Forever Your Earl (20 page)

“Perhaps you damned well didn't,” she snapped. “I am exactly where I want to be, doing precisely what I want. I give ­people entertainment. With a dash of education. But if I can give them a taste of relief from their everyday lives, then I consider my efforts well spent.” She stood. “Better this than writing deportment manuals or moralistic novels where the heroine always dies at the end.”

Her rage was a palpable thing, hot and edged.

He, too, stood. “There's clearly no reasoning with you when you've willfully taken umbrage at what wasn't intended to give offense.”

“Yes,” she said acidly. “Clearly the fault is mine for being offended. How very hysterical and unreasonable I'm being.”

“You are,” he said tightly. “I'm offering you a compliment.”

She pointed to the door. “I will unreasonably tell you to leave now.”

“Eleanor.”

Her eyes blazed. “I may have kissed you, but I didn't give you leave to call me by my Chris­tian name.” She drew a breath. “Good-­bye, Lord Ashford.” Her heat had cooled into pure ice.

He often spent time practicing his pugilism skills. He knew the benefit of a strategic retreat. Now would be such a time. So he grabbed his walking stick, donned his hat, and gave her a clipped bow before leaving.

It was only later, as he sat in his carriage, wondering how everything had gone so horribly awry, that he realized she hadn't opened the box. And he'd so wanted to see the look on her face when she saw what he'd brought her.

He wondered now if he ever would.

 

Chapter 14

Is there any surer way to ensnare a woman than through the judicious usage of silk?

The Hawk's Eye
, May 11, 1816

D
amn.
Damn.

Eleanor wanted to throw something. Anything. But all she had in her office were stacks of paper, and those weren't particularly satisfying to hurl against a wall. She mulled kicking her desk, but her boots weren't very sturdy, and she'd probably hurt herself.

So she closed the door to her office and allowed herself the release of swearing. Considerably. At great volume.

Why was she so bloody angry? It wasn't as though Ashford hadn't expressed opinions she had never heard before. ­People called her work, and
The Hawk's Eye
, trash. Or they damned it, and her, with faint praise.
You're too talented to waste yourself on ephemera. Why don't you try writing something
real
? Something with actual substance?

She'd spoken the truth to the earl. She took great pride in her work. In what her newspaper did. There was nothing wrong with providing an hour's entertainment, especially when the reality of most ­people's lives was often grim and unrelenting. If she could give a harried mother a moment's respite, or relieve the tedium of a banking clerk's day, then what was wrong with that?

These were all arguments she'd made in the past, and with countless ­people, male and female. She didn't expect most to understand the why and wherefore of what she did.

Yet she'd hoped, somehow, that Ashford would be different. He hadn't appeared so. Not at first. But it had seemed that his opinion of her work, of
her,
had changed. And she'd been glad of it. Someone who understood her. What pushed and drove her ambition, her love.

It had felt so good.

But she'd been wrong about him. He was just like the others. Trivializing what she toiled over. Thinking her somehow “better” than the thing she adored. As though she couldn't judge for herself what deserved her focus and energy.

Disappointment curled in her acidly. She cursed herself for thinking that he was different. Because, in spite of himself, he'd shown some interest in the running of the paper. As no other man had ever shown. Because he'd been angry on her behalf for her youthful struggles. Only Maggie had shown her as much sympathy, but Maggie was the only other person Eleanor had allowed to know of her past. Certainly, Eleanor hadn't ever revealed her early history to any man. She could tell herself that Ashford had forced her disclosure, but she knew differently. It had been her choice to bare herself to him in that way. And she'd wanted to.

She'd wanted him to be special. His opinion mattered to her. That had been her mistake.

Her gaze fell on the large paperboard box, still sitting on her desk. She'd given up the story of her childhood in exchange for learning the contents of that box. And now she didn't even want to look inside.

No, that wasn't true. She still burned with curiosity to know what was in it. But another part of her wanted to return it unopened.

Her fingers twitched.

“Hell,” she muttered. She opened the box.

Eleanor unfolded the tissue paper surrounding the contents. And inhaled sharply.

It was a gown. The most incredible gown she'd ever seen. Deep sapphire silk that gleamed like the depths of the ocean. Pearls and sparkling beads adorned the deep neckline, as well as the edges of the short sleeves. Gently, she lifted the gown from the box. A gauzy cape hung from its shoulders, embroidered with silver thread. The wearer would appear to float as she walked, the cape swirling behind her like a magical mist.

