Ethan: Lord of Scandals

“Who has a drinking companion?” Nick asked. He stood at the kitchen counter, a towel around his waist as an improvised apron. “If there’s any drinking going on, I’d like to be informed. Joshua, stop kicking the drawer and find us three clean spoons. Jeremiah, we’ll need some mugs of cold milk to sustain us.”

Ethan quirked an eyebrow at his brother. “Perhaps we, who have been mucking around the stables, ought to wash our hands, hmm?”

Nick’s expression was arrested. “Good idea. Boys, wash up, and then step lively. Uncle Nick is hungry for muffins.”

Ethan scanned the counter, where ingredients were lined up in recipe order. “You’re not going to drown the apples in cinnamon, are you?”

To the ears of any governess, the question was laden with challenge from one boy to another.

Nick propped his fists on his hips. “You blaspheme on the Lord’s day, Ethan Grey. I do not drown my apples in spices, but I am not stingy with cinnamon or cloves.”

“So you completely overpower the equally worthy, less pungent flavors,” Ethan scoffed. “As usual.”

“You could do better?” Nick glowered at him, the boys watching the exchange with round eyes.

“I always have.” Ethan’s smile appeared exactly designed to goad a younger brother.

“You’re on.” Nick slapped his towel against the counter. “Alice and the boys will judge, and may the best muffin win.”

“Muffin him silly, Papa,” Joshua said.

“Make yours double enormous, Uncle Nick,” Jeremiah joined in.

“Joshua Grey!” Nick turned to his smallest nephew in mock offense. “How can I name you one of my seconds if you’re rooting for the other team?”

“I can root for Papa and be your second. Miss Alice can be Papa’s second.”

“Alice?” Ethan crossed his arms over his chest. “This is a matter of honor, and my sons are turncoats. That leaves me you or the pantry mouser.”

Alice plucked the towel from Nick’s hands. “I’m your man, Mr. Grey.” She gently whapped the towel across Nick’s chest, while the boys hooted and shrieked with glee.

When she was left alone in the kitchen an hour later, and the boys had dragged the men out to the garden, Alice did not immediately start to clean up. Instead, she sat down with a cup of hot tea and enjoyed the silence. If anyone had told her two weeks ago she’d be participating in a duel-by-muffin between two grown men, she would have laughed.

And this afternoon, with Ethan, his brother, and his sons, she had laughed. That set her to thinking about the recipe that was her life—too much caution and observation, not enough participation or spice.

She was thinking so hard she didn’t hear the door open or the footsteps behind her. A pair of lips settled on her cheek, and her first instinct was to melt into the kiss, except…

“Nicholas, behave yourself for once.”

“I was thanking you.” Nick smiled at her and slid onto the bench across the table from her. “You looked so serious and pretty sitting there, staring at your teacup as if it held the answer to all life’s mysteries.”

“I’m English. A good cup of tea does hold the answer to many of life’s mysteries. That doesn’t excuse your kissing me, Nicholas, and I’ll thank you to keep your lips to yourself in future.”

“Or what? You’ll paddle my backside?”

“As if you’d mind.”

“Did I truly offend?” Nick asked, his smile fading. “If I did, I do apologize.”

“You nearly did, except I know you are harmless. You left Ethan outside with the boys?”

“I did.” Nick rose. “I am off to fetch some paper and pencils from the library. Ethan suggested we sketch designs for a tree house. When will the muffins be ready?”

Alice rose, because dishes had never once in the history of kitchens washed themselves. “The muffins won’t be ready until Wednesday next. Shoo, or I’ll issue another edict.”

Nick scampered out of the kitchen, his hands playfully covering his behind, so Alice had to snap a towel at him for good measure. She turned around, intent on piling dishes in the sink, only to find Ethan lounging against the hallway door, observing her with a slight smile.

“Forgive my brother his airs. The title weighs on him heavily.”

Alice took down an apron from a peg. “I think it does, too. Bring me some hot water, please, and I’ll get these soaking.” He brought her the kettle from the hob, and leaned in to kiss her jaw as he did.

Alice smiled, closed her eyes, and forgot entirely about the dishes. “You’re as bad as your brother.”

“That scamp did not offer to help with the dishes.”

“He did not. If you and Nick are in the house, who is with the boys?”

“They popped down to the paddocks to stuff carrots into the shoats named Lightning and Thunder.” Ethan refilled the kettle, and the reservoir in the stove for good measure. He tidied up as Alice rinsed things off and added them to the collection soaking in the big kitchen sink.

“Ethan Grey, did you just finish my tea?”

“There was only one cold swallow left.” Ethan brought her the empty mug. “Shall I make you another?”

“So you can pilfer from that too? I think not. What are you… Oh, Ethan.”

He’d come up behind her and linked his hands around her waist to pull her back against his chest. She kept her hands in the water, closed her eyes, and enjoyed the simple, warm proximity of him.

Ethan’s voice rumbled at her ear, as she felt his lips graze her jaw. “I told myself I would not pester you, but you look so desperately pesterable, with the apron around your waist and your mouth all pinched up like that.”

“And my hands sopping wet and not a towel within reach. I used to think you weren’t anything like Nick, you know?”

“How could you think such a thing?” Ethan murmured, and dear Jesus, was that his tongue tracing her ear? “We are both tall, blond, blue-eyed, and of an age. We have features alike, and we both make excellent muffins, though mine are better.”

“Turn loose of me.” Alice wiggled a little against him, but not to get away. “Somebody could come along, and this isn’t how you preserve anybody’s reputation, Ethan Grey.” He stepped back, slowly.

“You are a woman of considerable resolve, Alice Portman. Right now, I do admire you for it, but I cannot like it.”

“I’m crushed.” Alice fluttered her lashes dramatically. “Go find your sons and collect your brother before I’m interrupted again by some errant pair of lips. And do not think of peeking into that oven, Mr. Grey, or you’ll forfeit the contest.”

“That wasn’t one of the rules.”

“And neither was it good sportsmanship to try to cozen a judge.” Alice gave him her best The-Governess-Is- Not-Happy glare. “The other team is guilty of the same, so I will not assess a penalty.”

“I will take my leave.” Ethan executed an elaborate bow. “If you see my opponent, tell him I’m at the stables, corrupting his seconds.”

“Out!”

Eleven

Horses needed the occasional drink, especially in warmer weather. At least the coachy looked apologetic when he insisted Hart Collins pause on his journey between house parties.

Boring, staid, excruciatingly proper house parties held by those whose social aspirations meant a title—any title at all—would find welcome in their midst.

“Very well.” Hart Collins stood beside the coach and surveyed the unprepossessing village green. “But if I sicken from drinking the dog piss that passes for ale in such surrounds, be it on your head, John Coachman.”

“Aye, milord.”

The coachy would have a nip too, of course. The man drove better drunk than sober, something Collins did not hold against him—a drunk being less inclined to carp about timely payment of his wages.