Forever Your Earl (15 page)

“Of course not,” she said immediately.

“Prudish, Miss Hawke?”

“I'm not a virgin,” she heard herself answer. “I know what goes on between men and women. I've experienced it myself.”

“And you found it unpleasant.”

She couldn't believe she was having this conversation, and with
him,
of all ­people. Her sexual history wasn't precisely a topic she felt utterly free to discuss without restraint. Though she'd grown up in an unconventional way, ­people of her acquaintance didn't exchange stories of their sexual peccadillos like recommendations for pie shops—­her especially. She'd much rather listen than reveal things about herself.

But something about him pushed her, challenged her. To be a little more bold, a touch more daring. Maybe she was taking in his rakish ways through osmosis. Or maybe there was something about
this
man that urged her to greater and greater daring, as though testing the limits of her own strength.

“If we're being candid,” she said primly, “my encounters of the amorous variety have been quite . . . pleasant.” He didn't need to know about what a complete and utter disaster her first time was, but that's what she got for sleeping with another virgin—­a young writer fresh from the country who spent considerable time asking, “Am I doing this right?” With the answer being a resounding, “No.”

But that had been her first time. Since then, Eleanor had had a grand total of three other men to her bed. An actor, another writer, and a very charming naval lieutenant. The fact that she'd no intention of getting married had spurred her on in pursuit of lovers. Why should she deny herself this essential component of life simply because she didn't want a husband? Naturally, though, she'd taken precautions. Maggie knew a wide variety of techniques for preventing things like babies and disease—­one of the benefits of working in the theater, Eleanor supposed.

“Pleasant isn't enough,” Ashford said. “You should aim higher. Try for transcendence, magnificence. Life-­altering.”

She slanted a skeptical gaze toward him. “Rather tall boasts.”

“There's no point in boasting,” he answered. “I only speak in truths.”

She shook her head. The man was dreadfully delusional. Or . . . going to bed with him really would be as exceptional as he claimed.

Given the way he drove this phaeton, he was either compensating, or he was a truly gifted lover.

Another wave of heat washed through her.

“Regardless,” she said, trying to turn the topic away from a naked Ashford, “while I have no qualms about the sexual act itself, it always seemed to me that an orgy would be awfully . . . sticky.”

“They are,” he replied. “And they have a peculiar smell. They're seldom as entertaining as one might hope.”

Oh, dear. So he'd been to an orgy or two in his time. Naturally, her paper had reported back on some of the wilder Society gatherings, though nothing quite as outrageous and dissipated as an orgy.

Was there no experience he hadn't had? And why did she have such a damn good imagination that she could picture him clearly in a tangle of limbs, doing things she'd only seen in wicked illustrations sold in the back rooms of print shops?

“So, no orgy then,” she said.

“No orgy.”

She'd never used or heard the word
orgy
so much in her life. “Then where?”

“Here,” he said, pulling the phaeton to a stop at the eastern edge of Hyde Park. Gathered on the grass were about half a dozen other high-­flyers, all driven by young bucks. Some of them had women of doubtful morality beside them. A few were on their own. But as the vehicles were parked on the lawn, more ­people milled around—­young men and fast-­living women, all of them drinking champagne, admiring the vehicles, and . . . waving around stacks of money. As though they were placing bets. But on what?

“Welcome,” he said, “to your first-­ever phaeton race.”

 

Chapter 10

This modern era has a fascination with speed. We want our ships to sail faster. Our goods to arrive from the country with greater rapidity. There is talk of using steam engines to power vehicles from one end of our nation to the other. Always faster, faster, faster. One can only speculate where this obsession with haste will lead. Adventure? Or headlong into crashing disaster?

The
Hawk's Eye,
May 8, 1816

E
leanor had been to Ascot, Newmarket, even the Derby at Epsom. She'd seen steeplechases, harness races, and flat racing with just a jockey and a horse on a level track. There had been formalized races for predetermined prizes, and impromptu contests run on side streets and in parks. It was nigh impossible to live in England without witnessing a horse race at some point in one's life. The British were mad for their horseflesh, mad for gambling, mad for racing.

But she'd never witnessed a sight like this one. Phaetons almost as expensive and beautiful as Ashford's were collected together, the drivers all sizing each other up. A few grooms held torches, casting flickering light and shadows as the elite of Society gathered in preparation for their own spontaneous competition.

“A race to where?” she asked Ashford as they slowly made their way through the crowd. Murmuring amongst themselves, the spectators parted as the phaeton rolled past. Excitement and anticipation were like a looming thunderstorm on the verge of breaking. Eleanor's own pulse had begun to hammer. She had no idea what to expect.

“Primrose Hill and back,” he said.

A distance of approximately four miles. If the driver of a carriage such as this went flat out, at this time of night, with minimal traffic . . . well, she had no idea how long it might take, only that it would be fast, reckless, and wild.

“It's going to be dangerous,” he continued, confirming her suspicions. “I'll leave you here and then return.”

“And miss the race itself?” She shook her head. “Absolutely not.” Part of her was terrified at the prospect of hurtling along in the dead of night in such a high, swift carriage. But the other part of her relished the notion. It was one thing to write about someone else's adventures. Quite another to have adventures herself. Frightening, yes, but thrilling, too.

