Forever Your Earl (16 page)

Several moments passed as ­people debated amongst themselves, differing opinions clattering like horses' hooves.

Lord Carew, who often served as judge for these events, finally stepped forward. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and glanced back and forth between Daniel and Daventry. Everyone fell silent. Waiting the final decision. And Carew, blast him, seemed to enjoy the attention—­and tension—­for he waited an ungodly amount of time before speaking.

“The winner is . . .”

Not a single breath was drawn, including Daniel's. He felt Miss Hawke next to him, vibrating like a plucked bowstring.

Carew finally spoke. “Ashford.”

The crowd burst into wild cheers and applause, while Daventry cursed. Daniel nearly leapt in relief, but then he felt Miss Hawke's arms around him, embracing him.

“You did it!”

She was silky and warm and deliciously curved. And his blood was high. His body primed.

He couldn't have held himself back if he'd wanted to. But it was unstoppable, inevitable.

He pulled her tight and close. And kissed her.

 

Chapter 11

Reckless behavior is not the sole province of the young. At least they have the excuse of their paltry number of years to justify their foolish behavior. But when the rash, nay, imprudent action is undertaken by those of more mature years, there is no convenient pretext, and one is left only with the taste of regret, and the desire to do it all over again . . .

The
Hawk's Eye
, May 8, 1816

S
tunned, Eleanor was completely incapable of movement. Everything still whirled around her: the race, the close call at losing, the speed that continued to resonate in her body, Ashford's mastery of the phaeton. She was all sensation, barely capable of thought. There had been those agonizing minutes when she'd thought she'd really have to serve as Daventry's prize—­and then she and Ashford had won. Exhilaration had surged through her.

And then . . . the earl kissed her.

For a moment, shocked inertia locked her in its vise. His mouth pressed to hers. His arms and torso were solid around and against her. Her own grip surrounding his shoulders loosened slightly. But her body understood what her mind could not.

Ashford was kissing her
. And like hell would she waste this opportunity.

Her fingers dug into the strong muscles of his shoulders. She felt the firm, silken texture of his lips, the slight rasp of his incipient beard. She basked in the sensations and urged his lips apart with her own. He opened readily to her as the kiss deepened, grew hotter. More consuming. His tongue swept against hers. She tasted tobacco, expensive spirits. His own unique flavor.

Delicious
. And devious. A woman could grow intoxicated by his taste, addicted to the feel of him. No wonder he had the reputation he did. His kiss would make any woman demand more, and more. This, she realized, was what she'd been waiting for, since the day he first strode into her office.

Energy vibrated through them both. Fiery and alive. Neither dominated; each traded strength and power, him leading, and other moments she was in command. They were balanced yet vital, communicating in a primal language that all their words had danced around.
I want you.

His hands slid down, spanning her waist as he pulled her closer. She pressed her chest to his, relishing her softness to his muscular solidity. Threaded her fingers in his hair to bring him closer still.

Loud hooting and catcalls were buckets of ice-­cold sound thrown over her. She pulled back. Her hazy vision focused. As it did, mortification took the place of desire.

They were surrounded by a crowd of gawkers. All of them staring at her and Ashford kissing. Many of the throng were calling out suggestions, especially to Ashford, as to what he should do next, and with what degree of vigorousness.

She wasn't prudish, but she'd been in the middle of the most passionate kiss of her life. That wasn't something she intended to share with an audience.

Though she wanted to either call back an insulting suggestion or shrink into herself, she did neither. Instead, she slowly slid her fingers out of Ashford's hair, turned, and gave the crowd a brazen smile and sardonic curtsy. The kind a seasoned woman of minimal reputation might give.

Ashford himself seemed to be in something of a daze. He blinked for a moment, as though recalling where he was, then glared fiercely at the pack of onlookers. Yet he didn't release his hold on her. If anything, he seemed to shield her body with his own, as though protecting her from the invasive gazes and comments of the crowd.

“I can see why you wanted to hold on to her, Ashford,” Daventry called above the sounds of the throng.

“Two thousand pounds,” the earl growled back. “And not another damn word from you.”

