Free Forever Your Earl by Eva Leigh Page B

performance from a moment ago—­“it’s the diametric opposite to the way women are taught to walk. We’re told to take up as little space as possible. Not attract attention to ourselves. Not claim anything as our own.”
    He started. None of this had ever occurred to him. He’d always suspected that women walked differently from men because of biology, but never from truly learned behavior, lessons that included how females were perceived or thought of themselves in the world.
    â€œBut you,” she continued. “It’s like everything is yours. You can claim it all, and no one will gainsay you. The way you hold your shoulders back.” She tapped him on one shoulder. “Like you’re afraid of nothing. You don’t need to fade away or slide between spaces. Same with the way your legs eat up the ground. There’s no fear. Not to mention,” she added with a sly smile, “the presence of those bollocks you’re so enamored of. That changes the mechanics of your walk. But they’re your passport, aren’t they? Your privilege simply hanging between your legs.”
    His laugh was short, and strained. Here he’d taken her into this alley to give her some simple instruction on the way to walk like a man, and suddenly he’d been given an entirely new insight into what it meant to be a man. What it meant to be a woman.
    He’d thought he’d be the one in power here, but with only a few sentences, she’d stripped him entirely of that power. He felt oddly defenseless, even though she was right. Outside of this alley, he was always in control, given the benefit of his gender, his class.
    It wasn’t entirely a comfortable sensation, to be seen with such incisiveness. As though he had nothing to hide behind. Not his name, his wealth. He was only himself.
    â€œThat’s a considerable amount to keep in mind when one is simply perambulating,” he said instead of voicing these thoughts.
    She grinned. “I could be entirely wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time I fabricated motivations.”
    â€œSuch a ringing endorsement for the credibility of your paper.”
    Her smile widened. Definitely not a man’s smile. Too much prettiness. Too much . . . allure. “Never there, of course.”
    He waved toward the passageway. “Try again. If you think you can manage to put one foot in front of the other whilst plotting supremacy of the globe.”
    â€œI’ll endeavor to do my best.” She walked to one end of the alley and back again. “Well?”
    â€œYou move like your bollocks weigh two stone. They don’t swing like a leaden pendulum.”
    â€œShow me again,” she said, “and this time I’ll pay particular attention to your genitals.”
    He narrowed his eyes. They’d spent too long in the narrow confines of the alley, too near each other. And the prospect of dangerous possibilities. “Lesson’s over. Time to test your skills in the world.”

 
    Chapter 4
    The ancient term “The Battle of the Sexes” has existed for millennia for good reason. For what else can we term the constant skirmishes, sorties, and clashes that transpire on a daily basis between men and women? Indeed, with such continual strife, it’s a wonder that the population continues to grow . . .
    The Hawk’s Eye , May 4, 1816
    B ond Street at dusk blazed with beautiful things and lamplight, throwing gold onto the streets and the passersby. The pedestrians walking along the pavement were as gorgeous and unattainable as the elegant objects in the stores. They lived and breathed a kind of life ­people like Eleanor could only dream—­or write—­about.
    The ­people collected here, like the lovely articles in the shop windows, were all her favorite subjects of scandal.
    She could barely keep the excitement to herself. She murmured to Ashford, “There’s