just what people may think, what they might say. You really are reprehensible, aren’t you? You may even enjoy what must be your terrible reputation.”

“Oh, there’s no may about it, Morgan,” Ethan said, cupping his entwined hands so that she could use them as a mounting post as he all but threw her up onto the sidesaddle.

Morgan looked down at him from atop Berengaria, who had begun to dance in place, eager to be on her way once more. “Please be certain to behave yourself when you deliver me to my brother, Ethan, because I believe you and I could become very good friends over the coming weeks.”

He bowed to her in agreement, then swung gracefully onto Alejandro’s back. “There are many things in this world and out of it, Morgan, many questions to which I don’t know the answers. But there is one thing I do know, and that is this—you and I are destined to be very good friends. We’d both have it no other way, and I will greatly enjoy introducing your unique self to the ton. Shall we ride, take our first steps in shocking the good citizens of Mayfair?”

Morgan, being who she was, knowing who she was, didn’t bother to dissemble, and certainly did not even consider acting coy or missish. Odette hadn’t given her any suggestions on how to handle a dangerous man like Ethan Tanner, but Morgan had already made up her mind. She would be straightforward, would never back down, and she’d challenge him to be the same.

“You can’t wait to stand London on its ear, can you? But what makes you think I should be such a willing partner to what is most probably your ongoing assault on the ton?”

“You were about to ride into London, unescorted, straight into Mayfair. And, if I may be so bold—and I’m always bold—if I ever saw a young woman ripe for mischief, it’s you. I imagine there’s little you’d shy from, Miss Becket.”

“My father, as I understand it, has already sent my brother his condolences as he attempts to steer me through the Season, if that’s what you mean. But all I wanted to do was make clear, from the outset, that Chance might be my host for the Season, but he will not be my keeper. And it’s Morgan. I’m Morgan, remember? And you’re Ethan.”

“With each other, Morgan, yes, we are, but not in public. Then we would be wise to play by some of the rules, even as we bend or break many more of them. I will address you as Miss Becket, and you can simply call me Aylesford. Agreed?”

“So your mother isn’t the only one who enjoys playacting,” Morgan said. “Very well. I suppose I’ve played my own share of games.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you may have made a point to have your mother explain at least something of you to me, but I’m convinced she doesn’t know the half of it. Oh, and that, much as you may have hoped I might, I’m not returning the favor by confessing my own possible shortcomings, either in part or in whole. After all, Aylesford, I barely know you and, from what you have said, I have to think you at least slightly scandalous in your own right.”

“Only slightly?” Ethan’s full-throated laugh shooed several birds from the canopy of trees above them. Moments later, the two riders turned onto the main roadway once more, already a good fifty yards ahead of Jacob and the coach.

“Jacob will be having fits if we get much farther ahead of him,” Morgan said, looking back at the vehicle.

“Really? How very unfortunate for Jacob. It’s a straight run from here to Birling, and with little traffic to get in our way. Shall we?”

Morgan and Berengaria were a full three lengths ahead of Ethan and Alejandro before he’d finished speaking….




CHAPTER FIVE


“I, AS A GENTLEMAN, hesitate to point this out, but I believe you might be sulking, Morgan,” Ethan said as they rode side by side through the streets of London. The loud, crowded, definitely not perfumed streets of London.

He’d tried, not successfully, to convince her to return to the coach for this last short leg of their journey, to sit with the maid he’d stationed in the coach—amazing himself with his concern for her reputation—but when Morgan had refused, he’d decided that the best education often comes from lessons learned by one’s own experience.

He’d been amused by her obvious delight when they’d first approached London and she eagerly pointed out steeples and tall buildings she recognized from books in her father’s study. Her eyes had shone, and she’d been as excited as any child. But she’d grown more and more silent, withdrawn, as they’d moved into the metropolis.

“I’m fully aware that I’m sulking, thank you,” Morgan retorted, longing to lift a handkerchief to her nose, for the smell these last ten minutes or so had gone from annoying to faintly sickening, to perfectly vile.

