Forever Your Earl (17 page)

It slowly dawned on her that she still held his hand. It formed a solid, warm weight, cradled in her palms. And it was a beautifully masculine hand, made even more so by the injuries he'd sustained. She had the absurd impulse to kiss those angry red marks, as if she could heal them.

The bastard.

Yet she didn't let go of him. Glancing up, she saw him staring down at their hands, too. His nostrils flared. His jaw tightened. And she knew, absolutely, that he wanted to kiss her again.

Just as she knew that she wanted him to.

She dropped his hand. Took a step back.

“Get that looked at,” she said.

“I said I would.”

“Good.”

They stared at each other a moment longer, the air thick with possibility and the fight for noble impulses to win out over the baser ones.

Finally, she turned and pounded her fist on the stage door. Silence reigned as she and Ashford waited. From within the theater, footsteps grew louder. Until they stopped on the other side of the door.

“We're sodding closed!” a Caribbean-­accented voice shouted inside.

“It's Eleanor Hawke, Mr. Kingston,” she answered. “I need to spend the night.”

Dead bolts were slid back and locks clicked, then the door opened. Kingston's dark brown face appeared in the gap. He looked at her with concern, then the concern gave way to suspicion when he gazed at the earl.

“Everything all right, Miss Hawke?”

“Just working on a story.”

The stage manager nodded sagely, as if that explained everything. Which it did, in truth. He held the door open wider for her and shot Ashford another glare.

“My thanks, Mr. Kingston,” she said.

“Anything for a friend of Maggie's,” he answered.

Eleanor took a step toward the theater, then glanced back at the earl. He stood beside the phaeton, looking opaque. But his hands were curled into fists at his sides, despite his wounds.

“Well . . . good night,” she managed, and winced at the banality.

“Night,” he answered.

She hovered, uncertain. But what else was there to say or do? After giving him a nod, she strode into the theater. Kingston closed the door behind her, fastening all the locks. For which she was grateful. Because without that barrier between her and the earl, she had a terrible suspicion she might go running after him, demanding they finish what they started.

It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night on the dressing room sofa.

“T
his is a first for you, my lord.” Strathmore daubed ointment onto the welts lining Daniel's palms. The stuff stunk of sulfur and burned like retribution—­as if Cook's special remedy was made of Hell itself.

But as Daniel sat in a chair by the fire in his bedchamber, he held himself still and made no noise of complaint as his valet doctored his injuries. He deserved the pain, after all, being so incredibly stupid as to take Miss Hawke on the phaeton with him during the race. What if he'd made a mistake? What if the carriage had tipped or crashed into another vehicle? Not only might he have broken his thick skull but she could've been hurt, or worse.

“Weren't you wearing gloves?” Strathmore pressed.

“Not thick enough ones, I suppose,” he answered. He reached for the glass of whiskey on a nearby table. The bandage on his left hand made it somewhat difficult to grasp the tumbler, but he was determined, and finally brought the rim of the glass to his lips. There. The alcohol scalded its way down his throat and served as its own balm to injuries that couldn't be treated—­except with spirits.

Strathmore glanced over at the lone leather glove thrown across Daniel's dressing table. Its mate had gone missing somehow. But the one that remained bore tears across the palm, evidence of just how hard Daniel had pulled and held the reins.

“I'll write a letter of complaint to the glover,” the valet sniffed. “It's a disgrace that his work cannot take a small amount of stress.”

Daniel bit back a laugh.
Stress
was such a short, simple word, that couldn't barely contain the whole of the evening. God, yes, he'd been terrified that something might happen to Miss Hawke. But also . . . damn it . . . also . . .

It had been one of the best nights of his life. He'd never had a thrill as he'd had tonight. Sharing the excitement of the race with her—­and she
had
been excited. During the race itself. And after.

He took another swallow of whiskey, then tipped his head back and stared at the flickering shadows on the ceiling. Jesus, that kiss. He'd ask himself what he'd been thinking, but he already knew the answer.

Daniel hadn't been thinking at all. He'd simply wanted. And taken. And maybe he was a bloody bastard, but he couldn't make himself regret it, not when that kiss had been so explosive, so rich with heat and possibility. If he'd ever wondered if Miss Hawke's tongue could do more than trade banter, he had his proof now.

Her kiss had been alive and responsive, carnal, aware. Demanding. She knew what she wanted and how to get it. No shrinking flower, this Miss Hawke. She was a woman grown, and he gave thanks for her experience—­while cursing it at the same time.

Because he wanted to kiss her again. Wanted more than just a kiss.

He could blame that damn red dress. He could blame the exhilaration of the race. But neither gave the full truth. Since their first meeting, everything had been building toward this. Every barb they traded, every sly look or witty retort they exchanged—­it all led to that kiss.

