A Reckless Beauty

After breakfasting in her chamber, something she did at Becket Hall only if she was ill or, when younger, when being punished for something or other and temporarily not allowed to “associate with reasonable human beings,” she made her way downstairs, leaving her pack and uniform behind her, for Wiggins had promised he’d have the pack sent round to Lady Lucille’s later in the day. She’d miss those trousers.

She’d only just entered the small drawing room, wondering when the Ogre would make an appearance and toss her off to his sister, when the Earl, in the act of passing by the entrance, saw her. Stopped. Walked into the room.

She narrowed her eyes, daring him to say anything cutting.

He was dressed in buckskins and a dark blue superfine jacket, and still held a small riding crop in his right hand. He smelled vaguely of horse and tobacco and sunlight, and she knew he’d been out and about, delivering Rian to Wellington’s headquarters.

“My lord,” she said, dropping into a very abbreviated curtsey. “Rian is now situated with—”

“Hush,” he said, using the riding crop to tilt up her chin as he examined her, head-to-toe. He walked slowly around her, and she was rather forced to turn with him until he allowed the riding crop to slide from her chin to her modestly revealed shoulder, skim across her back, and finally come to rest against the base of her throat before he, now standing in front of her once more, removed it. “I was afraid of this,” he said at last. “The hair remains an issue, naturally, but you’re quite attractive in that gown, Miss Becket.”

Would he stop looking at her that way! The way, she realized, her cheeks flushing, she was looking at him!

“And…and that’s made you unhappy, my lord?” she asked, unable to tear her gaze from his.

“Uncomfortable, Miss Becket,” he said, abruptly turning away from her to pick up a folded newspaper that someone had placed on the table between the couches. Reading whatever ridiculousness the French newspapers were spouting now was much preferable to looking into those exotic green eyes. “There’s a difference. How old are you?”

Fanny felt herself bristling. But he’d been nice to Rian, and he still hadn’t said anything about sending her back to England, so she bit down her anger. “Twenty, my lord.”

Then she lifted her chin, the chin she’d swiped at the moment he’d taken away the riding crop. She had needed the feel of him gone. It had been bad enough, looking into his tired, hazel eyes, and when she’d transferred her gaze to his full mouth that had been…well, that had been worse, although she wasn’t sure why. She merely knew that the Earl of Brede bothered her. More than a bit.

“Twenty? My, my,” Brede said, dropping the newspaper back onto the tabletop as he looked at her again. “Quite ancient.”

“Not nearly as ancient as you, my lord,” she said, tiring of this dance he seemed to be doing around her.

“True, Miss Becket. I’m two and thirty, and many mornings feel twice that. This morning, alas, being one of them. Tell me, what did you use to hack at that lovely blond hair? A dull sickle?”

“Frances will fix it.”

Brede frowned. “I beg your pardon? Frances?”

“Your sister’s maid, or whoever she meant. Lady Whalley mentioned her by name last night. Weren’t you listening?”

“I make it a practice to never listen to Lucille,” Brede said, smiling at last. “Let that be my advice to you, my dear. You’ll thank me for it. Never listen to Lucille. She’ll only depress you.”

“Really? Oh, my stars!” Fanny exclaimed, her hands to her breast, and then laughed.

And Brede laughed with her.

Which, as it happened, left Wiggins quite nonplussed as he stood at the entrance to the drawing room, clearly unaccustomed to seeing his employer in such a good humor. “Um…my lord?” he asked, as if unsure of the smiling man’s identity.

“Wiggins, yes,” Brede said, collecting himself. “You’re here to say the carriage is waiting, aren’t you? But Miss Becket has voiced a desire to see more of the city, so we’ll walk to Lady Whalley’s instead.”

Fanny looked at him quizzically. What on earth was the man about now?

“Um…certainly, sir.”

“Ah, my wishes meet with your approval, Wiggins. How reassuring.” Brede extended his arm to Fanny, who hesitated only a moment before slipping her arm through his elbow. “We won’t mention your sad lack of a bonnet, Miss Becket.”

“We just did, my lord Brede,” she pointed out cheekily as Wiggins raced ahead to open the door leading down to the flagway. “Oh, what a beautiful day. Look at these grand old buildings. And all the flowers, all the different colors. Everywhere! It’s difficult to believe danger could be so close, isn’t it?”

“So very close, yes,” Brede agreed, looking down at her as she lifted her face to the sun. Smudged, grubby, she had been interesting, different, almost exotic. But the miracle of soap and water seemed to, for the moment, rival that of the loaves and little fishes, for she was now radiant. Young, eager, so very alive. Fearless. And dangerous.