She wasn’t eager to separate the odor into all its contributing smells, but she could tell that they were near the Thames, near the docks. And town docks were docks, here or in the islands.

All Morgan knew was their own small, isolated island, their safe paradise that, to her, was only a vague memory of sand, and heat, and clear, blue-green water. Of laughter, of freedom. And from the time they’d left the island, she’d never traveled more than five miles from Becket Hall.

This street, this place, was so alien to her. Had she been born into squalor like this? If her papa hadn’t bought her the very day she’d been born, and taken her to the island, would she still be living in a sorry, desperate place such as this? Would she even be alive now, to wonder?

For the first time, Morgan thought about her mother as anything more than the uncaring whore who had given her life. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to sell her child. Maybe she had seen the purchaser as the only way out for her daughter, the only chance she could give her.

What if her mother hadn’t sold her, had instead kept her? Would Morgan have fought, or would she eventually have made her own living on her back? How strong does a person have to be, to fight such poverty, such squalor, such hopelessness? How long does someone struggle before she gives up and simply lies down?

Morgan would like to think she would have been strong enough, even angry enough, to have found a way out. But she also knew she could never really know that, never know what choices that child would have made. If there even were choices for women in places like this.

Without knowing anything about her, Morgan knew she had judged her mother, and damned her. This new knowledge wasn’t easy to swallow.

“How can people live like this?” Morgan demanded of Ethan, as uncertainty was alien to her, and she much preferred the familiarity of anger, of attack. “And why would they want to? Crowded together, living in the midst of their own filth? And these houses? They’re all falling down. Surely they don’t choose to live this way.”

Ah, yes, he was an evil man. There were many ways to enter London, make their way to Mayfair, and when Morgan had declined riding inside the coach yet again, Ethan purposely had chosen one of the least palatable routes. She would be uncomfortable, but she would be safe. He was with her, after all, and his reputation rode with him, even in this god-awful section of the city.

Besides, although he knew himself to be reckless, he wasn’t so full of himself he thought he was above being attacked simply because his face and reputation were known here. There was also the trio of heavily armed outriders he’d brought along to make up their small procession. And Saul. And Bessie.

But Ethan had meant only to shock Morgan back into the coach with the smells, the dirt, the squalid surroundings. Instead, she seemed angry. Angry and profoundly sad. There were depths to this woman, something he hadn’t considered when he’d looked at, immediately desired, her.

In his own defense, he knew he had never looked very deeply at any of his women.

Ethan felt the sting of the mental slap that thought provoked: And you’re proud of that?

He’d try again, pretending he’d noticed Morgan’s distaste, but had failed to sense her distress. “Perhaps you’d like to reconsider riding in the coach? We’ve still some minutes to go before we reach Upper Brook Street, and I’m certain your brother would be happier to see you arrive…how should I say this? Oh, yes, I know. In the manner of a young lady.”

Morgan shot him a chilling glance, eager to be angry with someone other than herself. “I’ll say this for you, Ethan, you don’t give up easily. But neither do I. Could you have picked a worse route? Or do you really labor under the misconception that I don’t know what you’re trying to do?”

“I had thought of another street even worse than this one, then decided this was bad enough,” he said, grinning at her. “But, now that you’ve seen through my plan, let’s say we desert this area for a wider street. One where we won’t have to worry about the slops being flung out the upper storys of these fine establishments and down onto our heads.”

“Thank you,” Morgan said, maneuvering Berengaria past an overturned apple cart and the two angry men screaming at each other, blaming one another for the accident. She smiled as she saw that a growing number of young boys dressed in rags, their feet bare, were busily stuffing spilled apples into their ragged shirts, unnoticed by the arguing men.

Then she laughed as, moving very quickly, Ethan bent from his saddle and neatly scooped up one of the apples still balanced precariously on top of the pile in the cart. He rubbed it against his sleeve and then handed it to her. “Please accept this as a peace offering. I’m forgiven?”