The other competitors finally arrived, many of them looking the worse for their efforts. Several of the other carriages now sported deep gouges along their sides, and one looked as though its left rear wheel was on the verge of popping off its axle. Everyone—­including Ashford and, no doubt, herself—­appeared windblown and slightly dazed. Though her own state of confusion had more to do with the kiss than the race.

Promissory notes were handed over, since no one had two thousand pounds on their person. Good-­natured ribbing was also exchanged as the losers complained about their faulty vehicles, Ashford's extraordinary luck, the alignment of cobblestones and stars. Ashford, however, kept largely silent, and she might think him almost angry as he accepted his accolades and congratulations, as well as his money.

Finally, the group started to break up as ­people dissolved back into the night. In pursuit of other thrills, perhaps. Or home to lick their wounds.

Ashford drove sedately from the park, saying nothing. The horses most likely needed their rest. She hoped the animals would be amply rewarded back at the stables. But first they needed to return to Ashford's home.

She and the earl rode together through the streets gone even more quiet. A bell somewhere chimed two o'clock in the morning. No one of any honorable intent walked the city at this hour. Certainly she and Ashford hadn't been up to anything one might consider reputable.

Though the phaeton was open on top, tension weighed heavily, as though a dense, low-­lying fog clung to her and Ashford. She didn't know how to feel about what had just happened. Emotions crashed against each other like ships colliding in a bay. Her body still buzzed with energy—­a combination of so many thrilling moments that had just transpired—­delighting in the pleasure they'd created together. But damn if this wasn't a complication that neither of them needed. He was the subject of her articles. A means to an end. He had his own agenda, too. They were both untrustworthy. Adding a physical component to their arrangement made things too knotty.

He broke the silence. “Look, I—­”

She spoke at the same time. “It's probably not—­”

They stumbled over each other, fumbling their way toward conversation. “Go ahead.” “No, you first.” “Honestly, I—­”

“For God's sake,” he growled, “just speak.”

She smoothed her hands over her skirt. Cleared her throat. What was wrong with her? She'd been accused more than once of being too candid, too direct. But she had to be in order to succeed as a woman in a man's world. Why should she quail now? And with him, of all ­people. He understood the kind of woman she was.

“That was enjoyable,” she said, staring straight ahead. “More than enjoyable.” Why not tell the full truth? “The best kiss I've ever had.”

“Likewise,” he rumbled, still sounding furious. With her, or himself, she couldn't tell.

“But it can't happen again.”

“No,” he said with an irritating lack of hesitancy, “it can't.”

“You don't think I have ethics,” she continued, “but I do. And the conflict of interest would be too great if we were to take this thing between us to its logical conclusion.”

He stared at her. “You think me so much a rake that a kiss cannot be merely an end unto itself?”

“Yes, some kisses lead to nothing more. But not
that
kiss.”

Slowly, he nodded.

“And we oughtn't pursue it any further,” she continued.

“Agreed,” he said.

She fought the urge to glare at him. Did he have to be so amenable about this? Couldn't he fight just a little for following their attraction?

But she couldn't have it both ways. He respected her decision, concurred with it. That ought to please her. Yet somehow, it didn't.

“Fine,” she snapped.

“Fine.” His voice was also edged as he took them farther from the park.

If they were in concordance, why did they both sound so bloody angry? For herself, she was irritated that she'd fallen prey to a rake's notorious charms, despite all the warnings she'd received and given herself. Though she wrote a scandal sheet, she meant what she said about having some degree of integrity. She couldn't maintain that if she went any further with the earl—­much as her body wanted to. Besides, she had no way of knowing whether the kiss they'd shared was part of his greater scheme. He could be planning on manipulating her to his advantage, and to her detriment. She couldn't permit that.

It wasn't as though she didn't know handsome, charming men. The Imperial Theater was thick with them, and they often made it clear to her that they'd like to pursue an amorous relationship. She'd managed to refuse them all, knowing what a disaster it would be to take an actor as a lover. And there were the other attractive, beguiling men of her circle of acquaintanceship.

She resisted them easily. They were like good-­looking dandelion puffs blowing past her on the breeze. She couldn't take any of them seriously.

But the earl. . . . He resonated within her. Drew her.

Yet she had to withstand his allure. Predominantly out of self-­protection. Commoners and noblemen made a bad combination.