He must be exhausted from too many months spent watching Napoleon’s maneuvers around France. He must be old. He must be too long without a woman.

He must be mad.

He must see Fanny Becket smile again. And again. And again…

Fanny was uncomfortably aware of the Earl’s closeness to her as they made their way down the flagway crowded with ladies in fine gowns and bonnets, parasols held high over their heads, near hordes of soldiers clad in several different sorts of colorful uniforms, solemn-faced gentlemen walking and talking and gesturing without regard to anyone else on the flagway.

“I’ve never seen a city this large, my lord,” she said, if only to break the strained silence between them.

“You’ve never been to London?”

“No. I’ve been to Dover. Just the one time. The largest house I’ve seen is Becket Hall, which is considerable, but I believe that building just over there, across the square, could make three Becket Halls, with room left over for Becket Village. I’m a bumpkin, aren’t I?”

“I’ll do my best to forgive you if you promise not to admit to such a terrible sin when we’re in company,” Brede said, patting her hand as it lay on his forearm. “Jack’s signature included the address of Romney Marsh. You’ll pardon me my ignorance, but I thought only sheep lived there. And smugglers enjoying the proximity of Calais across the narrow Channel, of course. I imagine your family enjoys French brandy from time to time.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Fanny said quickly. “My father and our family are involved in other pursuits. And Jack now, too, since he married my sister Elly and came to live with us. Have you known Jack for very long? We’re all extremely fond of him. And Elly dotes on him, of course.”

Brede thought he sensed something almost nervous in Fanny’s voice, as if that lighthearted tone was somehow deliberate. Which was ridiculous, as she was young and innocent, and couldn’t possibly have anything to hide…other than that atrocious hair, and he was actually beginning to get used to even that. The sun seemed to turn the light, white-gold strands into spun silk. Or spun sugar.

And he was becoming fanciful again.

They were only a few doors from his sister’s rented residence now, and Brede knew chances for private conversation with Fanny would be few and far between once Lucille had her teeth in the poor girl. In addition, he’d just received another assignment from Wellington that would take him out of the city until late tomorrow night at the very least.

“Fanny,” he said, pulling her over to stand in front of one of the buildings.

“My lord?” she answered, noticing for the first time that he, among all the men on the street, was not wearing a hat. He’d done that for her, she was sure of it; if she had no bonnet, he would wear no hat. She’d thank him, but then he’d probably just say something cutting and sarcastic and make her regret thanking him and long only to box his ears.

“I’ve written to Jack, explaining that I don’t have the time or the wherewithal at the moment to find a way to send you home to your family. Nobody knows where Bonaparte will strike, or when.”

“But you said you thought Quatre Bras or Ligny,” Fanny reminded him, and then mentally kicked herself, because she probably should not let him know how closely she listened to him.

“He could, I agree. He could also retreat after showing himself, only so that we likewise show him our strength or, at the moment, with no sign of Blücher’s forces as yet, our lack of it. He could head west and north, hoping to come at Brussels that way.”

“He won’t go east, because that’s where the Russians and Austrians are advancing against him,” Fanny said, as she and Rian had spoken long into the night last night, and Rian had even drawn a small map for her on paper he’d found in the Earl’s miniscule study. Then, remembering how much she wanted to remain in Brussels, near Rian, she quickly added, “But he could go west, as you said, skirt around us. No, I certainly can’t be riding toward Ostend, can I?”

Brede allowed one side of his mouth to rise in a small smile. “I’m not sending you home, Fanny. Not until this is either over or more manageable than it is now, the situation more stable. You were protected enough, in the eyes of society, with Rian in my house with you last night, but now that he’s gone, you’ll stay with my sister. I think that’s penance enough for chasing your brother across the Channel.”

“My sister Morgan says London society ladies are a breed apart. I didn’t know what she meant, until I encountered Lady Whalley,” Fanny said, smiling. “But please don’t worry, I’ll manage. Morgan, however, would probably have tied your sister’s tongue in a knot at the third ‘Oh, my stars’!”

“Your family becomes more and more interesting. I think I’ll enjoy escorting you back to them.”

Fanny kept her smile in place, even as her stomach did a small flip. The Earl of Brede, at Becket Hall? A man who seemed to see everything, spending time with her family? Clearly, when the time came, she needed to disappear, again. He might follow her; he seemed that obstinate. But at least she’d have time to prepare her family, in case Jack just thought of the man as a friend. “How very…delightful, my lord.”

“Valentine,” Brede said, watching Fanny’s tip-tilted green eyes as shadows seemed to come and go in them. “I have, after all, seen you in trousers.”