“What's that, my lord?” Strathmore asked, wrapping strips of linen around Daniel's other hand.

“I said nothing.”

“You . . . growled.”

“Not an uncommon sound for me to make.” Daniel examined his valet's handiwork. “Nicely done. Now get yourself some sleep,” he added, not unkindly.

Strathmore bowed, collected his physicking supplies, and retreated from the bedchamber. Leaving Daniel alone with his wounds, his whiskey, and his thoughts.

Though it was nearly three in the morning, Daniel felt no compulsion to sleep. Restlessness pushed at him. He stood, taking his empty glass with him, and walked to another cabinet that held his particularly private store of alcohol. After getting a refill, he stalked to the fire and stared into its flames, contemplating the patterns made from heat and light.

What a chaos his life had become. Between his search for Jonathan, his arrangement with Miss Hawke, and the damned inconvenient attraction between him and the journalist, never had things been in such upheaval.

His blood surged when he was with her. As though . . . as though he was truly alive. For the first time in . . . He couldn't remember when. It was like waking from a long hibernation to discover a green and thriving land, when before all had been gray and lifeless. Even thinking of her now set his pulse to kicking, his body stirring. For all his reputation, he wasn't so much a cad that he'd drive back to the theater and demand that he and Miss Hawke continue where they'd left off. But damn if he didn't want to.

They couldn't. And there could be no repeat of the kiss. He wanted Miss Hawke, but he owed it to Jonathan to keep his head and keep his trousers buttoned. He couldn't allow anything with the scandalmonger to get too complicated. As if they hadn't already.

Restlessness continued to beat in his blood, despite his resolution. He could go out again, but the thought of gambling, or drinking, or carousing all felt shallow and shrill. Solitude suited him better now.

He paced over to his bedside table and pulled a book from a drawer.
The Duchess's Secret
, by “A Lady of Dubious Quality.” The latest sensational erotic novel by the anonymous female author. The books had been making the covert rounds, traded in clubs and card rooms, thin volumes slipped easily from pocket to pocket. But Daniel had the sneaking suspicion that more than a few women were also reading the salacious books.

Erudite, it wasn't. Yet he wasn't in the mood for some intellectual opus on philosophy or science. He wanted distraction, and what better way to distract himself than with some quality filth?

He strode back to the fire, threw himself into the chair, and opened to a page at random. It wasn't as though the plot mattered.

“
I gasped in delight as the stablehand's lips closed around my—­
”

He snapped the book shut. Only one line in, and he could go no further. Because when he pictured the stablehand, he imagined himself. And the face of the naughty duchess belonged to none other than Miss Hawke.

This was going to be an interminable night.

 

Chapter 12

Fear is a peculiar engine. It can either trap us in its web, rendering us unable to move as we await our grim fate, or it can spur us into action. There are dangers to both responses, of course. Quiescence leads to torpidity which ultimately leads to stagnation. But a reckless flight headlong into the arms of that which frightens us can result in unforeseen circumstances. Circumstances which can be most dire . . .

The Hawk's Eye
, May 11, 1816

A
dockside tavern at night was no place to take a lady, especially a lady who was no more than a girl of seventeen. The Double Anchor boasted—­if that was the right term—­one weak lantern outside, though it would have been for the best if no one had been able to see the grimy, ramshackle façade, its shutters hanging in awkward angles, the glass within the windows warped and grimy, the bricks lining the front stained with God only knew what. Daniel had no desire to investigate the black streaks running down the face of the tavern.

He and Catherine sat inside his least impressive carriage, staring at the front of The Double Anchor. Had Daniel been alone, he would have approached on foot, lest the carriage attract too much attention. But, damn it, Catherine's presence was a necessary evil, one he regretted every time. But as Jonathan's beloved baby sister, she was the only one her brother might respond to.

No doubt if Jonathan took one look at Daniel's face, he'd bolt, and disappear deeper into the underbelly of London. Deep enough that Daniel's already slim chances of finding him would vanish entirely.

But that didn't mean he had to like bringing an innocent like Catherine to a dung heap like The Double Anchor. He bloody hated it.

“Ready?” he asked.

She took a deep breath and nodded, pulling her drab cloak tighter around her. Per Daniel's instructions, they both wore their dullest, cheapest clothing. But one couldn't completely hide years of breeding. They'd still stand out amongst the riffraff, no matter what he and Catherine wore. A hazard of being part of the aristocracy. There weren't many, but that was one of them.

Also because of Daniel's instructions, tonight they traveled without a footman on the back of the carriage. Another way they'd attract attention. So he opened the door himself, and climbed down. He helped Catherine out, and a strange thought flashed through his mind. Her hand felt much smaller, more fragile, in his than Miss Hawke's did. For all Catherine's immense strength and courage, she was still so slight, so delicate, especially compared to Miss Hawke.

