Forever Your Earl (2 page)

“I don't judge,” she fired back, “only report the facts as I know them.”

He snorted. “They aren't facts. Just half-­truths buried in terrible prose.”

“My writing is
not
terrible,” she muttered. “Have you read the
Examiner
lately?
That
is some execrable hack work.”

“And yet here I stand,” he said flatly, “in
your
office.”

“So you do. But, my lord, you may rail and complain and whine like a petulant child—­”

He sputtered.

“—­but you're a public figure. As such, that makes you fair game. The rest of the world lead fairly dull lives. We get up—­”

“As do I.”

“Eat our breakfasts.”

“I do the same.”

“Go to work.”

Here, he was silent.

She continued, “Most of us cannot afford to go to the theater or gaming hells or have the social connections to attend private assemblies. But you can, and you do. You are what we all aspire to be, my lord.”

He laughed ruefully. “Perhaps you and your readers ought to set your sights higher. There are ­people of, how would you put it, far greater
moral
character worth mirroring.”

“Maybe so,” she answered candidly. “I can list dozens of men and women, all of greater purpose and ambition than yourself, that I would much rather see held up as an example to emulate. Teachers or philanthropists.”

He looked insulted. “I donate generously to orphanages and veterans' assistance organizations right here in London.”

“Do you?” She should make a note of that later. None of her sources had ever uncovered that aspect of the earl's life, but it would make for a surprising and rather delicious counterpoint to his rakish public behavior. It also spoke well of Lord Ashford that he did not attempt to make public his charitable endeavors. But it was rather easier to do her job if she didn't think
too
highly of him.

“Regardless of the content of your character, my lord,” she went on, “you live a life only a minute fraction can ever hope to attain. As such, that makes you an object of fascination. And the truth of it is, you cannot stop me or anyone on my staff from writing about you.”

“A miserable fact of which I'm well aware,” he answered.

She strode back around her desk. “Then I believe we've said all we can to one another, delightful as this exchange has been. Good day, my lord.” She started to sit. “I'm rather busy, but I can have Harry show you to the door if you require.”

But Lord Ashford didn't move. Stood exactly where he was, with his arms still folded over his chest. “If you are going to use me as your subject, the least you can do is proper research.”

She hovered over her chair. “Forgive me for not being Cambridge-­educated, but I'm not certain what you are suggesting.”

Unfolding his arms, he braced his hands on the edge of her desk, leaning slightly forward. Despite the expanse of the desk separating them, she felt compelled to lean away.

“What I am suggesting, Miss Hawke,” he murmured, “is that you accompany me. Day and night. That way, you can see exactly what I do with my time. You see,” he continued, a slow smile unfolding, “I don't want you to stop writing about me at all. I want you to get it right.”

D
aniel still hadn't quite recovered from his shock at learning that E. Hawke was, in fact,
Eleanor
Hawke. She also wasn't the sort of slattern he might expect in this Grub Street milieu. Miss Hawke resembled a prosperous shopkeeper's wife—­granted, a pretty shopkeeper's wife, with her wheat-­blonde hair, bright hazel eyes, strong but feminine features, and nicely curved figure. She looked to be about his age of thirty-­two years, as would befit someone who owned and operated their own business.

A female in a field almost entirely dominated by males. If there were any other women in her line of work, he'd never heard of them. She must have inherited the paper from some male relative—­a father or husband, perhaps. Maybe a deceased husband. Certainly she hadn't founded the periodical herself.

Still, here she was, surprising in her respectability. She wore a modest peach-­colored dress, and her hair was neatly pinned back. The only sign she worked for a living was the ink staining her fingers.

He hadn't counted on a woman being E. Hawke. But it was actually perfect. His suggestion would be all the more enticing to her. A journalist and a woman were the two most inquisitive creatures on earth. Combine them, and only a cat could rival her for curiosity.

He'd turn her attention away from the activities that had been consuming him these past two weeks and distract her from his true purpose. While he had her gaze focused elsewhere, he could continue on with his true goal—­finding Jonathan.

His proposition clearly intrigued Miss Hawke. She continued to hover over her chair.

Despite her interest, she asked suspiciously, “Why would you
want
me to write about you?”

“As you said,” he explained, “I cannot stop you from penning these absurd articles about my life. And if I can't stop you, the very least you can do is be accurate. What better way than to have you come with me each day and night and record my activities? Unless you don't feel up to the task of late-­night revelry and observing firsthand how the elite of Society fill their wicked hours.”

This was most assuredly not the truth. But he wasn't about to explain that Jonathan Lawson, his closest friend since childhood, had been missing for nearly a month. The situation was even more dire, because soon after Jonathan's disappearance, his elder brother had died. Now Jonathan was the heir to one of England's oldest and most esteemed dukedoms—­and no one could find him. Before his disappearance, he'd been seen with low, rough company. Men who slunk around the alleys of the East End and lived like rats. If the truth ever got out about Jonathan's vanishing—­especially in the newspapers—­the family could be utterly ruined.

But Daniel, as Miss Hawke had so thoroughly argued, was a public figure. She documented his every movement. He had to turn her shrewd gaze away from the hunt for Jonathan. Providing specifically engineered distractions was exactly the strategy that was needed. So he'd open himself up to her scrutiny—­because he owed it to Jonathan. A minor inconvenience was nothing compared to the failure to honor the unspoken promises of friendship.

And Daniel had failed Jonathan's friendship spectacularly.

Miss Hawke dropped into her chair, swiveling the seat back and forth as she mulled over his offer. Her brow furrowed, and she steepled her fingers, pressing them to her bottom lip. Were he a painter—­which he assuredly was not—­he'd paint the scene and title it
Study in Wary Contemplation.

Finally, the swiveling of her chair stopped, and she faced him. “I don't trust you,” she stated baldly.

