Forever Your Earl (12 page)

“I do believe you're trying to besmirch my rakish reputation,” Daniel muttered.

“I wasn't aware you wanted to protect it,” she answered innocently.

“Only from the calumny of journalists.” He stopped to grab two goblets of wine from a passing server. After he took a drink, he said, “I'm still in debate as to whether or not having you accompany me is a mistake.”

She smiled at him over the rim of her glass. “The best things in life often start out as mistakes.”

“Have you made many of them?”

“No,” she replied.

“Then how do you know whether or not good things come from mistakes?”

“I don't.” She shrugged. “But it
sounded
good, didn't it?”

He chuckled, then realized he was doing it again. God, when was the last time he'd laughed so much? Certainly not at all, since Jonathan's vanishing.

“How did you learn to play so many games of chance?” he asked after taking another drink.

“I came up with writers, actors, artists. All of them loved to gamble. By the time I was eight, I could beat a veteran gamester. My mother, too, knew her way around a card table.” Her expression darkened slightly.

He'd believed he was the one with secrets, but it turned out that Miss Hawke had plenty of her own. And he wanted to learn more about them.

“What—­” he began.

“I thought I was the reporter,” she said, cutting him off. “And here you're asking me all the questions. Let's get back to the action.” She drained her glass and set it on a nearby table. Daniel had no choice but to follow suit.

They played at more games, with her energy never flagging. It had to be exhausting, pretending to be a different gender—­yet she kept up the ruse, retaining all the lessons he'd taught her earlier. She jested with the other players, or else accepted their jibes with jocund grace.

There were no windows inside the main gaming hall, but given the number of blokes nodding off or passed out in the corners, it had to be morning. Daniel checked his pocket watch. Nearly six thirty. Where had the time gone? He had barely been aware of the hours passing.

It was Miss Hawke. She'd kept him consistently entertained and engaged throughout the night. Even when accompanying Marwood, he'd never enjoyed an evening at Donnegan's as much.

Was he so used to the endless nights of debauchery that his evenings had grown dull, or was she so extraordinary? He suspected the latter.

“Closing time, gentlemen,” announced one of the dealers. Burly blokes began herding the crowd toward the door.

Ahead of this exodus, Daniel led Miss Hawke down the front hallway. They stepped out into the morning, both of them squinting in the light. Her borrowed suit was rumpled, and her thin mustache drooped as its adhesive loosened. Best to get her into the carriage before anyone took too close a look at her and realized the truth.

His coach pulled up moments before the rest of the crowd tumbled out of the gaming hell. Miss Hawke and her curved arse climbed into the carriage, and Daniel threw a wary glance over his shoulder. Hopefully, he was the only man who noticed her heart-­shaped posterior beneath her trousers. Fortunate that most of the men exiting the club were either nearly asleep, drunk, or both.

Daniel clambered in, and the footman closed the door behind him.

“I'll have my coachman drop you at your lodgings,” he said.

Yawning, she shook her head. “Can't have a ‘man' entering my rooms. I'll need to return to the theater and change from Mr. Sinclair to Miss Hawke.”

He, for one, would be glad to see her in a dress again. “The Imperial Theater,” he called up to his driver.

In an instant, they were off, trundling down the streets as London began its morning routine.

“The day's just starting for them,” Miss Hawke murmured, glancing out the window at the passing vendors, housemaids, and shopkeepers, all on their way to their labors. “Off to work.” She shot him a sly look. “Suppose that's something you haven't much experience with.”

Though she only teased, it stung. “I consult with my man of business, write letters to my estate managers. And yes, I do sit in parliamentary sessions. I might not be a navvy, digging trenches, but I do what I can.” Even he could hear the defensiveness in his tone.

“You're right,” she conceded. “We've each different roles to play in this world. I can't take you to task for doing exactly what you're supposed to.” She pressed a hand to her chest and looked pious. “For example, I am tasked with providing moral guidance to my readers.”

He smiled at her self-­deprecation. “And did you get enough examples tonight of depravity to serve as object lesson to those readers?”