He shook his head, dislodging the idea. Now wasn't the time to think of the journalist, or how she'd haunted his every waking—­and dreaming—­moment since the phaeton race three days ago. Now he needed to focus on finding Jonathan and keeping Catherine safe as they searched.

But he wouldn't have been able to go looking for his old friend if it hadn't been for
The
Hawk's Eye
reporting on his theoretically more scandalous activities. The brighter spotlight on his other deeds threw the shadows deeper to hide activities such as this. It took Miss Hawke's attention away from his search, and for that, he was grateful.

The cries of gulls intermingled outside with the screech of a fiddle inside. A man's prone form splayed on the dirty pavement, cradling a bottle of gin. The drunkard partially blocked the doorway, so Daniel used his boot to shove the man aside. Too far gone into his stupor, the tippler didn't notice or make a sound of protest. He did let out one single snore, before settling down again.

Daniel placed his hand on the doorknob. He had a pistol tucked into his coat and a knife in his boot. Beyond those weapons, he had his fists. Bloody foolish to walk into a place like this—­especially with Catherine beside him—­unarmed.

This wasn't the first time he and the girl had found themselves in such a location. Though every time, he hoped it would be the last. Would tonight prove different?

He pushed open the door. The fiddle play didn't stop, precisely, but there was a small judder in the bow across the strings when he and Catherine crossed the threshold. A dozen heads bent over their pints turned in their direction. So much for staying discreet. Nothing to be done about that.

Slowly, he and Catherine threaded their way through the battered assortment of tables and the men huddled around them. The tavern was like any of dozens Daniel had seen since first he'd begun his search for Jonathan. Filthy, cramped, hot, with smoke-­stained timbered beams crossing the low ceiling. The structure hadn't been
built
so much as
grown,
like a fungus. Tonight, the fungus was populated by a collection of drunkards, reprobates, dockworkers, and sailors. A game of dice was being played in the corner. A prostitute sat on a sailor's lap, halfheartedly toying with his hair.

Daniel kept his attention split between reaching the bar and keeping an eye on Catherine. Brave girl kept her chin tipped up. She didn't shrink into herself, but wisely, she didn't try to meet anyone's gaze, either. Men like these would read that as an invitation.

Finally, he and Catherine reached the bar, where a scrawny, balding man eyed them dubiously.

“What you want?” the tapster demanded.

“Information,” Daniel answered. “And discretion.”

“None of them things is cheap.”

“They never are.” Daniel slid a coin across the chipped bar top. “Looking for someone.”

“Lots of someones here.” The barkeeper smirked as he tucked the coin away.

That was debatable. The tavern seemed filled with many no ones.

Catherine pulled a miniature of her brother from the folds of her cloak and showed it to the barkeeper. “Him.”

The man squinted at the small portrait. It had been painted years ago, before Jonathan had gone to war, and showed him with heartbreaking excitement about the life he was to lead, little knowing what his future would actually entail.

“He'd look different now,” Daniel added. “Thinner, most likely. Showing signs of hard living.”

After a moment, the tavern keeper shook his head. “Naw. Even when they're slumming, gentry folk don't come here. They didn't,” he added, eyeing Daniel and Catherine, “until now.”

Though this trail was far from a sure thing, disappointment was lead in Daniel's stomach. He kept hoping, time and again, that each filthy rattrap he visited would be the last, and that he'd finally locate his old friend. But tonight was just as much of a waste as any other.

Still, he had to cling to hope, for Catherine's sake.

He slid another coin across the bar. “That's for keeping your mouth shut about our questions.”

The money disappeared instantly. “ 'Course, gov.”

Whether or not the tavern keeper would keep silent was debatable. Gossip was a common currency. Everyone traded in it. But Daniel had to do his due diligence and try to hide their tracks. If Jonathan got word that ­people were looking for him, he'd burrow deeper into the shadows, and then he'd truly be impossible to find. But if Catherine could reach out to him, appeal to him, then maybe, just maybe, they might be able to bring him home.

“Might want to try the Lady Anne five blocks over, if you're looking for a toff who likes rattling around these kind of places,” the barkeep suggested, then looked expectantly at Daniel.

He gave the man another coin. Moving away from the bar, Daniel placed one arm around Catherine's now sagging shoulders and guided her toward the door.

She gave a small yelp. Daniel pivoted and saw that one of the patrons had a thick paw wrapped around Catherine's wrist. She fought to tug herself from his grip.

“How much?” the man demanded. “I never had me a taste of quality before.”

“For you,” Daniel answered, “nothing.” His fist shot out and plowed straight into the man's face.

Instantly, the sot released his grip and toppled to the ground. Out cold.

“The rest of you will get the same if anyone so much as
contemplates
her,” Daniel said flatly.