Experimentally, she held it up to herself. Hell and damnation, it would fit her. Perfectly.

How did Ashford know? He must've gone to the Imperial and gotten her measurements that way. The bastard.

Her breath caught again when she saw something else in the box. Gently setting the gown aside, she reached into the box and picked up the object within.

A mask.

Made of white silk, the half mask was also adorned with seed pearls and silver embroidery. Silver and blue ribbons would fasten the mask to the wearer's face, concealing her identity while also highlighting her eyes.

Eleanor would look incredible in such a thing. She wasn't vain—­perhaps a little vain—­but she knew this with a deep certainty. With her blonde hair and hazel eyes, the sapphire silk would complement her beautifully.

She closed her eyes. Emotions and desires warred within her like ancient foes on the battleground.

She desperately wanted the gown.

She couldn't possibly accept it.

Even if she and Ashford hadn't argued moments earlier, she would not be able to keep the dress. He had to have known that. Yet he'd given it to her, anyway.

What the hell had he been thinking?

Quickly, before she could change her mind, she sat down and scribbled out a note. Sealed it. She put the gown and mask back into the box. Then she opened her door and called in Peter, the newspaper's errand boy.

“Take this”—­she held up the note—­“and that”—­she nodded toward the box—­“to the Earl of Ashford, at Manchester Square. If he asks for you to wait for a reply, don't.”

“Say ‘no' to an earl?” Peter looked dubious.

“Just drop it off and go. Leave it on the front step for all I care.” She paced back to her desk, sat, and picked up an article that needed editing. When Peter didn't move, she snapped, “Go on!”

The boy gulped, but he gathered the box and hurried out of her office. As soon as he left, she set down the article and rested her head in her hands. She wasn't entirely certain, but there was a good degree of likelihood that her
To Ride with a Rake
series had just ended. Angry melancholy swamped her. It had been a profitable series for
The Hawk's Eye,
and she'd be sorry to lose what momentum the paper had gained by discontinuing the series.

Even worse, though, was the fact that she and Ashford had parted so bitterly. And over things that should never have happened in the first place.

She probably wouldn't see him again. Another wave of sadness threatened to inundate her.

Forcing it back, she lifted her head and picked up the article again. Whatever her personal feelings might or might not be, she had a business to run. Sentimentality was for those with ample coffers.

A half hour later, Peter appeared in her door, short of breath. “I left it, just like you said. Ran away before anyone could stop me.”

She unlocked the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a small pouch. From the pouch she extracted a coin and handed it to Peter. “Thank you.”

He tugged on his forelock and trotted away, ready for the next errand. Though she doubted anything else he did today would be as unusual as throwing a stunning gown and mask at an earl.

There. It was done.
They
were done. It had been . . . amusing, and profitable, while it had lasted.

And she wouldn't miss him. The way his eyes twinkled when he made a particularly witty riposte. The admiration in his expression when he looked at her. His long, strapping body, or sinful mouth. No, she wouldn't miss any of that at all.

A footman in a familiar livery entered the writers' room and made the long walk to her office. Beneath his arm was the box.

That son of a bitch.

“I won't read it,” she said when the footman approached and held out an envelope.

“I'm told not to leave until you do,” the servant answered.

“Then you won't be returning to your place of employment, because I am not going to read that letter.”

“Yes, madam.” The footman positioned himself in one corner of her office. And stood. Still holding the box and the note.

She decided to ignore him. She also ignored the curious glances from her employees as they went in and out of her office all day, noting the footman in the corner. Most newspaper offices didn't have liveried servants.
The Hawk's Eye
was no exception. But she supposed that, until he eventually gave up, the footman was staying for now.

He stood, barely moving, for hours. Simply stared ahead, into that unseeable distance that all servants seemed to regard when standing in attendance. Credit was due. The young man, whatever his name was, made an excellent footman. He also drew the notice of some of the female writers on staff. Eleanor couldn't blame them. He was a handsome, tall lad who filled out his uniform very nicely. Good calves, too.

But she didn't care if he looked like a hero straight from the
Thousand and One Nights
. He was a nuisance who represented an even greater irritant—­and regret.