She cast her eyes heavenward. “Such depravity. It fair made my heart shrivel and my soul blanch to behold it.”

“Was it as bad as that?” He stretched out his legs, and the side of his knee brushed against her lower thigh. A flash of heat traveled up his limbs. Whatever tiredness he might have been feeling vanished in an instant.

“Quite, quite bad,” she said, grinning. “A bloke next to me lost a prized racehorse on one turn of the cards. Doubt his father will be much pleased with him.”

Daniel shook his head. “The lad was an idiot, staking such an excellent beast on a hand that was clearly rotten. But then, brains aren't always guaranteed with a title.”

“Does that include you, Ashford?” she quizzed.

“Well, it was me that approached you for these articles,” he noted, “so clearly I don't possess much for a mental gearbox.”

“Or maybe that was the smartest thing you've ever done.”

It certainly was dangerous, especially if she ever learned his true motive. But he couldn't regret his choice. Not yet, at any rate. Though he'd have to tread lightly with her, for many reasons.

“That decision has yet to be tested,” he said.

She smirked. “Guess you'll have to read tomorrow's edition.”

“So soon?”

“Of course. Can't sit on this story for too long. Though,” she added after yawning again, “I might need to drink a few cups of strong tea before I attempt to tackle such an epic yarn.” She stretched, and he found himself hoping for a glimpse of her curves beneath her coat and waistcoat—­despite the fact that she was bound tightly.

“How does a rake spend his morning after a night at a gaming hell?” she asked.

He rubbed at his jaw, feeling the stubble of his incipient beard. It always took a matter of hours before his whiskers defeated his shave. There had to have been some Viking blood in the Ashford line to explain his hairiness.

“Sometimes I have a light collation,” he said. “A roll and some fruit. Sometimes I'll take a nightcap of whiskey in my study. I never have enough of a head to read the papers. So I'll watch the fire until I feel myself start to doze. Then my valet collects me, and I tumble into bed.”

“Sounds . . . lovely,” she said without a trace of irony. “A bit of quiet time just for yourself. I wouldn't mind something like that.”

“I'm sure it could be arranged.”

Yet she chuckled lowly. “Oh, my lord, when one runs a business, there's no room for dozing by the fire. Every hour of every day has to be in pursuit of the almighty pound. We work every day of the week. Only Sundays are days of rest.”

“Exhausting,” he said.

“But exhilarating, too.” Her expression brightened. “I'm responsible to no one but myself. And it's my hard work that ensures that my employees get paid, that my paper gets read. Better that than be some husband's drudge, or worse—­a decorative object.” She shuddered.

He couldn't fault her reasoning. He wouldn't want either role for himself. Something else brewed within him at her words. She had such purpose, such determination. Things he lacked. What must it be like, to be so driven? He could feel the energy and resoluteness emanating from her like heat from a fire. A fire whose warmth he craved.

They neared the theater, and suddenly he was reluctant for the night to come to a close. What if he invited her to a coffee house? Or maybe . . . she'd be willing to have that drink of whiskey with him in his study. No. His home was his private sanctum. As for a coffee house, well, her disguise wasn't holding up very well after hours and hours. Better to just end the evening and stay protected.

Yet when the carriage neared the theater, disappointment shot through him, heavy like iron in his belly.

A curious thing happened when the coach stopped. Miss Hawke didn't immediately climb out. Instead, she sat there, her gaze shifting around, occasionally alighting on him. A delicate tension threaded through the compartment, thin but electric. He sensed it like a bright web covering his skin.

She started when he leaned forward.

He watched his hand reach out and peel off her mustache, then stroke the soft skin just above her top lip.

“I prefer you as a woman,” he murmured.

“I prefer me as a woman, too,” she said, her voice low.

This close, he saw the widening of her pupils, her slightly parted lips. She smelled of old wine and cheroot smoke, but the aroma combined with the scent of her skin. What might she taste like? Damn him if he didn't hunger to find out.

Half a second before he lost his mind, he regained his senses. The hell was he doing? She was a sodding
journalist
. They had a professional relationship, or rather, he was using her to further his own objectives. Getting involved with her in any capacity beyond these articles was utter madness.