No one except Jonathan and his friend Marwood spoke to him so candidly. Yet Miss Hawke addressed him as if she had every right to be so blunt. As though they were equals. On every level.

He waited to feel a hot wave of outrage or anger. None came. It was . . . refreshing. To be talked to like he was . . . himself. Not the Earl of Ashford, a nobleman that required flattery or coddling or toadying deference. But an ordinary man.

“Why should you?” he answered frankly.

His own candor seemed to catch her by surprise, which felt like a small victory. She wasn't the only one capable of shocking someone.

“I've no reason to,” she replied. “We've clearly established ourselves at cross purposes. You've already observed two salient facts about me. I'm the owner of this enterprise. And I'm a woman.”

“Both facts have been noted by me, yes.” The unfortunate truth was that had he seen Miss Hawke on the other side of a ballroom, he would have sought to claim a dance—­if not more. She was distractingly attractive. Worldly, clever. Slim and curved. But his intent was too important to let something like her prettiness throw him off his course.

She couldn't know his motivations for being here, or what prompted him to offer up such an outrageous proposition. And if she rejected his offer . . . No, she had to accept. The reputation of an influential family depended on it. Even more important, Jonathan's life lay on the line.

Miss Hawke continued, “Neither condition has inclined me to have faith in others, particularly men.”

That
caught his attention.

Before he could press her on that interesting admission, she continued, “And yet . . .” She steepled her fingers together again. “I'd be a fool to refuse your proposition. After all, what's to stop you from going to one of my competitors with the same offer?”

He didn't mention that none of the other scandal sheets reported on him as regularly and with such underlying glee as
The Hawk's Eye
.

“Nothing,” he said. “Only my own inclination.”

Her brow still lowered in thought, she stood and began to pace the length of her office—­which wasn't very far, so she caromed back and forth like a snooker ball.

“We could make it a regular feature,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Advertise it in upcoming issues leading up to the series. Drive up sales. And we'll call it . . . we can call it . . .”

“
The Adventures of Lord A.,
” he suggested.

She threw him an exasperated look, as if disappointed with his efforts. “Not nearly titillating enough.”

“Forgive me if I'm not familiar with the ways of lurid prose.”

“You'll never make it as a journalist,” she fired back.

“Thank the heavens,” he replied.

As she paced her tiny office, she continually brushed past him. He caught her scent of ink, oil from printing presses, and cinnamon. Daniel had no desire to press himself into the corner like a frightened dog, so he remained where he stood, despite the disconcerting proximity of Miss Hawke.

Suddenly, she stopped, and her face lit up. Inspiration had struck, and it turned her from pretty to extraordinary in an instant.

“
To Ride with a Rake,
” she pronounced.

He winced. Of all the names he'd been called in his life—­“rogue,” “prodigal,” “libertine”—­
rake
had always been one of his least favorite. It implied a certain leering, cheap smuttiness. “We don't need to use that word.”

“Oh, but we do,” she answered, face shining. “Other than the word
duke,
nothing intrigues potential readers more than
rake
. You do want ­people to read the columns, don't you?”

Given his preferences, his natural inclination was to say no. But these were extraordinary circumstances, and he needed as many eyes fixed on his activities as possible. “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.

She beamed at him. “Excellent.
To Ride with a Rake
it shall be.”

A sudden thought bloomed in his mind. “My exceptionally keen powers of observation have noted that you are, in fact, female. Keeping company with me will harm your reputation.”

Her laugh was husky, honey over polished stones. “I'm a writer, my lord. I
have
no reputation.”

Most of the women of his acquaintance guarded their names assiduously, fearfully. They lived in a world where a woman's social standing meant everything. But this strange Miss Hawke seemed to dwell in a fringe realm, unconcerned about what anyone thought about her. As if she were a man. Or, at the least, a man's equal.

How very intriguing.

“Then we're agreed, my lord?” she pressed. “I'm to accompany you on your sundry activities, and write about them for
The Hawk's Eye
?”

This was it. His last chance before throwing wide the doors of his life and making himself the object of public examination. He'd been scrutinized before, but never to the extent that he proposed now. The very thought made his chest tighten and his fists clench, ready to defend himself and his privacy. Gentlemen never did anything for notoriety's sake. They were discreet, elegant, reserved.

There was nothing discreet, elegant, or reserved about appearing like a circus attraction in the pages of Miss Hawke's scandal sheet. Yet he had to. For Jonathan's family. More importantly, for Jonathan himself.

“We're agreed,” he said.

She stuck out her hand. Offering it to shake. He stared at it for a moment. Ladies didn't shake hands—­they presented them to be bowed over, or else the women curtsied. But here was more proof that Miss Hawke was unlike any other female he'd ever known.

His handshake was his bond. This final gesture would seal his fate.

Finally, he took her hand in his. He still wore his gloves, but through the delicate kidskin he could feel calluses lining her fingers—­she worked for a living. Her hand was warm, too, even through the thin leather of his gloves. A tropic current pulsed through him. What would it feel like to have their bare palms press against each other, skin to skin? He'd known the feel of many women, but none like her.

She gazed down at their joined hands, a faint frown nestled between her eyebrows. As if trying to puzzle out an enigma.

He'd have to be on his guard around her. She was the kind of person who would never give up on a mystery until every aspect of it was uncovered. If she unearthed his true motive for this proposition, the consequences would be ruinous.

Abruptly, she broke the grip between them. Her hand pressed against her skirts. She cleared her throat. “We should fix a schedule. When shall we begin?”

“As soon as possible.”

She narrowed her eyes. “In a hurry, my lord?”

Using years of a nobleman's training, he made his voice smooth and unaffected. “Don't want to keep your readers in the dark for too long.” Which wasn't an answer, but he wasn't about to give her one.