“Ashford,” a man in another light carriage called out. “Decided to join us after all.”

“Grew weary of listening to you prate on at White's, Daventry,” he called back. “What are the stakes tonight?”

“Two thousand to enter.”

“Done,” Ashford replied, as Eleanor inwardly gaped at the astronomical sum.

“Who's the sweetmeat?” Daventry asked, eyeing Eleanor. She recognized the name, but not the man. A typical buck who attended the Cyprians' Ball at the Argyle Rooms and lived on the largesse of his forthcoming barony. Lord D—­y, as he was known in
The Hawk's Eye,
had a regular mistress installed in St. John's Wood, but that didn't keep him from dallying with dancers, actresses, and demimondaines. He was occasionally mocked in the pages of Eleanor's paper for his intemperance in drink and his tailor's bills.

She fought the urge to cover herself with her cloak. A strumpet would display her wares, after all. It was just good business practice.

“Ruby,” she answered before the earl could speak.

“Tell you what, Ashford,” Daventry said with a leer. “Let's make things a little more lively. If I win, I get not only your two thousand but your Ruby, as well.”

Eleanor sat up straight. Lord, what should she do? A real soiled dove wouldn't protest, but there was only so far her commitment to this role, and the newspaper, would go. And it wasn't into Daventry's bed.

“Like hell,” the earl growled.

“Oh, come on, Ashford,” chided another man Eleanor recognized as a knight with a habit of trailing after the Prince Regent's retinue. “You never used to be so stingy with your ladies.”

He wasn't?

“Where's your sporting spirit?” yet one more bloke reproved. Eleanor didn't recognize him, but he seemed of a type with all the other rich, reckless young men.

“There something special about your little gem?” Daventry waggled his eyebrows. “A special skill she's got that you're not willing to share?”

“The lady's not for the taking.” Ashford sounded truly angry now.

Though the other men seemed to blanch a little at his tone, they were too far gone in their taunts to leave it alone. Their voices rang out in a chorus, demanding that “Ruby” be part of the stakes of the race. Just when Eleanor thought Ashford would get down from his seat and personally thrash each man with a horsewhip, she placed her hand on his tense forearm.

“Go ahead and wager me,” she murmured. “They'll get suspicious otherwise.”

“Let them,” he snarled.

“If you don't,” she said lowly, “they might eventually make the connection between ‘Ned,' ‘Ruby,' and the articles. They'll wonder who I am. They might guess—­and then no one will allow you to join them in their nightly revels. We'll have to stop the newspaper series.”

He cursed under his breath. The prospect seemed to alarm him. More than she would have suspected. Was he so attached to his libertine way of life that the idea of not documenting it caused so much concern?

What a strange notion. One she'd have to consider later.

Right now, I have to convince him to wager me. God above, I can't believe I just thought that.

“Think of it this way,” she pressed. “I have so much faith in your abilities as a driver that I'm willing to take the chance.”

“You haven't seen me truly drive,” he noted.

She attempted a smile. “That's faith for you. It exists in the face of a total absence of evidence.”

“Have you considered a career in the church?” he asked. “I've never heard more inspiring words.”

“I'll do all my moralizing in the pages of my paper, thank you.”

Meanwhile, the chorus of demands that “Ruby” be added to the stakes grew louder and louder. Ashford's jaw clenched, and he looked to be in debate with himself.

“Are you certain?” he finally rumbled.

“Quite.” She wasn't at all. But what choice did she have?

He drew a breath. Then turned to the assembled crowd. “All right, you pack of jackals! Ruby goes into the pot.”

The men, and even some of the women, cheered. It seemed the most peculiar thing to rejoice over, but that was the wealthy and idle for you. A bunch of bedlamites if ever she saw.

“Let's get this race underway,” Daventry announced. “Drivers, line up.”

As Ashford flicked the reins and guided his phaeton into position beside five other vehicles, Eleanor leaned in. “You'd better win,” she hissed.

“I never lose,” he answered in an undertone.

“There's always a first time. And it could be tonight.”

A woman in a low-­cut gown stepped forward, her arm upraised, her hand holding a kerchief. She seemed to be waiting for something. Silence descended, broken only by the horses snorting and stamping their eagerness to run.

The tension mounted even higher. Eleanor's heart decided it liked it better in her throat than her chest, and took up lodgings there.

Suddenly, the woman dropped her kerchief.

Ashford snapped the reins. The phaeton leapt forward. The race had begun.

D
aniel had raced before. Numerous times. But never with a passenger. Not only did it change the balance of the carriage but it also changed his own internal balance.

Concerns about Miss Hawke's safety were paramount. But he also had to win this bloody race. Or else she'd wind up in Daventry's bed—­and that, Daniel couldn't allow.

He drove the phaeton at breakneck speed from the park, trying to concentrate only on the road ahead of him. If he focused on his competitors, or on Miss Hawke in that damned red satin dress, he couldn't do his job. Either he and the journalist would crash, or one of the other carriages would pull ahead. Neither were options he wanted to entertain.

