Page 6 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)

Morgan spent the long night exploring the idiom “not sleeping a wink” while perching on twelve inches of bed to avoid brushing Steadman.

She eventually cried surrender and crept carefully onto the floor for a period of fitful sleep.

At some point, Steadman’s loud mumble yanked her into wide-eyed wakefulness.

He spoke again, a slur of dream-induced words.

Although indecipherable, the tone was unmistakable.

Ache. She sat up with the indistinct urge to wake him, to offer comfort.

Then the reality of her situation careened toward her and drove her into the ditch.

She was alone in a bedroom with perhaps the most attractive man in all of England and he saw in her only an unseasoned boy.

To stave off crying, she rose quietly, retrieved her now-dry coat, and slipped into the hallway.

She leaned her forehead against the wall.

“This cannot succeed.” Her whisper was offered to no one.

After a brief banishment in the land of self-pity, she wandered downstairs.

Clinking metal sounding from the kitchen indicated that breakfast preparations were under way.

The sun would soon rise. She stepped through the back door, found the community water pump across the road, and washed up as best she could.

Demons of agonized thought plagued her as she returned toward the shared room.

How had Steadman not already seen through her ridiculous charade?

Was it just further evidence of her father’s critique? That she was barely a woman?

Morgan lingered outside the door of the room, afraid of what she might find inside. After a mental war featuring several stunning defeats, she knocked.

“Yes?”

“May I come in, sir?”

Silence reigned for the space of three heartbeats.

“Morgan?”

“Yes.”

The door flew open to reveal Steadman. Much to her relief, he had managed to don his buckskin breeches, tight as they were. Black hair curling from the neckline of his loose undershirt captured her attention until he grunted.

“Why the devil would you ask to enter your own room?”

“I…” she stumbled. “I did not wish to walk in on you if you were… if you were…”

One of his eyebrows rose above its partner. “In a state of undress?”

“Uh. Yes.”

He rolled his eyes and finished tucking the long shirt into his breeches. She tried not to notice but mostly failed. He shook a finger at her. “You are an odd one, Mr. Brady.”

If you only knew. She captured her chaotic thoughts and remembered that a man would likely return insult for insult. “I am the odd one, says the dandy highwayman.”

“Former highwayman.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Not yet.” He waved her inside. “You appear ready to go, as per your befuddling plan when we retired to bed. Get your baggage, then. Let us be off.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stood watch over her as she packed. Just then, a horrifying thought trampled her uneasy calm. What if Steadman had searched her bag and seen the dress? What if he knew the truth and simply wished to torture her? Her hands began to tremble as she rolled the bedding.

“Did you sleep well?”

She glanced up at his question. “Well enough.”

“You don’t look as if you slept at all. In fact, you look terrible.”

She began to reach for her hair to put it in place but stayed her hand. A man would not react that way. She stood with the wrapped bedroll in hand while dredging up another insult.

“I seek only to emulate you. Clearly, you have not yet found a mirror this morning.”

Steadman frowned briefly before letting loose a laugh. “I like you. Not afraid to give as good as you get. A superior quality in a man.”

Morgan tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile while admitting that she liked him as well.

Steadman was not at all what she had expected.

She had anticipated a hardened man barely capable of humor, let alone accepting of ridicule.

Instead, he possessed an intriguing depth she wished to explore further—at her peril.

Those who traveled to such dangerous realms rarely returned alive and whole.

“Thank you,” she said. “I wish nothing more than to become a man of fine qualities.”

“Then pay no attention to me. I do not wish to corrupt the young. Now, let’s break the fast before pressing onward.”

Having survived the overnight stay, Morgan’s appetite returned. Steadman was right. The Red Monkey was a treasure in disguise, if for nothing else than the delicious fare it served. She savored the meal while willing her little finger to not stray from the fork handle.

The sun had barely cleared the horizon when they mounted up and left the inn behind.

At the edge of the hamlet, she spied four young women entering Hook with baskets on hips, likely from a nearby farm.