Morgan felt a flush of delight lick through her as he bowed to her from Alejandro’s back. She didn’t believe in wasting this moment, or any moments of her life, by holding on to anger. A person said what she said, did what she did, and then the moment was over, and the next one was upon her. Fresh. New. Every moment was a new beginning. Morgan had made that promise to herself long ago.

“Yes, I suppose you’re forgiven. And I understand that you meant well, really. Just never do it again, all right? We’re supposed to have cried friends, as far as things go, at least. And, to tell you the truth, I’m glad I saw this. Everyone at Becket Hall seems to think the streets of London are littered with gold. Now I can tell them that at least a few of those streets are spread with substances not quite so grand.”

“You’d have to tell many who live in Mayfair the same thing, as they rarely venture outside their own insular area, where the gold may not litter the streets, but is definitely present in abundance. An acquaintance of mine once told me he’d gotten horribly lost in Piccadilly, after residing in Mayfair for fifteen years. Piccadilly, you understand, is only about five blocks from his residence. Are you sure you want a Season, Morgan? As I’ve already warned you, by and large, we’re a worthless lot.”

Morgan relaxed somewhat as the street they entered seemed more open, and definitely less odiferous. There were even a few trees gamely lining the flagway, although they were rather sad specimens. “You can’t all be useless. Look at Wellington, all our officers. And surely you’ve served?”

Ethan laughed. “Oh, surely not. As the only son, and with the knowledge that my completely unsuitable cousin would assume the title if I got myself killed, not to mention make my bereaved mother’s life a horror, I’ve kept myself safely on this side of the Channel.”

Morgan began to feel uneasy. “My brothers Spencer and Rian are all hot to go to the Peninsula, and will get there one of these days, I’m sure, when our father decides they’re not still too wet, and agrees to buy them commissions. Chance is involved at the War Office here in London. Courtland’s the oldest after Chance, and has all the responsibilities of the estate, but I know he’d otherwise be standing as close to Wellington as he could get, sword in hand. It’s only natural, only to be expected.”

Ethan shook his head. “So speaks the young and romantic. No, Morgan, not every man is anxious for the chance to sleep in cold mud, be bitten to near madness by fleas, and given the opportunity to either die in that mud or return home inconveniently missing one or more bodily parts. I have not served, I do not serve and I have no intention of serving. Feel free now to call me nasty names.”

What Ethan was saying was so very alien to anything Morgan had ever heard. They had come to England, and England was their country now. A person defended his country, even if it was only to keep his own family, his own home, safe. “You don’t care about England?”

Ethan shrugged, more than happy to pursue the conversation, and to witness her reaction. “I speak English, I speak French. My king is mad, his heir a spendthrift profligate—can Bonaparte be that much worse? I can always sail to America, as the title means little to me, anyway. The money, of course, is another matter. That would go with Maman and me. And perhaps my valet, as a gentleman shouldn’t stray too far from any fellow who knows his way around bootblack.”

Morgan looked at Ethan for long moments. Just looked at him. And then she grinned. “You liar! Is that the sort of thing you say to tip society over onto its ear? But do you really expect me to believe such nonsense? You’re English to your toes. What a bag of moonshine!”

Ethan was quite impressed. And only a little uneasy that she seemed to so quickly and easily see what so many others did not. “A liar, Morgan? Society believes me, why shouldn’t you?”

Because I grew up amid a family that has had to live by its wits, and its lies. “Like recognizes like, I suppose,” was all she said, all she’d admit this early in the game. Not that anyone outside the family would ever know more than the Beckets chose to tell. “So many turns, so many huge buildings—and so much cleaner. Are we getting closer?”

Knowing he’d been figuratively slapped down, and feeling more intrigued than ever, Ethan brought himself back to his surroundings. “Look straight ahead, Morgan. We’re nearly at the park. We’ll arrive in Upper Brook Street momentarily. To which end, I suggest you attempt to brush some of that travel dust from your skirts.”

