Forever Your Earl (21 page)

“You're playing a dangerous game, my lord,” she said tightly.

He fell back on his armor of politeness. “Have we been introduced, madam?”

“I know you, Lord Ashford,” she answered, “though I doubt you know me.”

She wasn't an actress—­he knew most of the female performers here at the Imperial, and he'd never seen her on the stage. The costumer? No. Ink stained the woman's fingers. A writer. Which had to mean . . .

“You're the playwright, Mrs. Delamere,” he realized.

Her brows lifted. “I'm not a public figure.”

“No, but your works are. I've a friend who never misses your new burlettas.”

She looked as though she fought the urge to preen. Instead, she made herself look stern again. “Eleanor doesn't know I'm talking with you, but I'm here to give you a warning. If any harm befalls her at your hands, I'll make Tourneur's
The Revenger's Tragedy
look like a springtime gala.”

Now it was his turn to raise his brow. “Do you threaten me, madam?”

Her grin was small and vicious. “It might seem inconceivable to you that a commoner might offer bodily harm to a peer. Indeed, I might be thrown into gaol for such an offense. But Eleanor is my dearest friend, and you'll find me quite creative and single-­minded when it comes to protecting those I care about.”

“An admirable quality,” he answered, liking this plainspoken playwright. “And I can assure you that hurting or harming Eleanor ranks at the very bottom of things I intend to do.”

“Ah, but intention and deed can often be very different things,” she replied, leaning on the window frame. “You've some ulterior motive in inviting her to come with you on your escapades. That much is clear to both Eleanor and myself.” Something appeared to trouble her, and she bit her lip as if to keep from speaking of it aloud.

Had Eleanor told Mrs. Delamere about their kiss? If they were indeed “dearest friends,” chances were good that she had.

In his most lofty tone, he said, “No disrespect was intended—­”

“Again, it's not a matter of intention, but the end result. You're a nobleman. The most untrustworthy lot,” she muttered to herself.

“What transpires between Eleanor and me concerns only us,” he said. He had more biting words to use, but he had to respect her gender, even if she didn't respect his rank.

“But it doesn't, my lord. She's alone in this world, as am I—­which means we've had to make our own families. Eleanor and I have the advantage of sisterhood without the complications of blood ties. So I will say one final time that should anything happen to her—­anything she doesn't wish for, or results in her pain—­I will seek you out and make you extremely repentant.”

“Your point is quite clear, madam,” he said coolly. The insolence of this woman! It was almost commendable.

Mrs. Delamere glanced over her shoulder. “Keep your mouth fastened about our conversation. She can be rather . . . foul-­tempered . . . when she feels her authority is undercut.”

Before he could answer, the stage door opened and Eleanor emerged, carrying her cloak on her arm.

All thoughts of what he was or was not going to say fled like a receding tide, leaving him like a fish gasping on the shore.

He hadn't been wrong. The colors and cut of the gown flattered her. In the most excruciating manner. The silk embraced her curves lovingly. All images of her as “Ned” vanished entirely. She didn't even look like the tart Ruby. No, she was far more elegant, regal and sensual at the same time. With each step, the gauzy cape attached to her shoulders flowed out in sapphire ripples. Instead of another wig, her hair was uncovered, pinned up in intricate curls with pearls winking among the blonde waves. The half mask brought her eyes to vivid light. She wore long white gloves, but combined with the crescents of bare flesh between the gloves and her sleeves, and the low neckline of the gown, he had ample evidence that her skin was satiny and smooth. He ached to touch her.

Yet he held himself still as she neared the carriage. She held herself stiffly, her back straight, her chin tipped up.

She hadn't forgiven him.

Mrs. Delamere stepped back as the footman opened the door to the vehicle. The servant held out a hand to help Eleanor in, but she didn't take it. Instead, she stayed where she was, eying Daniel from the pavement.

“What were you two discussing?” she asked warily.

“The earl's plans for tonight,” Mrs. Delamere answered.

“A masquerade,” he filled in. “At a certain nobleman's house. Secret invitation only.”

“Sounds like the kind of night you toffs enjoy,” the playwright said under her breath.

“What's the point of being a toff,” he answered, “if we can't have secret invitation masquerades where we revel in the perquisites of being nobly born?” He turned back to Eleanor. “I trust my plan for the evening meets with your approval.”