When her and Steadman’s horses approached the knot of young women, Morgan watched with fascinated disgust as four sets of highly interested eyes tracked Steadman’s progress.

He seemed not to notice his audience, instead staring ahead with the hint of a smile and a raised chin.

After passing them, however, he swept off his hat, twisted in his saddle, and executed a bow.

“Ladies,” he drawled, before returning upright and replacing the hat. His admirers erupted into giggles and closed ranks to whisper furiously.

Morgan rolled her eyes at Steadman. “Your popularity with the ladies appears to be more than just a myth.”

He shrugged. “It is my curse. All women find me charming.”

“All women? Have you met all women? Or just every woman in England?”

He raised an eyebrow at Morgan. “Do you mock me?”

“Of course not. You are quite above mockery. I am merely exploring the extent of your claim.” Bubbling mischief drove her onward. “And as I am a young fellow without experience, your powers of charm intrigue me. How did you develop such skill?”

“Aha.” He wagged his finger at her. “Finally, an intelligent question after so long a string of disappointments. But you see, my charm is not so much a skill as a natural gift. I have possessed the ability to charm the ladies since childhood.”

“You must have been a very naughty child.”

Steadman snorted in that way that was becoming familiar. “Of course not. My childhood charms earned me extra pudding and pats on the head, nothing more.”

“I see.” She shot him a mock frown. “Then I have no hope of developing such divine skill?”

“Oh, no, young sir. I recognize in you a latent talent, a buried seed that requires only proper instruction to flower. Instruction from, say, a master charmer.”

“Like you?”

“If you insist.”

Morgan coughed to cover a harrumph. “Well, then, Mr. Beau Monde Highwayman, I insist. Instruct me in the mystical ways of charming the fairer sex.”

“Very well, but only as you insist.” Steadman inspected the clouds in thought before nodding. “Charm, Mr. Brady, is a simple three-step process. Avoidance, recognition, and invitation.”

“Avoidance, recognition…”

“And invitation, yes. First, you must avoid eye contact to draw the young lady’s attention and must continue the evasion until she has nearly given up hope.”

“So, you start by acting like a jackass?” When Steadman frowned, she waved a hand. “But never mind. Proceed with your instruction.”

Steadman pushed his hat back on his head. “Right. When the avoidance has produced sufficient tension, you must engage her eyes directly, produce a smile of such warmth that the sun might blush, and offer heartfelt greetings.”

Morgan nodded while willing her eyes not to roll up in her head. “I see. So, you startle the poor woman with a display of teeth and then bray at her. Again, something a jackass might do. No offense to jackasses.”

Steadman shook his head. “You seem skeptical, young buck.”

“Oh, no, sir. Please, continue illuminating me. I cannot adequately express my fascination with your brilliant process.”

“Humph,” he said. “As you wish. Where were we? Oh, yes. Once you have greeted the young woman, you must offer invitation by brandishing the most devastating of weapons— the look.”

Morgan cocked her head with disbelief. Was he joking? “Might I ask, what is the look?”

Steadman chuckled and winked at her. She found the gesture unnerving. “The piece de resistance,” he said. “The frosting on the cake. The summit of the mount.”

“And this works on all women?” She failed to prevent sarcasm from creeping into her reply. “Every single woman, past, present, and future?”

He frowned again in thought. “Well, not all. My adopted daughter rolls her eyes whenever she catches me casting the look, much as you are doing now.”

Morgan stopped rolling her eyes. His mention of an adopted daughter ignited her intrigue, which she filed away for later probing. “Very well, then. However, if I am to believe your claim, then I must witness this look.”

“No.” He shook his head adamantly. “It doesn’t work on men. Most of them, anyway. You would just ridicule me.”

“No, sir. I insist. I must see the look if I am to learn.”

“Really, I don’t…”

“Not afraid of a little ridicule, are you? Are we not men after all?”

He rolled his head around his shoulders and sighed. “Very well. But do not say I did not caution you.”