She’d started out all light and dismissive, amused even, but by the time she’d finished, her voice had risen an octave and her face was red. Well, Jason thought, she was an uncontrolled female, what was one to expect? Where he was calm, his reason sound, she was a stubborn uncontrolled twit. He actually flicked a bit of lint off his coat sleeve. “You can’t see yourself from the back, Miss Carrick, whereas I can see every curve-your backside in particular is finely outlined, and your long legs, nicely shaped they are. Trust me on this. Every man who manages only the slightest glimpse of your shadow will be positively delighted. He will immediately see his hands cupping your bottom.” Actually, he was seeing himself doing that, and he would swear his hands tingled.

She shook her head at him. “I looked at the back of myself in my mirror. My britches are loose. There’s no hugging, no outlining. You’re being ridiculous. Now, good morning to you, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

He spaced his words out for maximum effect. “If you try to leave the house dressed like that, I will carry you back upstairs, and change you into a gown myself.” He shuddered then. “Do you realize what you look like from the front?” He shuddered again.

“I look just like you do, like all men do. There’s nothing at all diff-”

“Would you like me to press yourself against me, Miss Carrick, so you can feel the difference between us? Would you like to simply look at me at this very moment to see the differences?”

He stepped from behind the table and walked toward her. “Look, Miss Carrick.”

She looked. “Oh dear.” Then she brought shocked, excited eyes back up to his face and took a step back. “So this is what happens to you when you look at the front of me?”

“Or the back of you or, I fancy, the side of you, perhaps even from fifty feet.”

He stopped not an inch from her, took her upper arms in his big hands and shook her. “You’re my bloody partner and you’re a nitwit.”

She jerked away from him.

He should simply haul her upstairs, strip off her clothes, burn all the breeches she’d had sewn up for herself without his knowledge. No, it wasn’t possible. Well, it was-Angela would probably be on his side-but no. Better to try a different tack. Shame, that was it. He drew in a deep breath.

“Attend me, Hallie”-he saw her ease immediately at the use of her first name-“the men working here will tell their wives and their friends how the mistress of Lyon ’s Gate prances around dressed like a man. The wives will be horrified, they won’t want their husbands working for us. As for the men who remain, they will sneer at you, they will be insolent, they will look at you every chance they get and trade jests with each other about your endowments and very probably your lack of character. Is that what you want?”

“The wages we’re paying are far too good for any of the men to quit. Also, I can deal with any insolent man in the world.”

He nodded. “Possibly you can. But here is the truth of the matter, Hallie. Your reputation will suffer irreparable damage-” He slowed, his voice deepened. “As well as mine. I will be known as the flagrantly debauched earl’s son who openly lives with a woman who is nothing more than his lightskirt. And every man and woman in the district will believe I’m rubbing their noses in my open philandering. It will redound upon my parents and on my twin and Corrie. Do you begin to understand the consequences of your britches?”

Hallie grew very still. She’d simply not considered this. “Your parents?”

“Oh yes. As for Angela, she’ll be snubbed. She will be regarded not as a respectable chaperone, but a procurer, no better than a madam who owns a brothel in London.”

“Surely not. That makes no sense. I simply want to take care of my horses, nothing more than that. It’s so much easier in britches. I could fall and break my neck wearing a wretched gown, you know it. All know it.”

“I understand your plight, but it can’t be helped. It is the way of the world. Given our very irregular living arrangements, neither of us nor our families can afford any more questionable actions. Britches are beyond questionable. Do you believe me now?”

Hallie folded; she looked ready to burst into tears. “The three shirts have beautiful stitching and the britches-they’re the finest knit. Oh goodness, and would you look at the boots? You can see your face in them.” She raised eyes now sheened with tears. She looked kicked and broken. “Three outfits, Jason, two pair of boots. They cost me a lot of money to have everything made. It isn’t fair, you know it isn’t.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. Everything looks quite fine, and I say that as a man, not a fashion judge.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Does seeing me in these britches really drive you mad with lust?”

Jason laughed, not about to remind her that she saw proof of his lust. “Perhaps there is a bit of lust mixed with the outrage. Does that make you happy?”

She searched his face for a long moment. “You truly feel that I will ruin all of us if I step outside wearing britches?”

“When you saw Petrie this morning, what did he do?”

“He’s not the one to ask about, Jason. He quite detests women.” She grinned. “Actually, he closed his eyes tight, clutched his heart, and looked ready to swoon.”

Jason could also imagine Petrie’s eyes rolling back in his head. She was fortunate Petrie hadn’t forgotten himself and blasted her. “Let me ask you another question. When I first met you at Lyon ’s Gate you were wearing dirty old boy’s clothing. Did my aunt Mary Rose or my uncle Tysen see you?”

Her eyes fell to her shiny boots. She’d used her own recipe, one she’d experimented with endlessly to get just right. She’d wanted to look perfect.

“I didn’t think so. What did you do, change in the woods before you came here?”

“Perhaps behind a lovely maple tree.” She looked up and smiled. “Then I was riding like you ride, firm in the saddle and not hanging on for dear life in those idiot sidesaddles, and I rode like the wind. It was wonderful.”

Jason paused. It was true, everything she’d said. “Jessie Wyndham always claimed sidesaddles were the invention of the devil.”

“She always wears britches.”

“Jessie isn’t really Jessie unless she is wearing britches and racing, she’s done it all her life. People are used to it. They don’t expect anything else. I’m sorry, Hallie. Perhaps when we are alone-”

There was a shriek from the doorway.

“Goodness gracious, burn a feather beneath my nostrils!” Angela slapped her palms over her chest. “My dearest girl, I’ve never before seen a young lady’s, er, after parts in such great detail.”

CHAPTER 19

Angela finally stopped patting her lace-covered chest. “Oh dear, Hallie. It’s not that you don’t look delightful in those exquisite pants-I daresay the gentlemen will surely think so as well, as will those males who aren’t gentlemen at all. And that doesn’t include all the men at Lyon ’s Gate with the exception of dear Jason here, and I saw that even he was looking at-well, now, never mind that. I’m sorry, dearest, but the men’s britches aren’t possible. However, I have an idea. It’s been done before, at least I’ve heard that it has. Go change into an old gown, and I will see what I can do. Yes, dear, you must. Trust me.”

Jason, whose eyes were firmly fixed on Angela’s face, and not on Hallie’s britches, said, “Wouldn’t you like some breakfast before you go off to see what you can do?”

“Oh yes, dear boy. That would be quite nice. Do have my Glenda bring a tray up to my room. Jason, I am very fond of the furniture arrangement. It is so cozy, I feel like I’ve lived in those rooms for a good twenty years.” And she glided out on her fairy feet, humming.

“Whatever is on her mind,” Jason said, “I fancy it is going to be something very clever. Pick your lower lip off the floor, Hallie. Have faith.”