He pulled back. She seemed to recollect herself at the same time, pressing into the squabs as if to put as much distance between them as possible.

“I'll . . .” His voice was gravel, and he cleared his throat. “I'll send word about the next night's activity.”

“That sounds acceptable,” she answered distractedly, her own tone suspiciously breathless. Jesus, did she
want
him to kiss her? Even worse. “I should . . . I'm going to . . .” Her hand hovered over the handle. “It's been . . .”

“Yes,” he said.

They both jumped when the door to the carriage opened. The footman stood there, impassively waiting. Daniel couldn't tell if he was grateful for the servant's presence, or resentful.

“Good night,” he finally said.

“Good morning,” she answered. Then got down from the carriage. He watched her go, waiting to see if she looked back at him. But she didn't. When he finally got home, he let out one long exhale, but whether it was from relief or dissatisfaction at her absence, he didn't know.

 

Chapter 8

One of the greatest pleasures in life, that cultivates the greatest quality of mind, refinement, and delicacy, is the nurturing of a written correspondence with an individual of sensibility and taste.

The
Hawk's Eye
, May 6, 1816

Q
uill in hand, Eleanor stared at the blank page in front of her. Yet the words stubbornly refused to appear. She looked at the nib of her writing implement, as if some kind of blockage there prevented words from flowing out. But, no, it was sharpened, clean, and ready. The impediment to writing was
her.

She sighed, set down her quill, and stretched her neck. That ought to get her to focus. Yet when she picked up her pen and dipped it in ink, the nib simply hovered over the page, unmoving. A drop of ink dripped onto the page.

Growling to herself in exasperation, she blotted the paper. Much as she'd like to crumple it and throw it to the floor, paper was expensive, and she couldn't afford any waste.

She rubbed at her forehead. This article about several young women of quality fainting at a zoology lecture wasn't going to write itself. Yet every time she tried to put down words, something kept blocking her.

Rather, some
one.
Ashford's face appeared again in her mind—­not his immaculate appearance at the beginning of their evening together but his raffish, almost scruffy looks by the time the night drew to a close. Her hand had itched to test the feel of his dark stubble against her palm. Still did.

His voice, his laugh, echoed silently. The scent of soap and fine wool and tobacco curled in her memory. She couldn't forget the way his gaze had darkened when he'd finally removed her mustache and touched her top lip. His hand had been gloved, but she'd still felt his touch, her own fingers now brushing back and forth over her lip as if she could recapture the sensation.

There had been a moment in the carriage—­a brief, charged moment—­when she'd thought he'd kiss her. And she had wanted him to.

Groaning, Eleanor dug the heels of her palms into her closed eyes. She leaned back in her chair.

This was unacceptable. It had been three days since their night at Donnegan's. Three days, during which she'd written and published the first article. Despite the fact that sales of
The Hawk's Eye
were up and she ought to be strategically planning her next move to take advantage of the surge, she'd been preoccupied, restless. Unfocused.

Because of him. That damned rakish earl.

She would've thought writing the article about their misadventures might serve as catharsis, cleansing memories of him like an exorcism. Granted, the possession was by a particularly handsome, physically fit, and witty demon, but she didn't want him possessing her. She belonged to herself. Certainly not to one of her writing subjects. Definitely not to the blasted Earl of Ashford.

But she couldn't stop thinking about him. He was like . . . like an infestation. Yes, that's how she'd consider him. As if he were an annoying, but persistent, infestation of mealworms in her mental pantry. He wouldn't seem nearly as alluring if she thought of him spoiling her flour and wriggling around in her sugar.

Wriggling in my sugar.

Good God—­that was a phrase that didn't help.

She shoved to her feet. Writing was simply impossible right now. She'd have to distract herself some other way. Leaving her private office, she walked out into the main room. Writers were bent over their desks, furiously scribbling. A flare of irritation welled. Clearly, none of her staff were haunted by the specter of the earl.
They
didn't wonder what he was doing at that very moment. If he dined with friends or was alone again at the Eagle. If he'd enjoyed her article.