Morgan looked down at her riding habit. “It’s only dirt,” she said, not concerned in the least, and quickly redirected her attention to the vast expanse of greenery that had sprung up so unexpectedly in front of her, as if ripped from the countryside by some giant hand and then carefully placed in the middle of London. “I’ve read about this. It’s Hyde Park, isn’t it? Where everyone goes to see and be seen?”

“At the fashionable hour of five in the afternoon, yes. We, however, are somewhat tardy, it having gone at least seven by now. Luckily, there’s not too many of the ton out and about, and you might even make it to your brother’s door without setting off a small scandal.”

“That shouldn’t please you,” Morgan reminded him.

He would have to tread carefully here. What had begun as a lark, and a definite interest in bedding this beauty, had, somewhere between coercing her into traveling to Tanner’s Roost with him, and arriving in London, become eminently more important to him.

“Truth to tell, Morgan, I’ve had second thoughts. I don’t think you should be so eager to shock society. After all, you might enjoy the Season. You could be a Sensation, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know that,” Morgan answered without conceit, and Ethan bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from laughing. “But it isn’t as if I was going to go very far in society anyway, so that won’t happen. We’re mere commoners, you understand, and I won’t have to bother with the rules of Almacks and the like, or the queen’s drawing room. And it’s not as if I’m here under orders to capture myself a husband.”

“Really?”

Morgan busied herself brushing at the velvet of her jacket. Why did she keep talking to this man, babbling like some ridiculous twit? Why couldn’t she feel comfortable with him, as she did with Jacob? Even superior to him, as she did with Jacob, with any man who’d ever come into her orbit?

She was aware of Ethan Tanner, and that, she’d been discovering these past few hours, was something totally alien to her. She’d never considered trying to impress any man. Her looks had always done that for her, with little or no effort on her part.

And she couldn’t seem to shock him, which was highly disconcerting, because she liked her admirers feeling off balance, and herself in command. She’d try again.

“Oh, all right, Ethan. They may not have said anything, but I know they want me married off. Quickly. Before I do something horrible, such as deciding to set myself up independently, so that someone isn’t always saying ‘Morgan, you shouldn’t,’ and ‘Morgan, ladies don’t do that,’ and ‘Morgan, for God’s sake, behave.’”

She raised her head, grinned at him. After all, since she couldn’t seem to stifle herself, better to tell him truths that would keep him from searching for other truths she could never share. “I’m quite a handful, and they want me to be someone else’s handful, I think, preferably before the poor bugger figures out that his life will never be in his own charge again.”

“Poor bugger, is it? I don’t even know this eventual poor bugger, but I already feel sorry for him.”

“And it’s not that they don’t love me, because they do,” Morgan hastened to add, rolling her eyes at his last statement. “And I understand. Really. I’m not an…an easy person. Why, much as I believe you’d be rather formidable, I’m reasonably certain I could have you as much under my thumb as poor Jacob in, oh, less than a fortnight. And that’s after forewarning you!”

Ethan heard the words, the jovial warning—that he saw as a challenge—but felt fairly sure that he also heard some hurt Morgan tried to hide with her smile, her casual shrug as she admitted she wasn’t an “easy person.” He certainly did believe her to be a complicated person.

The question that had been nagging at him these past few hours, however, had been did he need another complication in his already complicated life? Morgan Becket was an unexpected delight, unlike any woman he’d ever met. Open, a little too honest, and with a native intelligence that was often missing in other females, or else carefully hidden, because debutantes, God forbid, would never wish to appear smarter than the men they were out to trap.

But Morgan, he suspected, could prove to be his torment if he let her, if he indulged himself in her luscious body, her active mind. Could he afford to find himself thinking of her as more than a titillating diversion, an added confusion to anyone who might look at him and suspect him of being anything more than he’d carefully taught them to believe?

Was nothing simple in these trying times? Not even bedding this incredible beauty he felt sure he could quickly convince to become a willing partner, no matter that she’d all but challenged him to believe he could tame her?

As their horses slowly walked along the cobbled street beside the park, as if even their mounts were reluctant to put an end to this fairly intimate interlude in the midst of the metropolis, Ethan said, “Perhaps we should part ways once I’ve safely delivered you to your brother’s door.”

