Forever Your Earl (22 page)

Then she reached across the carriage. She took one of his hands in hers.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For . . . all of it.”

She seemed to know he wouldn't want more than that, with the revelations too fresh and primal to accept anything beyond the simplest of balms.

He could only nod and squeeze her hand, some unnamed emotion hot and tight in his throat.

The carriage pulled to a stop. Daniel glanced out the window. They'd reached their destination.

“Are your readers ready to learn what goes on at masquerade?” he asked.

“Even if they aren't,” she said with a grin, “I am.”

The footman opened the door and waited.

Daniel offered Eleanor his arm. “Then let us venture forth into what promises to be a most educational evening.”

When she clasped his forearm, he realized that he was looking forward to the next few hours with unseemly enthusiasm. He'd never before entered into an inferno like this with a woman like her—­a woman he truly cared about.

A
s Eleanor stepped from the carriage, her hand on Daniel's arm, excitement poured through her in an effervescent cascade. A small part of her was still bruised from his earlier words, and it would take more time and show of good faith from him for that injury to heal. And she felt the impact of his revelations, too. How open and exposed he'd left her. The intimate confession of the truths of his heart. It stunned her that a man of such importance could feel even the slightest amount of uncertainty. Yet he did. And he'd revealed that to
her.

She knew with certainty that he'd never spoken of such things to anyone else. She'd been given a privilege.

He was more than subject matter to her. Far more. And, it seemed, she was more to him than the means to an end. They'd become . . .
friends
didn't quite encapsulate everything that they were to each other, and it didn't quite delineate the uncertainty that still existed between them. Yet it was as close to anything that could define what they had become.

Nor could she deny the thrill that came from the promise of a night with him in the heart of wickedness. She'd written and heard about parties like these masquerades, but she'd never been to one herself. And now she was about to.

With him. It wouldn't be half as stimulating without having Daniel beside her.

Daniel
. She couldn't believe he'd granted her the honor of his Chris­tian name, and yet now that he had, it seemed precisely right. Together, they could be Eleanor and Daniel, not Miss Hawke and Lord Ashford. Something for them alone.

But she couldn't forget the reason for their intimate association. She was here tonight to see the world of the wealthy at play and report back to her readers. So she made herself observe everything with close attention.

The house they stood in front of belonged to none other than Lord Marwood. It was a grand, imposing structure on Mount Street, as immense and stately as Daniel's home. Carriages stood outside, with masked figures in elaborate fancy dress descending from their vehicles and queuing up to go inside. The tall windows fronting the mansion had been opened, and laughter and music bubbled out like sparkling wine to splash onto the street, offering the promise of pleasure.

Waiting their turn to go inside, Eleanor spotted all manner of costumes on the masked guests in the queue. These attendees also laughed and were already deep in the process of flirtation, offering each other outrageous compliments and making theatrical gestures.

Speaking lowly so no one but Daniel could hear her, she said, “I see three Cleopatras, two Caesars, four medieval knights, Queen Elizabeth, Aphrodite, and Bacchus. And something that appears to be a cross between a cat and a courtier. You toffs do enjoy pretending to be someone else.”

Daniel gave a wry smile. “With the world's eyes on our every movement, can you blame us?”

“I suppose everyone needs the chance to escape from themselves,” she murmured.

He shook his head. “Don't think too much about it. This is a chance to liberate yourself. Take the opportunity for what it is.”

He'd liberated himself in the carriage, telling her things about himself she knew he'd spoken of to no one else.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Freedom,” he murmured back. “A mask gives us the chance to be anyone at all.”

“Assuming you're already someone to begin with,” she pointed out. “Some of us aren't so noteworthy.”

“Ah, but you don't believe that about yourself,” he chided gently. “I've seen you at work. I
know
.”

He did—­and that almost frightened her.

“Tonight,” he continued, “you needn't be responsible for the livelihood of dozens of ­people. You don't need to concern yourself with page proofs, or the content of an article. Or even who you are as a writer. There's no room for thought this evening. It's pure existence.”

She wondered if he was telling himself this as much as her. Because of what he'd said in the carriage, and all it signified. He'd exposed his deepest self to her, and now was the time for sensation and experience.

“It does sound appealing,” she admitted.

Could she free herself? Every moment of her life was tightly controlled. Of necessity. She had a business to run, ­people relying on her. And while she did have a duty tonight to record everything that she saw, perhaps she could seize the chance, as Daniel said, to cut the moorings that lashed her to the pier of responsibility. Be whoever she desired. Take what she wanted, and let the consequences be damned.

Another wave of exhilaration crashed over her. There was so much possibility tonight. She could sail into the teeth of the storm and laugh into the wind and rain. With him beside her.

She cast a surreptitious glance toward Daniel. He'd asked for her opinion of his costume, and while she'd made a cutting remark, in truth he was devastating in it. Anyone who might have questioned the masculinity of the previous century's fashions for gentlemen had only to look at him to realize how virile a man could look in tight silk. The breeches emphasized long, lean thighs, and his calves were a wonder in their stockings. His frock coat hugged his wide shoulders and the full skirt accented his narrow waist, while the embroidered waistcoat revealed the muscularity of his torso. He'd opted not to shave, so dark, piratical stubble shaded the clean contours of his face. The mask he wore drew attention to his roguish blue eyes and wicked mouth.

A mouth she'd tasted, and longed to taste again.

Really, it wasn't sportsmanlike for a man to be so annihilating to a woman's self-­control. He ought to be regulated, like a weapon.

As if reading her thoughts, he leaned close and said softly, “I've never seen anyone or anything as stunning as you in that gown.”

“A rake's idle flattery,” she said at once.

“A man speaking the truth,” he answered.

Her breath squeezed out of her lungs, as if someone had closed a fist around her. Heat washed through every corner of her body.

