Page 7 of Barely a Woman
“Then you should wear a better fit. You look as if the suit fell on you from the now-naked body of a much larger man. Perhaps we can devote a modicum of effort to improving your fashion.”
The prospect of a better fitting suit mortified Morgan. How would she hide her too-ample curves then? “And just who are you to improve my fashion? Beau Brummell?”
“Brummell,” he sneered. “That pretender? Brummell took his advice from me until he fled to France in disgrace. Now, I must settle for advising a hapless youth. Just how old are you anyway?”
She bit her lip. “How old do you think I am?”
He shifted in his saddle to scrutinize her, a hand draped over his muscled, buckskin-clad thigh, his kerseymere coat snapping in the breeze. “Fifteen, I think, as evidenced by your smooth cheeks and reedy voice. However, you must be older given that the magistrate employs you. Seventeen?”
Morgan had prepared for just such a question. She could not very well admit to six-and-twenty. “Eighteen.”
“And still not shaving? A pity. But not to worry. With luck, you will be one of the fortunate few who escapes the daily need to drag a blade across his face.”
She could not help but notice the shadowed stubble of his jaw that threatened to burst forth at any moment. She shook her head again. “Does it hurt that much? Shaving?”
“At first. But one adapts through unavoidable repetition. Much like with everything else in life.” He glanced at her again, his eyes appraising too closely. She looked away, certain he had seen the truth. “So, you are a man of letters, then, working as you do for the chief clerk?”
“Yes. Brilliant detective work determining that.”
“As usual. And which school did you attend?”
Morgan cringed, feeling suddenly the subject of Steadman’s investigative prowess. “None. My father was a vicar. He taught me what he deemed necessary, and I discovered the rest with guidance from Reverend Merrill.”
“And yet you did not follow in your father’s footsteps?”
She huffed a breath. “No. He was not a man I wish to follow. I was a great disappointment to him, anyway.”
She saw him nod from the corner of her vision. “Very good. We have that in common.”
She peeked at him side eyed. “You dislike your father?”
“You do not know the half of it, boy. And I pray you never do.”
***
The intermittent rain failed to dampen Steadman’s spirits, and he knew why. Every mile carried him nearer to the culmination of a fifteen-year journey, after which he might breathe freely again at last. No less a cause, though, was the thoroughly unexpected companionship of Mr. Brady on the road. Though he actively tried to dislike the lad, he could not. His candid demeanor, lack of pretense, willingness to bite back when bitten—these qualities drew Steadman into depths of conversation he had not plumbed in a long while. Not since Lucy had found her own path, anyway. With surprise, he realized how much he had missed such comradery. And though his pleasant face was that of a boy’s in appearance, Morgan spoke with the sad wisdom of one much older, like a fey creature both blessed and cursed by eternal youth. An odd combination, indeed. After a lull in the conversation during the late afternoon, he noticed Morgan grimacing in his saddle.
“Not accustomed to such long rides, I assume?”
Morgan flushed with embarrassment. “No. But fortunately, I lost all sensation in my legs hours ago. Can you tell me, are they still attached?”
Steadman glanced at Morgan’s mud-colored pantaloons. “I cannot rightly say. It seems you’ve the legs of a bird, though. Is that how you began the day?”
The young man’s cheeks became a deeper shade of crimson. “And you’ve all the tact of a wounded badger.”
“True. But about those bird legs.”
Morgan cocked an eyebrow at him. “Did you know an ostrich can kill a lion with a kick? Or a man if he particularly deserves it?”
“Is that a threat?”
“No, sir. Just a statement of fact. I will be sure to use smaller words and shorter sentences if ever I threaten you.”
“How magnanimous of you. But did you know that ostrich is a delicacy, especially when tenderized by nine hours in a saddle.”
Morgan grunted. “I suppose that’s a threat?”
“I never threaten. A waste of time. Why warn your adversary with a threat when you can simply strike them down unexpectedly?”
