Kasey Michaels - The Dangerous Debutante

“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….

“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 But she’d grown more and more silent, withdrawn, as they’d moved into the metropolis.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.”