Forever Your Earl (14 page)

“Miss Hawke isn't as bad as that,” he heard himself say, then cursed his incautious tongue.

Catherine's expression sharpened. “ ‘Miss Hawke,' is it?” She stepped closer, some of the darkness sifting away as the eternal pleasure of gossip lured her. “Tell me about this woman. The one who wore male clothing and was so very, very bold.”

“Nothing to tell,” he demurred. “I needed to divert the attention of the press, and she was eager for a story.
Finis
.”

He wouldn't say how his thoughts kept drifting back to Miss Hawke, how he eagerly anticipated their next encounter, the way a growing fascination with her threaded through him. If Catherine searched his jacket right now, she'd find Miss Hawke's notes tucked into the inside pocket. Over where his heart beat.

“Can you trust her?” Catherine asked.

“No. But I don't plan on trusting her.”

Dealing with Miss Hawke was dangerous.

And she was dangerous to Daniel, too. He was becoming far too interested in her—­and after just two encounters. If he spent more time in her presence, he might truly be in trouble.

But approaching her had been his idea in the first place. All he needed to do was keep his wits.

“Have a caution with this Miss Hawke, Ashford,” Catherine said, as if reading his thoughts. “From her writing, she seems very perceptive.”

“She is,” he said, “but I can play the game, Catherine. Even better than you,” he added with a teasing smile. “After all, I've been at this much longer than you. I'm an old, old man.” Fifteen years older than her, in fact.

“Even old men make mistakes,” she countered. “Think of poor King Lear.”

“I can always count on you to speak the truth, like Fool or Cordelia.” He checked the clock on the mantel. “The hour grows apace, and I've a few leads to track down.”

“I'll fetch my cloak.” She started for the door.

But he stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. “These places are too perilous for you, even in my company. If I hear or see anything, I'll report back before approaching him.” The likelihood was that Jonathan would bolt if Daniel attempted to reach out to him without Catherine's presence.

“Be careful,” she urged him again.

He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring grin. “Always.”

Leaning up on her toes, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “It's really too bad you are so old.” She sighed. “I could easily see myself falling in love with you.”

If their age difference prevented her from forming a romantic attachment, then he was grateful for it. A sweet, gentle girl like Catherine wasn't for him. But what sort of woman
did
suit him, he'd no idea.

As Daniel collected his hat and walking stick from the butler, he remembered Miss Hawke's laugh, her sly hazel eyes. An entirely unsuitable woman. Yet one he couldn't stop thinking about.

His destinations tonight were dangerous, but perhaps none of them held the peril Miss Hawke did.

He'd see her in two days. He couldn't wait. And that, more than anything, alarmed him.

 

Chapter 9

London after dark presents its own unique sets of dangers—­yet the enticements of the city at night are often too alluring to resist.

The Hawk's Eye
, May 8, 1816

P
ulling her hood up and her cloak tightly around her, Eleanor hurried through the darkened streets of Mayfair. As she passed St. George's, the tolling bell gave her fifteen minutes until midnight. Though Ashford's home was less than a quarter of a mile away, the distance easily manageable, she didn't want to be late. Then she chided herself for her extreme punctuality. It wasn't as though the earl would simply leave without her to . . . wherever it was he was going. He needed her to come with him. That was the whole point of this enterprise: writing articles about his nightly escapades.

And that's all,
she reminded herself. It was all about the newspaper. And whatever motive compelled Ashford to have made the proposition in the first place.

She still hadn't deduced what that might be, and while she burned to know more, pushing too hard might cause him to pull back. Given how well
The
Hawk's Eye
was selling now on the strength of the first
To Ride with a Rake
piece, she'd be a dunderhead to lose this opportunity.

But the articles weren't all that compelled her to walk a little faster, her heart to pound a little harder. Certainly not him. Or his damned notes, which she foolishly read and reread over the course of the last two days. Until she'd memorized them.

As she hurried on, she avoided streetlights, clinging to the shadows that fronted the palatial homes of Mayfair and Marylebone. A woman on her own at this hour was obviously commercial, and as she'd rather not use the knife in her boot on anyone making unwanted advances, it was best to simply prevent being accosted in the first place.

But her strategy didn't quite work.

“Where you going, pretty thing?” a sauced gentleman tottering home slurred.

She knew better than to answer, so she kept silent.

“Oi, proud little tart. Too good for me?” He grabbed her as she passed.

With one neat move, she took hold of his wrist and held him tight as her knee made a forceful acquaintance with his groin. She dropped his wrist as he crumpled to the pavement, groaning. Without looking back, she walked on.

It shook her a little bit to be accosted. Yet she'd protected herself. Fear was something that could be conquered.

What a flaw of nature's design, that men should walk around with their greatest weakness just dangling between their legs. Those bollocks Ashford and his compatriots were so obsessed by were simply bothersome. She'd have to allude to that flaw in her next article.

