A Difficult Disguise by Kasey Michaels Page A

head.
    She felt stupid—that’s how she felt. Stupid and childish, dressed up like some youthful urchin, itching in places she didn’t know she had, and willing to give up her only hope of heaven for an hour-long soak in a hot tub. Lord, but she had grown heartily sick of breeches.
    She also felt guilty. Guilty for deliberately deceiving Fletcher as to her true identity, and guilty because she wasn’t such a simpleton that she hadn’t, in the past few uncomfortable hours, figured out that Fletcher believed himself attracted to her and was most probably, even at this moment, damning himself as perverse. For all her slight build, which allowed her to pass for a young lad, she had, after all, passed her eighteenth birthday and could lay claim to some wits. No wonder Beatrice had fled into the arms of the portly James Smith!
    Well, it was time and enough to set things right. She had set out to get to know Fletcher, not drive him to distraction. Billy sat up, crossing her legs, determined to make a clean breast of things and have done with this farce. She’d feel much better once the truth emerged into the open. Besides, maybe then they could return to Lakeview, where there was bound to be a tub.
    “Mr. Belden, I—I—” she began hastily, then faltered.
    “Yes?” Fletcher lifted his head, the dimple in his right cheek flashing as he smiled. “What’s the matter? And please don’t tell me you were wondering how to ask me if you might disappear into the trees again to relieve yourself. I never saw such modesty. You may as well be a woman, Billy, for all your missish ways.”
    Billy’s jaw dropped in astonishment, all thought of confession evaporating in her brain at the wretched mistiming of Fletcher’s verbal jab. How could the odious man say such embarrassing things, talking down to her as if she were some knock-in-the-cradle baby? How could she possibly say anything after that lowering remark?
    “No,” she blurted at last, glad it had grown dark enough to hide her red cheeks. “That wasn’t at all what I had intended to ask,” she added, shaking her head. “I just thought we could talk, that’s all.”
    “Talk,” Fletcher repeated, astonished once more by Billy’s modesty. He couldn’t wait to return to Lakeview and be shed of the boy—and his traitorous thoughts. But maybe Billy had the right idea. Talking would help pass the hours, for one thing, and give Fletcher less time to consider his feelings. “Very well. What would you like to talk about?”
    Billy began slowly shaking his head, as if the action would jolt loose some inspiration. “Um... um... I don’t know. London? Yes, that’s good—we could talk about London. I’ve never been, you know.”
    “You haven’t?” Fletcher asked blandly. “I would never have known, what with all the air of sophistication and town bronze you have about you.” He withdrew a thin cheroot from his pocket and leaned forward to light it in the flames, not knowing how close he was to disaster, as Billy was once more harboring an urge to murder him. “And what would you like to know about London?”
    Wasn’t it enough that she had given him a general topic? Did she now need to be specific? Had the man no imagination of his own? London. It was a simple subject—a worldly man such as he should be able to prose on about it for hours with no prodding from her. Did she have to think of everything?
    “I don’t know,” she said. “Beau Brummell,” she all but shouted, suddenly inspired. “Yes, I should like to hear all about Beau Brummell.”
    Fletcher flopped over onto his back, smiling at Billy’s innocent curiosity. Poor Beau. He had been doomed to evermore be the center of attention, even of small boys from the Lake District. After thinking silently for a few moments more, Fletcher quoted, “ ‘Oh ye! who so lately were blythesome and gay, at the butterfly’s banquet carousing away; your feats and your revels of pleasure are fled, for the soul of