She also had a sense that it would never be a simple physical attraction between them, and the sooner she cut off that burgeoning attachment, the better.

It didn't make her happy, though.

“Where am I taking you?” he asked.

She almost laughed. She wondered that, herself.

“To the Imperial,” she said. “My landlady sleeps lightly. She'll hear your carriage outside and see ‘Ruby' climbing the stairs to my rooms.”

“How will you get home from the theater?” he pressed. “It's not safe for you to be out alone at this hour.”

Damn him, did he have to be so protective, so courteous?

“I can sleep there,” she said. “There are couches in the dressing rooms. I'll go home in the morning. My landlady is used to me sleeping sometimes at the office, so she won't be suspicious if I don't come home tonight.”

“Can't be very comfortable,” he muttered.

Neither is this,
she thought.

“Oh, the sofas are stuffed with moldering straw,” she answered breezily. “But I've slept on worse.” Especially during those lean years in her childhood.

He didn't seem to like the idea, but his silence as he continued to drive seemed to indicate that he was as accepting of it as he'd ever be.

It was a longer journey to the Imperial than she would have liked. Especially now that she was deeply, palpably aware of him beside her. Now she knew what his body felt like against her own. His lean muscles. His long hands on her waist. His soft, commanding lips pressed to hers.

She felt a little like Pandora, letting out all the demons, only to be left with the pathetic specter of hope rattling around an empty box. No way to undo her knowledge or take back what she'd been compelled to do. The kiss had been entirely mutual, and now she paid the price, since it was a single occurring phenomenon.

At last, they reached the darkened theater. He drove around to the side entrance, which was barely lit by a single, flickering lamp.

“Do you have a key?” he asked, eying the locked door.

“Kingston, the stage manager, is always here. He'll let me in.”

Ashford gave a clipped nod. He continued to hold the ribbons, looking between the horses' ears, but not at her.

How did one end a night like this? Where she'd dressed like a lightskirt and raced through London to Primrose Hill at speeds she'd never dreamed possible? When she'd passionately kissed the most dangerously seductive man she'd ever met? What did one say?

Good night
seemed terrifically paltry and anemic. But nothing else came to mind.

So she said nothing. Yet before she could climb down from the high seat of the phaeton, he'd already gotten out and was reaching up for her.

She let her hand slide into his. Warmth from his skin sank into her, threading through her body. An idle thought drifted into her mind, and once she stood upon the pavement, she impulsively tugged off his glove. The leather was slightly split along the palm's seam. Odd—­quality like that wouldn't tear apart easily.

Eleanor tried not to notice how large his glove was as she tucked it into a pocket sewn into her cloak. Instead, she focused on his palm. She brought it close to her face, trying to see it in the semidarkness.

“Your hands are hurt,” she murmured. Dark red stripes from his tight grip on the reins marked his flesh. Her fingers hovered over the wounds.

He shrugged. “It's a trifle.”

“They'll want some salve and bandaging.”

“A drink of whiskey and it won't matter.”

She shook her head at him. “Such a man.” She lowered her voice. “ ‘Nothing can hurt me. I'm made of gunpowder and bronze.' ”

“Iron,” he said. “Bronze bends too easily.”

She huffed out a disbelieving laugh. The audacity of him.

“Come inside,” she said, “and I'll wrap your hands.”

He raised a brow. “Didn't know doctoring was part of your substantial skills.”

“It's not,” she admitted. Other women seemed to have the gift of healing, yet she never did. “But I've read novels.”

It was his turn to laugh—­a low, rueful chuckle. “I'll let my valet attend to it. He's patched me up more than a few times.”

Naturally. A rake would need mending after all his wild exploits.

She frowned over the injuries. “I don't see similar scars. But this isn't the first phaeton race you've entered.”

He was silent for a moment. “Gripped the reins a little tighter this time,” he finally said. Grudgingly.

Which meant he hadn't been quite as calm or in control as she'd thought. And though he'd run the race before, there was one factor that hadn't been in place in those earlier contests.

Her.

He'd been concerned about her. Worried. And that had changed how he'd raced.

Oh, but she wanted to punch him. And kiss him again, too. She didn't think she could feel both desires for one person at the same time. But then, he was teaching her all manner of things about herself.