Thinking of writing calmed her somewhat, and she continued on.

She reached Manchester Square and stopped, agog. Her lingering distress gave way to amazement. Ashford's home was here, in the heart of wealth and privilege. Finding the specific address, she stared up at the column-­lined front, towering three stories high. Good Lord, he was just one man, with no close living relatives, and yet he had this . . . mansion . . . all to himself. Her own room would fit inside his dining chamber, she'd wager. Looking up at the edifice, it struck her again how vast the difference was between them, in almost every way.

Yet, despite the huge chasm of gender and class that divided them, she couldn't wait another moment to spend time in his company.

So, swallowing uncharacteristic nerves, she made her way around to the mews, then hastened along them until she reached the stable yard. No shared coach for him. The stables housed half a dozen sleek horses with better pedigrees than most ­people of Eleanor's acquaintance.

“Right this way, miss.”

Eleanor jumped as a young stable lad appeared beside her, waving her forward. Trying to regain her composure, she gave him a slight nod, and walked on toward the stables. So, she was expected. She wondered what Ashford told the staff.
I'll be expecting a woman dressed like a trollop at midnight. Show her to the horses.

Therein lay the privilege of rank. One could make commands like that without anyone questioning the why and wherefore of the demand.

She went into the structure—­a grand brick building with arched doorways that led out the yard. Torches burned on the walls. And while the stables themselves were architectural wonders, what truly caught her attention and caused her to gasp out loud was Ashford, and the vehicle he stood beside.

“Good God,” she breathed. “I've never seen one like it.”

“I should hope not,” he said. “Had it custom made.”

Of course he had. Only an earl, and a rake, would have such a vehicle. The high-­perch phaeton was a work of art, so tall, open, and beautifully constructed that it nearly brought tears to her eyes. The wood of its carriage was polished to a satiny sheen, and the slim brass fittings seemed to glow in the torchlight. Its seat rose up high, most likely giving the driver and lone passenger the feeling of flying. Compared to this phaeton, all other wheeled conveyances might as well be lumbering, awkward behemoths that trundled down the street with all the grace of a drunken whale.

Two stunning matched bays snorted and stamped impatiently in their tack, eager for movement. In his black coat, wine-­colored waistcoat, snowy white breeches, and tall, gleaming boots, Ashford looked as gorgeous and sleek as the animals.

Her heart set up a knocking rhythm at the sight of him. Combined with the phaeton he stood beside, she'd never seen a more lethal combination.

He eyed her cloak critically. It hid her entire body, and with her hood up, she was completely covered except for her face. She knew what he was thinking. He'd asked her to dress like a trollop, and here she looked like an escapee from a convent.

Well, she was only a writer, but she wasn't above a little bit of theater. She flipped the sides of her cloak over her shoulders and tossed her head so the hood fell back. Revealing herself.

Oh, but the look on his face was something she'd treasure until her dying day. If she accomplished nothing else in her life, making the Earl of Ashford goggle like a schoolboy was worth engraving on her tombstone.
Here lies Eleanor Anne Hawke. She made a Rake of the first water gape.

“That dress . . .” he managed to rasp.

“Courtesy of the Imperial Theater again,” she said, “though I requested they make a few modifications. Mr. Swindon, the costume designer, was very accommodating.”

Ashford's directions to her might have been to attire herself like a woman of impure virtue, but there were many ways a woman could ensnare a man's interest. The obvious choice would have been to wear a low-­cut gown of lightweight, sheer fabric. But that would have been unoriginal. Instead, Eleanor wore a dress that could be considered severely plain, its neckline high and sleeves long. Rather like a day dress for visiting relatives.

Except Eleanor's gown was made of crimson silk. Shiny, tight satin. With the torchlight playing across the fabric, she knew that while the cut of the dress was modest, it showed off her every curve. Each time she shifted, the satin clung and blatantly hinted at her figure.

It was also the sort of gown one couldn't wear bulky undergarments beneath. Making anyone wonder whether she wore any underthings at all.

Not the sort of thing a virtuous woman might wear. Even if said woman was a journalist. If anyone from
The
Hawk's Eye
saw her in this ensemble, they might expire of shock.

She was glad she wasn't going to cross paths with any of her employees tonight.

Just in case, and to further disguise herself, she wore a black wig, styled by Madame Hortense into sensuous, tumbledown curls that suggested rising shortly from bed. The good makeup artist had also powdered Eleanor's face, rouged her cheeks and lips, and applied a beauty spot just to the left side of Eleanor's mouth.

“You look like the world's most expensive tart,” Maggie had said, looking at her in the dressing room mirror. “Mind, you look worth the cost.”

“Thank you,” Eleanor had answered.