“My readers will enjoy an account of such an entertainment,” she said. Which wasn't precisely the kind of enthusiasm he'd been hoping for, but it would have to do for now.

“Shall I wait up for you, Cinder Maid?” Mrs. Delamere asked.

“Not tonight, Fairy Godmother.” Eleanor clasped her friend's hand, sharing with her a look of wry humor. “Tonight, I'm in charge of my fate.”

With that, she allowed the footman to help her into the carriage. She settled opposite Daniel in a rustle of silk, smelling of soap and spice. Good God, but she was dangerous. Beautiful, alluring. Enticing. Claws out, ready to shred him.

She was as intricate as one of those puzzles from China, interlocking pieces that would take time, patience, and wisdom to unlock. Usually, he avoided such complexities, especially in his choice of female companion. Now, he was pulled toward her inexorably, fascinated by all the knotty and obscure parts of her.

He now understood himself even less than he understood her.

The footman closed the door and climbed back onto his perch. Meanwhile, Mrs. Delamere shot Daniel a look fraught with meaning. He looked back coolly but still couldn't help respecting the playwright's protectiveness of her friend.

“Good night, my children,” Mrs. Delamere said, waving her hand like a monarch.

“Good night, Maggie,” Eleanor answered with a small laugh.

But her laugh faded as the carriage pulled away. Now she and Daniel were alone, and they had no one and nothing to protect them from each other.

 

Chapter 15

Anonymity is a dangerous, powerful thing. It can provoke in the most sedate, rational human the urge to behave as inappropriately as one likes, with nary a consequence to one's actions, believing one to be sheltered from the laws of common propriety. Oh, reader, it a most perilous illusion.

The Hawk's Eye
, May 15, 1816

T
he silence that reigned in the carriage was amongst the most uncomfortable Daniel had ever endured, and that included the silence that had fallen when, after a night of indulging in physical pleasure with Lady Jane Reynolds, he'd called her Joan. He'd taken a slap to the face for that—­rightly so—­and Lady
Jane
had treated him to a long period of purposeful muteness whenever they'd crossed paths.

He'd felt a little foolish then, but he hadn't experienced this tight pain, this awkward, strained sense of realizing that he'd made a grave error but didn't know how to repair it. And
wanting
to repair it.

Eleanor stared fixedly out the window, her hands folded in her lap. She'd donned her cloak, and it cocooned her protectively in silk. Later, she would emerge from that cocoon, butterfly-­like, to dazzle everyone at Marwood's masquerade. But for now, she held herself apart, distant. She was so cool to him that it was a wonder his breath didn't mist in the chilled air.

“You haven't said anything about my costume.” It wasn't much of an opening volley, but he needed something to break this silence.

Her gaze flicked from the window to him, then back again, all without showing the slightest change in expression. “Old-­fashioned. Like its wearer.”

“Suppose I deserve that,” he said.

“And worse,” she added. “But unlike others, I can keep my unkind opinions to myself.”

“Eleanor—­”

“I didn't say you could call me that.” Fire snapped in her eyes as she glared at him.

“Seeing as how we kissed each other,” he answered, “falling back on ‘Miss Hawke' seems regressive. And, despite what you believe, we're nothing if not progressive.”

“Hardly seems fair to grant you that intimacy when I don't have the same.”

He spread his hands. “You call me by the name all my friends know me by.”

“I want more.” She tipped up her chin. “If you're to use my Chris­tian name, then I demand the same honor.”

“What—­call me Daniel? Nobody uses that name.”

“Then I'll be the only one. My privilege.”

He frowned. It was merely a name. And yet it did hold a particular intimacy, something reserved only for those closest to him. It wasn't a coincidence that no one referred to him as Daniel. As Eleanor said, she would be the only person who did. A secret bond, linking them together, as though they held hands beneath a table.

He liked it.

“Very well,” he grumbled. “Daniel, then. But only in private. It would be suspect otherwise.”

“Daniel,” she repeated, and he discovered a new pleasure at that moment. Hearing her say his name. He took gratification in the shape it made on her lips, and the slight huskiness in her voice as she sounded the consonants.

“Eleanor,” he answered. Though it was shadowed in the carriage and though she wore a mask, he thought he detected a slight flush in her cheeks as he said her name.

If he thought that this exchange resolved the tension between them, however, he was mistaken. Another strained silence fell, like a mostly dead mouse dropped at one's feet by a cat.