Everyone instantly became fascinated with their drinks. The path to the door was remarkably clear thereafter. In a few moments, Daniel and Catherine were back in his carriage, heading toward the majestically titled Lady Anne. Though he expected the place didn't live up to the grandeur of the name.

“I keep hoping,” Catherine said quietly. “But it's like dying a little every time they say no.”

Daniel reached across the carriage and took her hand in his. “We'll find him. I swear to you—­”

She gave a laugh that was far too mature and embittered for a girl her age. “Please do not make promises you cannot keep.”

“Then I'll try to find him until breath leaves my body.”

She nodded slightly, squeezing his hand. “Thank you. That's more than I could ever ask for.”

“Jonathan deserves it.
You
deserve it.”

“I've been reading about you,” she said with a little smile. “I mean, I've been reading about Lord Rakewell. The phaeton race.”

He gently released her hand and leaned back. “Ah, yes, my rakish exploits.”

Daniel had also read the article. Now that the piece was out, some of the ­people at the race might have determined the identity of Lord Rakewell, and that Ruby was the journalist.

Hopefully, they were too deep in pursuits of pleasure to truly notice, or care.

Despite the fact that he'd actually lived the experience, he'd found Miss Hawke's account of it to be compelling, exciting reading. While perusing the piece, he'd actually doubted for a few moments the outcome of the race. She knew her business as a writer, that Miss Hawke.

Though he wondered if he could call her “Miss Hawke” now that he'd kissed her. It seemed cold and distant compared to her Chris­tian name. Eleanor. He had to think of her that way, considering the fact that his dreams of her had been getting progressively impolite. Decidedly carnal. Her peeling off that red dress . . . him tasting that ripe mouth of hers . . . tasting more than her mouth . . .

He shook his head. He couldn't have such erotic thoughts when Catherine sat nearby.

Something Eleanor did
not
write about was the kiss. It did and did not surprise him that she left that detail out. A more sensationalist writer would gleefully exploit the event. But either she was exceptionally private, or she didn't want her own reputation called into question.

Either way, he was grateful she'd omitted the kiss. It kept it strictly between them. Almost as though it was private and . . . special. Yes, there'd been many raucous spectators, but despite their presence, the kiss still belonged to him and Eleanor alone.

“Jonathan loved phaeton racing,” Catherine murmured, interrupting his thoughts. “I wasn't supposed to know about it, but I could always tell when he'd been out, speeding around in that high-­flyer of his.” A smile touched her voice.

“He always boasted he could beat me,” Daniel said.

“Did he ever win against you?”

“No. But just before he went abroad to fight, he said he'd return and trounce me.” Melancholy settled heavily in Daniel's chest. That rematch had never happened. Perhaps it never might.

“And he said he'd teach me how to drive,” Catherine added, sadness dimming her voice.

Daniel almost offered to teach her himself. But until he had proof that Jonathan was no longer alive, showing Catherine how to handle a carriage was his friend's prerogative.

“He still might,” he felt compelled to say.

“He might,” she agreed. Though doubt tinged her words. Like Daniel, Catherine was losing hope. And damn it if that fading hope didn't break his heart.

He'd even looked for Jonathan at the race, as one of the spectators. But if he'd been there, he must have been too transformed for Daniel to recognize him.

She seemed to rally herself, forcing another smile. “A gaming hell. A phaeton race. Where will you take your journalist next on your profligate adventures?”

“That's to be decided.” There were any number of dissolute places he could bring Eleanor. Yet a question gnawed at him: where did he
want
to take her? And how would it make her think of him? A distressing thought: he actually desired her good opinion. It mattered to him.

When had that changed? Since the kiss? No—­before. Somewhere along the way, he began to respect her, and need her respect in return. Things that never mattered to him before, not with anyone.

Before he could pursue that alarming thought any further, the carriage stopped. He peered out the window at the Lady Anne tavern. It looked much as The Double Anchor did—­a miserable edifice holding a miserable collection of miserable souls.

He fought a sigh. Jonathan might be in there. Or, worse, he might not. No way to know but to go inside and start this grim process all over again.

His one consolation was the thought of seeing Eleanor again. It might not make up for the bleak search for his friend, but she remained one ray of light in a world draped in shadows.

E
leanor made her way back from the pie shop down the street, carrying her luncheon. As she did so, she spotted a familiar carriage parked outside her office. Immediately, her heart began its version of a military tattoo, and the paper-­wrapped pie in her hands nearly slipped to the pavement. Logically, she knew she'd see the earl again. He'd even sent a note the day before stating that they'd meet soon. But that didn't quite prepare her for the visceral thrill of seeing his carriage and knowing he was nearby.

Nervousness and excitement warred against each other. She stopped in the street, ignoring the curses of those whose paths she blocked.

It was just a kiss. ­People kiss all the time and the world doesn't go spinning off its axis.