Morgan turned startled eyes on him, shocked to think she could win so easily. Was having him go away winning? She didn’t think so.

“Why? What did I say? I thought we were going to be friends, enjoy London together.” Then her gaze dropped, and all she felt was disappointment to learn that Ethan wasn’t the man she’d begun to believe he was. “It’s because I told you that we Beckets aren’t very important, isn’t it? You say you don’t care what anyone thinks of you, that you even go out of your way to be outrageous, but when it comes straight down to it, you’re still the earl, and you still want to be accepted by…by your peers.”

“Not accepted, Morgan. Tolerated is all I’ve ever aspired to over the years. I’m more surprised than I can tell you, but it’s your reputation I’m thinking of now. And now we turn onto Upper Brook Street and your brother’s residence, which may be all that will save my life, considering the way you’re staring daggers at me.”

She did long to slap his face. “My reputation? So how had you planned for our association to play out, Aylesford, before this attack of conscience, or perhaps vanity? Or, because of what I’ve told you, are you simply afraid Chance will see me as compromised and demand you marry me, see your title as a real coup for his sister?”

“So many questions. Depending on my answers, I would have to be a hardened seducer, a socially conscious twit or a bloody coward. Why not all three?”

Belatedly, Morgan realized that, while she had been testing him, he had been testing her. And, damn his eyes, she was fairly certain she had been bested in their contest to see which of them was the worst, the most unsuitable—or which of the two of them was to be in charge of their association.

Well, he might have put her down, but she was far from out, and was more than ready to begin again. “Why not, indeed. All three. Since that’s what you want me to believe.”

“Added to all the things you want me to believe about you,” Ethan told her as he motioned for her to turn toward the flagway. He quickly dismounted, and took Berengaria’s reins in one hand as he stood on the cobblestones, looking up at Morgan.

Yet again, Ethan understood, she’d seen through him, judged him correctly.

And she knew. She knew, just as he knew. They’d been going round and round since the first moment they’d looked at each other. And all to no effect. They could never be friends. They would have to be so much more than friends, or nothing at all.

“You’ve warned me away. I’ve warned you away. And now we’re here, at your brother’s door. What next, Morgan? We can’t keep on fencing like this, or we’ll exhaust each other. So, does it end here? Do you believe we should end here? We’ve both certainly given each other enough reasons to have it end here, whatever in hell it is we seem to have begun between us.”

Morgan fought back the urge to run her gloved fingers through Ethan’s dark blond hair. She’d known, from the first moment she’d seen him. And he’d known, as well. She wasn’t congratulating herself, being prideful in thinking that. He’d also known, from that first moment.

Dangerous Ethan. Dangerous Morgan.

Like recognizes like.

She wet her lips, spoke carefully. “Together, we could be very dangerous, to society, to each other. Mostly to each other. Couldn’t we, Ethan?”

He put a hand on hers as Alejandro gracefully stepped to his right, bumping up against his master, pushing him closer to Morgan.

“Damn horse,” Ethan said mildly, near enough now to see the deeper gray rings around Morgan’s pale gray irises. “I swear, he’s worse than my mother.”

She relaxed, only then realizing how frightened she’d been that this man, this so very different, so very intriguing man, had almost walked out of her life as quickly as he’d walked into it. Giving in, just this once, couldn’t be called total defeat.

She leaned down, her face within scant inches of his, and whispered, “You won’t leave now. Will you? Please.”

“I was only fooling myself if I thought I could. No, I’m not going anywhere, unless we go to hell together.” Ethan’s attention was now fixed on her full, slightly smiling mouth. “If I were to kiss you right now, could you promise Saul won’t loose Bessie on me?”

Something inside Morgan relaxed. Lose a battle, win a war. “I can’t promise that, my lord Aylesford. I suppose you’ll simply have to decide if the kiss would be worth taking that chance.”