She would not be as forgiving as Lady Jane Reynolds, who had eventually invited him back to her bed after several weeks of punitive wordlessness. In that case, too, the prize had been less valuable. He could always find another lover. But losing Eleanor's good opinion stung. No, it did more than sting. It
hurt
.

My God. He was going to do it. Apologize. Perhaps for the first time in all of his adult life. Though he had begged forgiveness from Catherine for failing Jonathan so miserably.

Still, that had been a unique—­and awful—­experience.

“What I said earlier,” he began, his voice a rusty growl. “At your office.”

“I remember,” she said tightly. “It's etched into my memory. Like acid. That I could ‘do so much better than scribbling about the likes of Lord A—­d,' and that the paper was ‘just a trifle.' ”

He winced. Did he actually say those things? Clearly, he must have, because she had an excellent memory and wouldn't invent such insults.

“You've every right to hate me,” he said.

“Oh, do I?” she asked brightly. “Thank you for giving me permission. I'd been concerned that I despised you without good cause, but now I see that I do.”

He grimaced. “There's no possibility that you are going to make this easy on me, is there?”

“Everyone else does,” she replied. “But I'm not like other ­people.”

“No, you assuredly aren't. You're better than they are.”

She merely stared at him, her mouth forming a thin line. Facile compliments wouldn't work with her, which he should have known.

“Am I?” She tilted her head. “Even though I write ‘
just
a scandal sheet'?”

He rubbed at his jaw, as though he'd taken a punch. “Poorly chosen words, I admit.”

“It's not the words I object to,” she retorted, “but the sentiment behind them.”

“I regret that, too.”

“Do you?” She peered closer at him. “You could simply mouth platitudes at me in order to benefit your own agenda, and keep me writing about you. Yes,” she answered before he could make a denial, “I know that there's some secret reason why you approached me in the first place. But I'm more concerned about raising my subscription numbers than I am about your rationale for using me.”

“That reason has to remain my own,” he said darkly.

“As you like,” she said airily. “But you'll understand my reticence in accepting your . . . well, actually, I don't know. Is this an apology?”

He gritted his teeth. Admitting he was wrong was an unpleasant, and novel, experience. Privilege had always been his, which meant very few ­people ever denied him or took umbrage at his actions—­or words. He had enough power so that he needn't care what others thought. Whether or not they approved of him. If he should feel any sense of shame for what he did.

And yet, with her—­especially with her—­it was very different.

“It is,” he finally growled.

“Then say it,” she answered.

“I . . .” He took a steadying breath. Crossing into a new frontier. For Eleanor. “I apologize.”

She didn't immediately throw wide her arms in acceptance, but she didn't dismiss him, either. That was something. He'd hurt her, though. And badly.

He continued, “I demeaned something that clearly means a great deal to you. Your life's work, in truth. I suppose . . .” He fought to find the words. “Why do you think I run around doing ridiculous things like wagering fortunes at gaming hells, or racing phaetons, or going to masquerades?”

“Because you're rich and bored,” she answered.

Her response cut him, for its speed as well as its accuracy. “There are other noblemen with passions. With ambition. They're involved with politics, or they fund scientific advancement. Or they concern themselves with any number of other interests. But I . . .” He glanced down at the fists his hands made. “ . . . I've never found that. No cause. No purpose. I hungered, but could never find anything to sate that appetite.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “Fine problem to have, I suppose. Too much money. Not enough responsibility. You think me a hollow man.”

“I think,” she said with surprising gentleness, “that you're still in search of yourself. That doesn't make you hollow. It means you're a strong vessel, waiting to find the right passion to fill you. I'd be more concerned if your aimlessness didn't bother you.”

He waved his hand impatiently. “This isn't to ask your pity. I don't want it, nor do I deserve it. But it's merely to explain that, when it comes to caring deeply about something, I've little experience. And I learned that I can be a ham-­fisted boor when it comes to the dreams and aspirations of others. But that wasn't my intention. Especially not with you.”

“Because you need my newspaper.”

“Because of
you
,
damn it,” he rumbled. The words themselves unsettled him, as if a great crack in the earth had suddenly opened, eager to swallow him. Yet he didn't tumble forward and disappear into darkness. Nor did she push him into the chasm. Instead, she watched him, wary, uncertain, and . . . intrigued.