She worked for the whole of the day, refusing to acknowledge the footman. Half a dozen articles were edited, and she penned her own piece decrying false modesty. Lamps were lit against the setting sun. Still, he waited.

It was nearly eight o'clock. Time for her to go home.

She rose, donning her coat. “Are you going to stay here all night?”

“Yes, madam. I was told if I left for even a moment, I'd have no job waiting for me upon my return to the earl's house.”

More unkind names for the earl filled her head. He knew, he
knew
that she'd discover this, and he counted on her sympathy for the footman.

What choice did she have but to read the damned letter? She snatched it from the servant's hand and tore it open.

You don't have to accept the bloody dress. Consider it a temporary ensemble. But you'll need it and the mask for our next rakish excursion in three days hence.

—­A.

He still wanted to continue their association? After she threw him out of her office?

Either he was a lunatic, or he truly needed her to write these articles for some still opaque reason.

Or maybe, maybe, he wanted to see her again.

Most likely he needed the articles. She doubted he craved her company, especially after today.

“I'm to wait for an answer, too, madam,” the footman said.

“Of course you are.”

She sat herself down behind her desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and inked her quill.

What was she supposed to write?
Go bugger yourself
seemed like a nice option.
Don't order me around like a lackey
was another. Also,
Find someone else to write your sodding articles
.
Your thoughtless dismissal of my hard work broke my heart.

Instead, she wrote,
Name the time. We'll meet at the Imperial. —­E.H.

She had a paper to run, after all. It had nothing to do with wanting to see him again. Not one bit.

D
aniel couldn't recognize the sensations that danced over the surface of his skin. They were tight, uncomfortable. As he sat in his carriage, heading toward the Imperial, it took him some moments to realize that what he felt were nerves. Raw, edgy nerves. Even when gambling for the highest stakes, he was never anxious. But going to meet Eleanor tonight, he understood with disconcerting clarity that this feeling was apprehension.

He wanted to see her, yes, but there was an unknown element, too. They hadn't parted well, and their subsequent correspondence hadn't precisely been warm, either. What mood would he find her in tonight? Her fury was a hot and powerful thing. And she'd been angry with him. Very, very angry.

Gripping the head of his walking stick, he stared out at the passing city, deceptively quiet in the night. But beneath the sleeping façade lay a place full of seething life. And tonight, he and Eleanor would plunge back into that cauldron.

Why the devil should it matter what she thought of him? Why should he care that she was furious with him?

Because it did matter. A great deal.

That realization was sobering enough, without his already tense mood tightening even more the closer he got to the theater.

It surprised him that she'd even agreed to accompany him tonight. He'd thought for certain that she'd end their association—­especially after his misstep with the gown. But her business sense appeared to have won out over her personal ethics. To a point. The dress would have to go back after this evening. The modiste, Madame Clothilde, seldom had her exclusive creations returned. She would no doubt be shocked and perhaps even insulted by the reappearance of the gown—­though substantial financial recompense might smooth over any of the dressmaker's hurt feelings.

But damn, did he want to see Eleanor in that gown. He'd thought of her coloring specifically when selecting the fabric and describing the embellishments. His own ensemble was a complement to hers in color and material—­an old-­fashioned courtier's rig, with a full frock coat, waistcoat, and knee breeches. He even carried a tricorn hat, though he drew the line at wearing a wig. It might have spoiled the effect somewhat, but he had his pride. Wigs were for his grandfather's generation.

He adjusted his silk half mask. The item was supposed to give its wearer some anonymity, but he couldn't lose himself fully in his disguise. Not with his taut anticipation at seeing Eleanor thrumming through his veins. He couldn't remember who he was anymore. He thought he'd known himself as well as one knew a familiar piece of scenery. A cliff here. A gnarled tree there. But now the landscape was shifting, readjusting itself, and he found himself . . . lost. In himself. Craggy mountains where before there had been only a smooth plain. New rivers rushing through what was once a dry field. His mask only enforced that sense of otherness.

At last, the carriage pulled up outside the theater. But Eleanor wasn't there. Instead, a dark-­haired woman waited outside the performers' entrance. A stern expression marked her handsome face. Before the footman could leap down from his perch to open the door, the woman approached and leaned in the window to the carriage.