In fact, there had been no communication between them in three days. Another wave of annoyance swelled. Would it have killed him to send her a little note? A
Thank you for our night
? Or,
Jolly good work on the piece
? Perhaps even,
You owe me a hundred pounds
?

Though, technically, he'd staked her, and if Donnegan's had sent payment, they'd likely delivered it to Ashford's residence. Even so, he might have had the graciousness to needle her about it, or her gambling skills. Or
something.

“Anything you need, Miss Hawke?” asked Delia Everhart, one of
The Hawk's Eye
writers.

Eleanor realized she'd been standing in the middle of the writers' room, simply staring off into nothing as her mind churned.

How ruddy galling.

“How is the article about the noblewoman and the Chinese acrobat coming?” she improvised.

“Oh, you know,” Delia said with a smile, “tumbling along.”

Shaking her head, Eleanor moved on down the row of desks and inquired with each staff member on the progress of their work. Unlike her, everyone at the paper was alert and productive. By the time she spoke with her printers on the status of the latest issue, thirty minutes had passed, but inspiration still hadn't struck. She was going to have to drag herself back to her desk, chain herself there, and make herself work.

If only writing about ladies reacting to a discussion of monkeys' mating habits was half as inspiring as writing about the earl.

“ 'Scuse me?” a voice said behind her.

She turned and faced a man in livery. Livery she recognized.

“Yes?” she asked.

The bewigged servant bowed and held out an envelope. Her name was scrawled across the outside, and, when she turned it over, she knew the insignia pressed into the wax. The Earl of Ashford's crest of a hawk holding a sword in its talons.

She took the letter from the footman and handed him a coin. The servant bowed again but didn't leave.

“Are you to wait on a reply?” she asked him.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Give me a moment,” she said and strode to her office. Seating herself at her desk, she cut open the letter and began to read.

Meet me in the stables of my home in two days hence, at midnight. Mr. Sinclair's presence will not be required, but you in the clothing of a woman of questionable reputation is.

Yrs, &c.

—­A.

The unmitigated cheek of that man! Not a single
please
or
if you'd be so kind
anywhere to be found in his laconic, imperious, dreadful little note. A note that nevertheless made her smile.

She was going to see him again—­and her heart beat double time at the prospect. Ah, damn. She oughtn't be so excited by the idea of being near him once more. The article had helped sales considerably, and she needed to build on
that
.

Professional, Hawke,
she reminded herself.
Stay on your side of the desk.

Except she couldn't. Not when she planned on spending another evening with him doing . . . well . . . she had no idea what she'd be doing, but whatever it was, it required particular garments. How very intriguing.

Yet she said none of this in her reply. Pulling out a sheet of foolscap, she wrote:

Mr. Sinclair is grateful his presence isn't required. Define “questionable reputation.”

—­E.H.

Sanding then folding her response, she marched it out to the waiting footman. He took her note, gave her yet one more bow, then left.

She returned to her office to labor over her article. It was not unlike trudging through frozen treacle in nothing but her stockings, carrying a hippopotamus on her back. This agony went on for an hour before she was interrupted by a knock at her door.

Glancing up, she beheld the footman standing there. He strode forward and handed her a scrap of paper. There again was the earl's crest on the back.

She opened the letter.

Questionable reputation: of dubious character, dissolute, louche. Really, E.H., for a writer, you display a shocking lack of vocabulary.

—­A.

Her response:

For a toff, you display a shocking lack of manners.

—­E.H.

Half an hour went by before another letter appeared, the footman looking slightly more aggrieved than last time.

Dress like a tart. How's that for manners?

—­A.

Precisely what I'd expect from you.

—­E.H.

I live to gratify you.

—­A.

Excellent.

—­E.H.

P.S. This communication must cease unless you want your footman and coachman to mutiny.

She was disappointed when there were no further letters from him, even though he'd heeded her advice. Carefully, she tucked his correspondence into a compartment in her desk and locked it.