Devastating, this man.

Before she could formulate a response, they reached the front door, where a servant took the invitation from Daniel, then waved them inside. Another servant took their cloaks and ushered them upstairs.

Climbing the stairs toward what had to be a ballroom, Eleanor was assailed by a thousand details. The house itself was astonishing—­huge, filled with priceless objects, art, and furniture. Silver candelabras cast flickering shadows as servants with trays bearing drinks and sweetmeats passed by.

Finally, they reached the ballroom. They paused at the entrance to the chamber to take in the scene. Half the candles in the giant chandeliers were unlit, keeping everything from being too bright, too revealing. But she could make out other details. A few tiny lanterns dangled from potted trees, giving the impression of a fairy land. Huge bolts of shimmering white silk hung in swags from the ceiling, adding to the atmosphere of enchantment. In one corner of the massive room, a group of masked musicians played within an indoor lacquered Oriental pavilion.

A riot of color filled the ballroom as the guests swirled and danced. Jewels shone. Silk gleamed. Women's bell-­like laughter combined with men's deep chuckles in harmonies of silver and bronze. Champagne flutes chimed against each other. Servants with trays circulated, offering oysters, savory bites, sugared cakes.

“I feel like if I eat something,” she said to Daniel, “I'll be trapped in an otherworldly kingdom forever.”

“But what a place to be trapped.” He took an oyster from one of the trays. His eyes never leaving hers, he tilted his head back. Gulped the oyster down.

Her limbs felt liquid. Her heart thundered.

Licking his lips, he said, “There's nothing quite like an oyster. Well, there is, but you can't go around offering it on trays.”

Her cheeks heated. She could survive in this strange new world. Not only survive but thrive. “Imagine if they walked around with platters of sausages.”

“I believe a full-­scale orgy might break out.”

“We're halfway there already.” She nodded toward the shadowy corners of the ballroom.

­Couples were locked in passionate embraces, kissing in plain view of the other guests. Eleanor fought to keep from staring. Unlike the kisses and caresses she saw at the gaming hell, these were between members of the gentry, not courtesans and clients. Clearly, the restrictions of propriety were entirely forgotten once the threshold of the ballroom was crossed.

Heat pulsed through her. Especially when she saw one Roman soldier's hand disappear up a Chinese princess's skirts. They could be the highest-­ranking and most respected members of Society, but at this gathering, they were free to indulge in their most basic needs.

“Are there any rules here?” she whispered to Daniel.

“Only one,” he answered lowly. His breath was warm and tobacco-­scented against her cheek. “ ‘Obey no rules.' ”

“Easier to speak of slipping the tether than doing it.”

“The only hand on the reins now is yours.”

Part of her wanted to know the identities of the guests. It would make for even more scintillating reading. But another part of her wanted to give the attendees their freedom. She'd describe what they were doing, of course, but refrain from speculating as to who they might be.

She
did
know who the man dressed in all black was, however. Their host—­Lord Marwood. His height and coloring were unmistakable. He led a wild country dance in the middle of the ballroom. Instead of the usual sedate movements of a quadrille, there was far more touching in this dance, with men picking up their partners and swinging them around so their skirts lifted. The women wrapped their legs around their partners' waists as they spun.

“Never seen that dance before,” she murmured.

“It's called the King's Courtesan,” Daniel replied. “And I believe our host invented it.”

“A talented man, Mar—­I mean, our host.”

“Shall we join the dancers?”

A bold invitation from him. Almost shocking—­though he
was
a rake. Yet never quite so bold with her. Did he want more than just kisses? And did she?

She watched the dance, imagining herself and Daniel out there. Her legs wrapped around him. The thought both excited and terrified her. Terrified her because she wanted it so badly. But she couldn't lose herself too much, and certainly not this early in the evening.

“Let us survey the land a little more,” she said.

“As my lady wishes.” He pressed a long hand to his chest and gave an old-­fashioned bow.

Several corridors led away from the ballroom, and Daniel guided her down one. A chamber door stood open, and they looked inside. Men and women gathered around a table, where rows and rows of tankards lined up. Several servants with pitchers of ale hovered and refilled mugs as they were drained. Onlookers shouted their encouragement.

“Drinking contest?” she whispered.

“A hundred pounds per cup,” he said.

“Looks like Catherine de Medici is winning.”

Indeed, the woman in question was throwing back tankards and demanding refills twice as fast as any of her competitors. One Henry VIII staggered away from the table and collapsed to the ground, groaning. Several other drinkers looked bleary and struggled to finish their mugs. But not Catherine de Medici. She kept going until, at last, the remainder of her competition slid to the floor or ran for the retiring rooms.

More shouts and laughter. Money changed hands. The Medici princess accepted handshakes and pats on the back, her eyes remarkably clear for someone who'd just ingested enough ale to stun a whale.

Eleanor applauded the woman's efforts before she and Daniel moved on.

With one arm, he pressed her back against a wall protectively. She didn't know why until the sound of wood striking wood filled the corridor. Then she saw the source of the odd sound. The goddess Diana and a sultan were fencing. With pool cues.

The duelists scurried back and forth, trading strikes, laughing and calling each other the most outrageous names. Until they disappeared around a corner, taking their battle with them.

Yet Daniel didn't release her right away. He kept his body pressed against hers. The first time she'd ever felt the entire length of him snug to hers. They fit together with aching faultlessness. He was long and hard and lean, tight against her softness.

He stared down at her, his hands braced on either side of her head. Though he wore a mask, desire was written plainly in his face. The darkening of his eyes. His flared nostrils.

“Didn't want you to get caught in the crossfire,” he murmured, words like velvet.

“It looked like Diana had the upper hand.” Eleanor sounded as though she'd run up several flights of stairs, though she remained perfectly still.