Ethan’s slow, knowing smile served to curl her toes inside her riding boots. He cupped his hand around the back of her neck and gently pulled her closer. “Oh, that decision was made long ago, on the road to Tanner’s Roost. By both of us. Bessie, do your worst….”

Morgan allowed her eyelids to flutter closed as she waited for the touch of Ethan’s mouth against hers. Not her first kiss, but she knew this one would be different. She didn’t know how it would be different…but she was eager to learn.

“Experiencing some difficulty in dismounting, Morgan? That isn’t like you.”

At the sound of Chance’s deadly calm voice, Morgan sat up straight on Berengaria once more, sparing a quick smile and shrug of her shoulders for Ethan before saying, “Peeking out from behind curtains now, Chance? That isn’t like you. Or is that, Lord forbid, what marriage does to people?”

“Hush, Morgan,” Ethan warned her quietly. “Your brother’s attempting to pretend he doesn’t have grounds to call me out. Be grateful, even if you can’t be gracious.”

“Call you out? Don’t be ridiculous. We Beckets aren’t that civilized. He’d just knock you down, right here in the street. Several times.”

“Don’t sound so delighted, imp,” Ethan said, then left her still atop Berengaria, and mounted the flagway, his right hand outstretched, the most recent shock in a day littered with them carefully hidden behind a genially smiling face.

How could he have known, even though Morgan had told him that her brother worked at the War Office? The War Office was immense. And yet, at this moment, the world seemed dangerously small.

Amazingly, either Chance Becket didn’t recognize him, or he was as accomplished at concealing his emotions as was Ethan himself.

“Mr. Becket, please allow an explanation if you will. Your sister and I came upon each other out on the road, and I offered my services in escorting her into London once I ascertained that she had planned to abandon her coach and insist upon riding into the city. Ah, and I am Ethan Tanner, Earl of Aylesford, and I extend my sympathies, sir, as your sister would appear to be a rare handful with a mind very much her own.”

Chance Becket accepted Ethan’s hand, squeezed his around it with more force than a gentleman would consider necessary, and held on, drew Ethan closer.

Ethan considered returning that pressure, but what point would it serve? He had been caught out, about to kiss the man’s sister. Besides, if either of them physically pressed the matter, the situation could vault above the uncomfortable and into recklessness that would serve neither.

“Aylesford, is it? Your reputation precedes you, my lord,” Chance said flatly, looking over at his sister. “I’m now attempting to understand what I’ve done to make God so anxious to punish me. It would please me if you were to tell me that you have now completed your gentlemanly duty and are eager to be shed of my troublesome sister, to whom you may not have taken an instant dislike, perhaps, but to whom I suggest you would be wise to feel a very definite indifference.”

Ethan kept his expression neutral as Chance Becket released his grip, although he inwardly damned the poor reputation he’d so carefully built these last years, if only because Chance Becket obviously was aware of it. Of that, and probably of much more. “You’re warning me away, Becket?”

“Let’s be polite, Aylesford, but not that polite. I’m ordering you away,” Chance countered. “I owe you my thanks and a drink, I believe, and then you will oblige me by forgetting you ever met my sister.”

He looked past Ethan again. “Morgan, get yourself down here, now. No one is present who doesn’t know you’re more than capable of dismounting on your own.”

Ethan watched as Morgan lifted her leg over the pommel and slid gracefully to the cobblestones. She brushed off her gown, stripped off her gloves and advanced on her brother with a bright smile on her incredibly gorgeous face.

“Don’t frown so, Chance. I come bearing gifts.” Reaching into the pocket of the riding habit, she then held out her hand to her brother. “Apple?”

The imp! Was she afraid of anything? Ethan stepped beside Chance, knowing when to take his opportunities. “My advice, friend? Don’t take it. That little Eve has already landed us both in enough trouble. Our only hope now is to join forces.”

Chance looked at Ethan, one eyebrow raised in question, before he sighed, nodded and gave in to the inevitable. “As long as you know…”

“Oh, I know. So does she. And now you do, as well. It’s going to be a very interesting Season with Miss Morgan Becket as one of its debutantes.”