So, in two days she was to dress like a tart and meet him at his stables. Obviously, he intended her to obey his summons. She could make a point of not going, but that was simply obstinacy for its own sake. The whole point of her association with him was to come with him on his nightly romps and grow the circulation of her newspaper.

She smiled to herself. He wanted her to dress like a tart, hm? Well, that might be his command, but she'd obey it on her terms.

S
itting in his favorite chair at White's, Daniel read again Miss Hawke's account of their night's escapades. He pressed his lips together tightly to keep from laughing aloud at her description of donning her masculine costume, then he sobered as she reflected on the differences between men and women's societal roles.

He skimmed over the parts that discussed him. He was a subject of which he was heartily tired, and even Miss Hawke's talented quill couldn't make him interesting to himself. But this was the fourth time he'd read the article again—­not out of a fascination with himself but with her. Her ability. The quality of her writing. The quality of her incisive mind, which shone like a beacon through her work.

The first time he'd read the article, he'd done so with a healthy dose of wariness. What, exactly, would she say about him? And how might she say it? He had perused
The Hawk's Eye
before, but not knowing which writing was hers. Now he had a sample, and damn him if he wasn't impressed.

To begin with, she didn't portray him as a complete and utter human disaster, a walking cautionary tale of too much power, too much money, and too much time. Though she hadn't pulled her punches, either.

Lord Rakewell's wit cannot be disputed, nor his intelligence. Though this humble writer has to wonder what he might accomplish should he apply his considerable mind to concerns more weighty than the turn of an actress's ankle, or the next card in the deal. Indeed, were he to harness his not insignificant mental ability to a higher purpose, we might all benefit. For now, however, the only benefactor of his brain is himself, and even then, his fields lie mostly fallow.

It surprised him how much her words had stung, though they weren't as sharply skewering as he imagined she might be able to write. She also wrote them knowing that he would inevitably read the article, which might explain why she wasn't as cruel to him as she might have been. Not to spare his feelings but to ensure that he'd continue to allow her to come with him at night. A cunning creature, this Miss Hawke. Perhaps she ought to have been named Miss Fox.

But what kept him reading was the actual caliber of the work and her often perceptive observations, which awakened him to new insight about the human condition and Society in general. He almost regretted that
The Hawk's Eye
didn't strive to be more than a scandal sheet. Surely she could write for a truly distinguished newspaper, like the
Times
?

Maybe the
Times
wasn't especially open-­minded when it came to the gender of their writers. Perhaps Miss Hawke had turned to her scandal sheet because that was the only forum she had available to her. If so, it was a ruddy shame. The
Times
doubtless had a wider circulation than
The Hawk's Eye,
which meant fewer ­people read Miss Hawke's work.

But maybe not. Glancing over the top of his paper, he saw several members of the club reading
The
Hawk's Eye
and chuckling to themselves. None of them suspected he was Lord Rakewell, which suited him fine.

If only Jonathan were here. He'd laugh at the article about Daniel, and be soberly contemplative when it came to Miss Hawke's thoughts about the differences between the sexes. An introspective man, Jonathan could be. If only he'd decided to pursue the life of a Cambridge don instead of the military—­everything would be different.

Daniel returned to the newspaper he held. His exchange of letters with Miss Hawke earlier today was the first time since that night that they'd had any communication. And that had been by his decision. He'd needed distance from the woman, especially after he'd come so damned close to kissing her.

But many times over the past few days, he'd found himself thinking of things she might find particularly interesting or amusing, and wanting to tell her about them. Either by letter or, preferably, in person. And all of those impulses needed to be extinguished. He had to remember what purpose she served to him, and the dangers of getting too close to her. She saw too much already.

Yet that didn't stop him from recalling the shape of her legs beneath her trousers or the husky timbre of her voice when she laughed. That didn't stop him from dreaming of her, where her masculine attire magically dissolved, revealing the woman's body beneath.

A voice spoke close by, startling him from his reverie. “Rather nice bit of exposition, don't you think? I particularly enjoyed how she described Lord Broodington as ‘one of the wildest men in the whole of the city. Lord preserve any virtue that stands between him and his desires.' ”