Читать книгу The Dangerous Debutante - Kasey Michaels, Кейси Майклс, Kasey Michaels - Страница 9

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.”