A film of sweat slicked his back as he carefully regulated the horses' pace, not wanting them to exhaust themselves too soon, but still keeping enough of a lead so that he didn't have to overcome a deficit.

Buildings and streetlights streaked past as the phaeton surged forward. Daniel's heart beat in time with the horses' hooves. What the hell had he been thinking, taking her along on this bloody escapade? He should've anticipated that she would want to ride with him, dangerous as the race was. But there was no way he could have known that, in addition to the money, Miss Hawke herself was part of the stakes.

They sped up to make the sharp turn from Bayswater to Edgware Road. Checking over his shoulder, Daniel saw Daventry and then Paulson close at his heels. Both men were hunched over their ribbons, pushing their horses as hard as they could.

Daniel gritted his teeth as he drove faster. The world whipped past in a night-­dark blur. Thank God he saw well in the darkness. Perils such as lampposts, trees, and the occasional pedestrian all lurked in the shadows, appearing suddenly.

Some sodding fool had left a cart out in the middle of Old Marylebone Road, and Daniel pulled tight, guiding his carriage around the obstacle. Behind him, several horses whinnied in shock, and men cursed as they either pulled up short and stopped, or else struggled to get around the cart.

Normally, he'd be grinning like a fool at this point, intoxicated by the race, by the speed. A rare opportunity to feel true excitement. But he couldn't feel that same thrill, knowing he was imperiling Miss Hawke.

He glanced over at her, expecting to see her eyes wide with terror, her face ashen.

She was smiling. Widely. Her eyes were alight with exhilaration. She caught his eye and laughed.

“Faster!” she called above the clatter and rush of the wind.

His own fear faded, replaced by pleasure and excitement. God, she was as mad as he was—­and nothing could have pleased him more.

A few cab drivers cursed as Daniel and Miss Hawke sped by at a blistering pace.

Finally, they entered Regent's Park, and then the horses began to tire. Daniel ignored the paths, driving over the grass, and the phaeton bounced like an India rubber ball. Just ahead was Primrose Hill, but as Daniel and Miss Hawke neared, they were overtaken by Daventry.

Daniel swore. For all Daventry was a preening coxcomb, he was also one of the best hands at racing. The results of a life of dissipation—­a skill that no one truly needed, in ser­vice to an expensive game. But Daniel wouldn't let himself be beaten. He didn't care about the money. But however committed to her role as a tart Miss Hawke might be, he'd sooner run Daventry into a wall than allow her to go to the blighter's bed.

Up ahead was the oak they used as the turning point for the race. Daventry made his turn around the tree.

“Looking forward to knowing you better, Ruby,” Daventry called as he passed, heading back toward the city.

“Sod off, jackanapes,” Miss Hawke muttered.

Daniel's thoughts exactly. He snapped the ribbons, pushing the horses harder. They careened around the oak, nearly balancing on two wheels to take the turn. The phaeton jounced as it made the curve. Daniel feared he'd lose control of the animals and the carriage, and they'd go tumbling over to smash into the ground and thickets.

He breathed in. Getting in command of the vehicle, and himself.

Somehow, he managed both. The phaeton balanced itself and raced onward, with Daniel in control.

Miss Hawke laughed again. “Bravo!”

“No celebrations yet,” he growled. They still had half the distance to go, and Daventry was in the lead.

He promised he'd reward his horses later, but for now, he needed them to give their utmost. So he snapped the reins again and called out to them in his most commanding voice. “Phantom! Swain! Time to move!”

Bless the creatures, they seemed to hear, and obey. Their legs stretched out as they took the road, necks straining as they hurtled onward.

Miss Hawke gripped the front of the seat, leaning forward as if she could somehow get the carriage to move even faster. Daniel himself bent low, his gaze all the while fixed on Daventry's phaeton ten yards ahead of them. The rest of the competition had fallen back, unable to keep up.

The second half of the race flew by. He knew only the straining of the reins in his hands, the beat of the horses' hooves, the rocking of the vehicle, and the rush of his blood in his ears. He was a knife's edge, sharp and swift.

“Yes! Faster!” Miss Hawke shouted above the rush.

“Are you this demanding in everything?” he called, winking.

“Only where speed is important.” She winked back. “There are moments where it's important to take one's time. And others where a hard, fast drive is best.”

Heat flooded him.

At last, Hyde Park loomed up ahead. And the gathered crowd, cheering as the racers made their approach. But Dav­entry still led. Daniel didn't give a tinker's damn about his reputation or his money if he lost. All that mattered was keeping Miss Hawke away from the others.

“Damn it, move!” he roared to his horses.

The distance between his phaeton and Daventry's shortened. Yard by yard. Foot by foot. Until they were beside each other, running in tandem.

The finish line beckoned. Triumph or failure.

Daniel wouldn't accept failure.

With one last crack of the ribbons, he urged the horses. And, heroic animals that they were, they made a final surge. Until they crossed the finish line. It took them some distance to slow after the pace they'd set. The animals needed to cool down.

“Did we win?” Miss Hawke asked breathlessly.

“Don't know.” He slowed the carriage, then brought it around to the assembled spectators, where Daventry also walked his horses to cool them.