Morgan pushed the apple, hard, into her brother’s stomach. “Soon you’ll be hugging, and drooling all over each other’s shoe tops. Enough of the both of you. I’m going to see Julia and Alice.”

Both men watched her go before Ethan said, “Now, having been duly warned and threatened, how about we all step inside in case there are other curtain-twitchers about, and discuss how I am going to procure your sister’s voucher to Almacks, hmm? Because, no matter what you do or say, even a brother can’t be so blind about that magnificent creature. Steel yourself, Becket. I am not going away.”




CHAPTER SIX


AFTER RATHER HASTY introductions, Morgan was whisked off upstairs by her sister-in-law, Julia—a polite, minor beauty who nonetheless looked more than prepared to drag Morgan out of the room by her ear if she didn’t have the good sense to go willingly.

Leaving Ethan alone with Chance Becket in the tastefully appointed drawing room. “Julia’s taking her up to the nursery, to see our daughter, Alice. And probably to ask a dozen questions about you. I don’t think you have to worry about me, Aylesford, half as much as you have to worry about my very astute wife. If she decides you’re a rotter, you won’t get within fifty yards of Morgan again.”

“Thank you for the warning.”

Ethan had been given only a few moments to visually inspect the man he’d judged to be two or three years his junior, and had come up with no familial resemblance between Chance and Morgan Becket. Absolutely none.

Chance was blond, like his wife, like Ethan himself. Tanned, but obviously fair-skinned, a well set up gentleman who seemed more than capable of knocking Ethan down. At least once.

Both Chance and Morgan were tall. Other than that, they appeared to be as “related” to each other as chalk was to cheese.

But Ethan did recognize the man, remember him. Just as Chance had recognized and obviously remembered him. Now to discover if this would make things easier for Ethan, or even more complicated. He’d much rather have Chance Becket as an ally, although if the man knew precisely what Ethan planned for his sister, Ethan felt certain he would already be a dead man, and Becket wouldn’t bother about the consequences.

Strong-willed people, these Beckets of Romney Marsh. Perhaps it was something in the air there, at the back of beyond.

“Thank you,” Ethan said, accepting the wineglass Chance offered. “I’ll speak honestly here, Becket.”

“Is that so, Aylesford? You know how to do that?”

Ethan answered without rancor and, in fact, with some humor. “I’m making an exception here, Becket, and being quite unusually jovial and forthcoming. But don’t push, and neither will I. I failed to make any connection between you and your sister, as we’ve never been formally introduced. My mistake entirely. Not that you and your father can be held blameless as, while Saul and his Bessie are both quite formidable, the young man she calls Jacob is so thoroughly enamored of, and cowed by, your sister that he’s of no worth at all.”

Chance gave up his slightly threatening stance, since it didn’t seem to have any affect on the earl in any case. “I’ve been worried about that from the moment I received my father’s latest letter informing me that Jacob would be accompanying her. Jacob’s a good enough lad, but that’s rather like putting the pigeon in charge of the fox.”

“You do seem to know your sister very well. I’d like to add that, had I realized your relationship to her, I would have made other arrangements to get her back into her coach and safely to Upper Brook Street, and gone on my way. Looking back, I would say those ‘arrangements’ would have been to bind and gag her before tying the coach doors closed.”

Ethan took a sip from his glass. “I repeat, I would like to say that. But that last little bit would be a lie, and we both know it. Your sister is the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever met. And she seems to see straight through me, which is as unique as it is unfortunate. I’ll need to keep her close these next weeks.”

“Or I need to truss her up as you suggested, and send her back to Becket Hall,” Chance said, sitting down in the facing chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “But she’d only run away, find her way back here, as Morgan always most wants to be where she shouldn’t be, so I might as well not dream of such an easy solution. But what do you mean, she sees straight through you? I don’t know what’s going on. She can’t possibly know what’s going on.”

