The Dangerous Debutante. Kasey Michaels

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