Ethan: Lord of Scandals

had to tolerate this closeness. She had a pleasing shape, a pleasing scent, and soft, silky hair. He could feel the slow heave of her breathing against his chest.

The confluence of protectiveness and desire was disorienting. This was how one ought to feel about a wife perhaps, or so Ethan had once thought.

With an effort of will and the feel of Alice’s soft curves burning into his memory, Ethan decided it was a good thing for a man in his prime to feel desire. It was in accordance with the plan of God and Nature, and no reason to be alarmed. Were he honest, he’d admit that not feeling desire for the past few years had been more alarming.

He could desire Alice Portman. This had to do not just with her steady brown eyes, well-disguised curves, and pleasant, tart scent, but also with her breathing spells and bad hip and nightmares.

He bent his head toward her, inhaled the fragrance of flowers and lemons, and idly—in a purely theoretical way—wondered if she could desire him.

* * *

“Are you gentlemen trying to spook my horse?” Ethan inquired as both boys happened to pause for breath in the same moment.

“He dragged me off!” Jeremiah shouted, a note of hysteria in his voice. “He should have let go, and he bloody wouldn’t, and he made me fall off, the sodding little bugger.”

“You didn’t hold on!” Joshua shot back, hands fisting. “You had the mane, and I didn’t, you should have caught me, and you let me slide right off all the way down. You’re a sodding little pismire.”

Ethan lip’s twitched, to hear the word fired off with such vehemence. He gestured to Miller, who nodded and came to stand beside Ethan, then trotted off in search of more tack when he’d gotten his instructions.

“Gentlemen.” Ethan kept his voice quiet. “If you would kindly shut the hell up for one moment, I will tender my apologies.”

Joshua cocked his head. “Huh?”

“Papa is going to apologize,” Jeremiah said. “I think.”

“He is,” Ethan said, “for not warning you Argus sometimes kicks out when schooling piaffe in hand, and for putting you on double. Has no one taught you how to fall off?”

The boys exchanged glances when Miller appeared with a long lead line.

“No, sir,” Jeremiah said. “I thought one didn’t want to fall.”

“Sometimes one does,” Ethan countered. “For example, if Argus bolted with me and was heading for a low branch or a cliff, I might want to part company with him. Or if by chance I should become unseated and a fall is inevitable, then one wants to fall as safely as possible. I will demonstrate.”

“You’re going to fall off Argus?” Joshua goggled. “On purpose?”

“I am, but perhaps my waistcoat need not participate.” He shrugged out of it, removed the surcingle from around the horse’s belly, passed the saddle to Miller, grabbed a hank of mane, and swung up.

“How’d he do that?” Joshua asked Jeremiah. “Argus is tall, and Papa didn’t use a mounting block or stirrups or anything.”

Miller stood in the center of the arena, the horse circling him on the long lead, while Ethan got his seat at the trot bareback.

“All right, you lot.” Ethan kept his eyes front, settling into the rhythm of the trot. “Spook him.”

Miller nodded at the boys. “You heard your papa. Spook that big golden devil, and unseat your papa.”

“How?” Jeremiah asked as Joshua bolted past him.

“Pismire pony!” Joshua bellowed, waving his arms and charging right at the horse. Argus, true to his delicate sensibilities, shied mightily, giving Ethan the pretext he needed to slide gracefully over the horse’s shoulder. Argus came to an immediate halt, allowing Ethan to swing back on.

“Again.” Ethan nodded at Miller. “And put some effort into it, gentlemen. Argus will go to sleep otherwise, and so shall I.”

It took a few more tries before Jeremiah got into the spirit of the game, but Argus got into it too, spooking horrifically, only to stand stock still as soon as Ethan had decamped. Ethan demonstrated both an emergency dismount, which ideally left the rider on his feet, and the less graceful variations thereon.

Ethan beat at the dust on his once-pristine shirt. “I think we can commend Argus on a job well done and turn our attention to your ponies.” The boys turned to see grooms holding both ponies, and neither pony sporting a saddle.

“Up you go.” Ethan hoisted Joshua onto his pony, then Jeremiah.

“I don’t want to do this,” Jeremiah said, staring sullenly at his pony’s mane. Ethan considered his older son and those few brave words.

“C’mon, Jeremiah,” Joshua said. “We’ll get dirty, and we can scream like girls.”

“He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to,” Ethan said. “My intention was to have you practice only at the halt, and if you felt up to it, at the walk.”

“It’s stupid,” Jeremiah declared, defiant eyes raised to his father’s. “Why would you fall off on purpose if falling off is how you get hurt?”

“Am I hurt?” Ethan asked, holding his son’s gaze.

“No,” Jeremiah admitted. “But if Argus stepped on your head or your guts, you could be dead.”

Death. Again.

Ethan wanted to shake the boy but kept his voice calm. “Do you think I would do anything to intentionally put you in harm’s way?”

Jeremiah mumbled something then looked away.

“I beg your pardon?” Ethan’s patience was strained, but Miller had led Joshua out of earshot and was letting the boy get used to a bareback ride.

“You hired Mr. Harold,” Jeremiah said. “He was harmful. Langstrom wasn’t much better.”

“Mr. Harold caned Joshua. I know that, but it—”

“More than once,” Jeremiah interrupted. “He caned him lots, and he made me watch, and he would make Joshua try to do things that were too hard just so he could cane him. He called us names and said we were the shame of the neighborhood.”

“Ye gods…” Ethan’s physical balance wavered, as if he’d sustained a roundhouse punch or had too much cheap liquor. “What else did he say?”

“A lot of things.” Jeremiah sighed. “Mean things. I didn’t understand all of them. He called Joshua a slutterswipe…”

“Guttersnipe,” Ethan supplied, hauling back hard on his temper—for at whom ought he to be most angry but himself?

“Here’s my difficulty,” Ethan said. “I am sorry you ever had to deal with Mr. Harold. I wish I could thrash him silly. Bloody damned silly, in fact, and don’t you tattle regarding my language, Jeremiah Grey. But Harold isn’t here, and I want you to be safe when you’re riding. Knowing how to fall is part of being safe. I didn’t keep you safe from Mr. Harold, and I hate that, but I want desperately to keep you safe from a bad fall.”

“I’ll stop riding,” Jeremiah decided, giving his pony’s neck a wistful pat.

Ethan’s heart began to beat in a slow, hard rhythm in his chest. “You love to ride, and you’re very good at it. And then Joshua would have no one to ride with except me, and I’ll wager I am not half the fun you are.”

Jeremiah eyed his brother. “He gallops everywhere. You’re better at swearing.”

Ethan waited, heart thumping almost painfully, because the mysterious juvenile cogs in his son’s brain were clearly still turning.

“I fell before,” Jeremiah said. “It hurt, but Lightning didn’t do it on purpose. There was a rabbit.”

“Pesky beasts, rabbits. Always darting out and looking so cute while they do.” Ethan’s heart beat so hard he could feel it working… like a rabbit’s.

“Tell me,” Jeremiah said, fiddling with his reins, “if I were going to practice falling, how would I practice it?”

“Carefully,” Ethan said, his heart slowing a little, “and with people around who mean you only the best. You do it slowly, Jeremiah, in stages you can understand, and if you need to take a break, you insist on a break. If you were going to, that is.”