And she gave thanks again, seeing the expression on Ashford's face now. She'd been worried that, after their last adventure, he'd think of her more as “Ned” or some kind of epicene cross between man and woman. But there was no risk of that anymore. Especially the way Ashford's gaze kept lingering on her hips and breasts.

“This will suffice?” she asked, knowing full well that it did.

Still staring at her body, Ashford could only nod mutely.

“I haven't much eye for style,” she continued, “but I felt that it would be trite to wear something scanty. It seems better to suggest rather than reveal, don't you agree?”

“Right,” he said dazedly, seemingly fascinated by her chest.

“The funny thing about a woman's eyes,” she went on cheerfully, “is they're located not on her bosom but on her face. Though most men might think otherwise. Good thing you aren't an anatomist.”

At last, he tore his gaze away from her breasts and up to her. “The hell did you expect?” he demanded. “You show up in a dress like that and suppose I'll stare deeply into your eyes?”

“Ah, so it's
my
responsibility to control your response?” She
tsk
ed. “How very sad, that you're so weak of will, you require someone else to regulate your actions.”

“Don't sound so smug,” he grumbled. “It's a damn provocative dress and you know it.”

“Maybe so,” she relented. “But why are you so angry about it? I did follow your instructions, didn't I?”

“You did,” he grudgingly allowed. But as to the source of his anger, he didn't say.

Eleanor didn't question it. She simply enjoyed having a little of the power in her hands, for a change.

“So, I'm dressed like a tart,” she said, “and you've got the world's fastest vehicle. Dare I guess at what our evening's plans are to be?”

His ill humor faded slightly, and he gave her a secretive smile. “Get in, and find out. I only hope that wig of yours is pinned on securely.”

With that enigmatic comment, he climbed into the driver's seat, giving her a chance to do some ogling of her own. White breeches made for excellent informers, and they told her that the earl had a most excellent, tight backside. A sportsman, this bloke. With all the right muscles to prove it.

If he could mount a phaeton with such strapping grace, what else might he be able to mount?

She didn't need rouge to tint her cheeks red. The images that floated through her mind did so all on their own.

He reached down to help her up. The image of temptation itself.

“Why do I feel like Persephone being offered a lift by Hades?” she wondered.

“You're dressed more like Aphrodite.” His gloved hand engulfed hers, and he easily lifted her up. “I suppose that makes me Adonis.”

“Modest.” She laughed, settling in beside him. There wasn't much room on the seat, so their legs pressed close. Warmth from his body seeped into hers. She resisted pulling her cloak shut to serve as a protective barrier. That would reveal how much he affected her, and she couldn't allow that. “Perhaps you're ugly old Hephaestus.”

“But ugly old Hephaestus knew how to use his hammer.” He picked up the ribbons and gave them a snap.

He kept the bays tightly reined. The horses maintained a sedate pace as they trotted out into the stable yard and then through the mews, until they were finally on the street.

Though the animals moved at a tame speed, riding in the tall, beautifully sprung phaeton did indeed feel like flying. Eleanor soared above the street. She'd never been so high up before. And while part of her wanted to cling to the sides of the carriage in terror of falling off, she mostly reveled in the sensation, as though her many dreams of flight had finally come true.

They drove in silence through the darkened city. Occasional pedestrians stopped and stared at the phaeton as it rolled by, and she couldn't blame them. It was like seeing a mythical creature prancing down Oxford Street, trailing rainbows and magic in its path.

“What an expensive toy,” she murmured, stroking the leather of the seat.

“What's the point of a toy,” he answered, “if it isn't costly?”

“A stick and a hoop don't cost much.”

“Sticks and hoops are for boys,” he said. “I'm a man.”

As though she needed reminding. There was something very primal and intoxicating about seeing a man drive a carriage, and drive it well. As though he had perfect mastery of everything. And while she didn't care for domineering men, Ashford drove easily, skillfully, without an ounce of braggadocio or pretension—­and it set off a curl of heat low in her belly. One could extrapolate such skill into other arenas. Blast her for thinking so metaphorically. A hazard of her profession.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “Another gambling hell?”

He shook his head. “Wouldn't be very interesting for your readers if we repeated something.”

“Vauxhall?”

He feigned a yawn. “That place is dull as a sermon.”

She didn't think so, with all its music, lights, dancing, pavilions, and plenty of darkened pathways to shelter dalliances—­but a rake might have wearied of such pleasures.

“The theater?”

“The last performance tonight ended half an hour ago.”

What kind of place was he taking her? Somewhere that required her scandalous ensemble. Somewhere he'd want one of the most expensive, status-­worthy vehicles available—­so ­people would be looking at them.

“An orgy?”

He gave a choked laugh. “There's getting up close and personal in your articles, and then there's
too
personal. I've no desire to have your readers follow my
every
move. Unless,” he glanced at her, one eyebrow raised, “you
want
to go to an orgy.”