“And she doesn’t. But while the rest of London believes me to be fairly worthless and more than a little base, your sister’s reaction to my well-rehearsed patter was to grin and call me a liar. She then added that like recognizes like, or some such thing. That shocked me. Is there something else I should know, other than the fact that your sister would make a far better ally than an enemy?”

“You mean, other than that I’d hang parts of you from every lamppost in London if I thought you’d touched her, and damn the minister if he thinks you’re indispensable. Or so he said when he warned me to silence about your presence in the War Office that night.”

Ethan smiled. “He called me indispensable? Well, now I am flattered.”

“Don’t be. The last man the minister termed indispensable was sent off on a sure suicide mission three months ago. He came back to us last week, packed in pickle juice. I may not have to worry overlong about you and my sister.”

“Really. I can see you and I are going to have an interesting relationship these next weeks. And we won’t mention the minister again after this conversation, will we?”

Chance sighed, pushed his fingers through his long hair, which was tied at his nape. “Then this conversation is over. I can’t say what I don’t know. It was late, supposedly everyone was gone, and you were stepping out of his office as I was stepping in. We weren’t introduced, but still I was told—in no uncertain terms—to forget I’d seen you. That’s all I know on that subject.”

“And it’s more than enough, I think we’ll agree,” Ethan said, lifting his wineglass in a small salute. “Suffice it to say the gentleman and myself are involved in a small…project.”

“Yes, I’d worked that out for myself, thank you. And now that I’ve got the name to go with the face, and know the reputation that is common knowledge throughout Mayfair, I can keep myself up nights, wondering what the devil the gentleman is up to this time, or I can pace the floors worrying about what you think you might be up to with my sister. Either way, I see little sleep in my future.”

Ethan smiled, liking this honest, forthright man very much. And it was time to leave the subject of the minister, and Ethan’s connection to him. “You and Morgan had different mothers? I don’t mean to be overly curious, but she has a rather exotic look about her that, frankly, you lack. Spanish, I’d say.”

Chance gazed at Ethan for long moments, during which neither one blinked.

“She could be. Our father adopted most of us. All of us, actually, save our sister Cassandra, who is the daughter of Ainsley Becket and his deceased wife. We can trace our lineage to our own parents, some of us, but that’s as far as any of us can go. You’re the twelfth earl, aren’t you? Steeped in family and tradition?”

One corner of Ethan’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Obviously your knowledge of me, although most probably damning, is also limited, Becket. When it comes to matters of bloodlines, the only ones that interest me are those of my horseflesh. So I was right? Spanish?”

“Does it matter?

Ethan shook his head. “No. Not at all. What matters is that Morgan seems to believe she won’t be welcomed too deeply into society. She could be right, you know, which begs the question as to why she’s here. She told me it’s to marry her off, turn her into someone else’s problem.”

Chance sat back in his chair, blinked. “She said that?” He began rubbing the back of his neck. “She couldn’t mean it. Morgan knows we would never…And she wanted to come. I think she wanted to come. Seasons are for women. Gowns, balls, all of it. I really wasn’t paying attention. Damn. Maybe I should at least offer to send her back to Becket Hall.”

It suited Ethan to keep Becket talking. “You’re merely thinking out loud, I’m sure, and aren’t seriously considering chasing the girl home to the wilds of wherever it is you all live, to marry some stammering country lad she’d be forced to murder in a week, if only to break the boredom. And where is Becket Hall, again? Romney Marsh, I believe she told me?”

“The far end of the earth. Another few hundred feet, and we’d be floating in the Channel,” Chance said, still with his mind on other things. “No, she has to stay here. There’s no future for her at Becket Hall, no future there for any of the girls. We all agreed.”

“You all agreed? This is so utterly fascinating,” Ethan said, and meant it. “Tell me, just how large is a clutch of Beckets?”

“Hmm? Oh, I’m sorry. Woolgathering. How many of us are there? Eight, actually, and our father, Ainsley. Four girls—Eleanor, Morgan, Fanny and Cassandra. Four boys—Courtland, Rian, Spencer and myself.”




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/keysi-maykls/the-dangerous-debutante/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.