Kasey Michaels - The Dangerous Debutante

“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.