More words tumbled from him. He was unable to stop them from rushing out. As if he needed them to be said. To continue the transformation of himself that had begun weeks ago when he'd walked into her office for that first time.

“I sodding
envy
you,” he heard himself say. “I bloody
respect
you. And there are damn few ­people I can say that about. But I see what you have, what you've built, and it makes me . . .”

Made him what? He could barely articulate the feelings to himself, yet they wanted to be spoken aloud, made real.

“ . . . makes me esteem you. And . . . it makes me . . .” He exhaled roughly. Unable to believe that he was about to give voice to these secret emotions. Yet he had to. For her. And himself.

“Ashamed of myself,” he said, almost angry. “For wasting the privileges I've been given. So, yes, I apologize. I put myself on a fragile pedestal because you make me feel . . .” He clenched his jaw as if to keep the words in.

“What?” she whispered softly into the silence. “Make you feel what?”

He spoke through clenched teeth. “Small.”

She sat back. Raw and wounded, the word hung in the air. He couldn't believe he'd said everything aloud. Couldn't comprehend the depths of his admission. He—­one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in England—­walked around with a broken, empty core. He could buy whatever he wanted. He could make anyone do anything. He was physically very strong. And yet, and yet . . .

Because of his inner weakness, he'd resorted to demeaning one of the few ­people he truly admired. And that shamed him.

He'd watched her, though, through his confession. And seen how, little by little, her fury had ebbed. Her expression softened, and understanding shone in her eyes—­framed by the mask.

She looked at him as though . . . she'd been given a very precious gift. Which she had. He threw baubles and trinkets at women with careless abandon, but never had he presented any of them with something as rare or fragile as his broken self.

And she cradled it carefully. He saw that in the gentleness in her gaze, the small, tender smile that curved her lips.

“There's nothing small about you,” she said quietly. “You're the most outsized person I know.”

“Bluster,” he said.

She shook her head. “There's truth in it. You give yourself too little credit.”

“For the first time,” he answered, “I'm being fully honest with myself. And I was a bully to you. I'm sorry,” he said again. “I said cruel, inconsiderate things. Things I regret. Not because of my agenda but because I was wrong.”

He waited for her to mock him. Or make some biting comment to set him in his place. She was not a soft woman, and he'd hurt her. Which meant that his opinion of Eleanor mattered to her. And that was a grave responsibility he wouldn't neglect.

She was proud, too. It would not surprise Daniel if she cut him down.

“Forgiven,” she said quietly.

He lifted a brow. “Because you want my good favor for the articles?”

“Because you made a mistake and admitted it,” she replied. “Because I believe your sincerity. And, as much as I do want these Rakewell pieces for
The Hawk's Eye,
if I thought you truly unrepentant, I'd put an end to them. I value myself and my work too much to stay in the company of someone who doesn't regard me with the same value.”

“Wise,” he said.

“Not always.” She smiled. “And,” she added quietly, almost reluctantly, “I might have . . . overreacted.”

He lifted a brow. “Indeed? The flawless Eleanor Hawke admits a fault?”

“I never said I was flawless,” she snapped. “I'm as fallible as anyone else. And I do make mistakes. Including being somewhat sensitive when it comes to the topic of my work and subject matter.” She made an angry, impatient sound. “We're slow-­moving targets, us writers of entertainment. They call us hacks, panderers, scribblers. You name an insult, I've heard it: our readers are fools; the writers themselves are imbeciles; we have no talent. And God forbid a
woman
should attempt to write something that isn't moralistic tripe. Then the insults are tripled.”

She took a shaking breath. “Forgive my lecture. But it's something of a sore point for me.”

“Understandable,” he said. “Never thought of what it must be like to be on the receiving end of so much contempt. Although,” he added with a wry twist of his mouth, “I've been on the other end of your paper's scrutiny. Yet I'm not affected by it.”

“I won't give up my work,” she said. “Even if Prinny himself denounces me.”

“No one wants his good opinion.”

“You know the Prince?” Her eyes went round.

“I avoid the Carlton House set. Even I have my standards.”

“Very well.” She laughed. “Then I wouldn't stop even if Shakespeare, Dr. Johnson, and Miss Austen all criticize me. No one else might think my work has value, but I do. And I have over a thousand readers who feel the same way.”

She fell silent for a long while. As did he. They both seemed uncertain as to what to do next.