Forever Your Earl (30 page)

The servants' entrance it would be. The staff knew to expect her. After Eleanor tapped on the back door, a rosy-­cheeked maid ushered her into a small parlor. On a table, salad, roast lamb, and potatoes awaited her. Though she felt the familiar needle of disappointment that she was dining alone, she told herself it didn't matter. She couldn't have everything, and shouldn't expect it, either.

The meal completed, she rose from the table and walked purposefully to the desk Daniel had set up for her. She liked it better in here, feeling in the chamber the echoes of his presence, and she settled in comfortably, knowing he was, in his way, close. Though she still couldn't look at his desk without blushing.

A clock chimed once. One o'clock. But he would not be back for many hours. And at last, her work was finished for the evening. After a good stretch and a walk through the massive building that constituted his home, she climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. A bath was in readiness—­as it always was, regardless of the hour—­and she almost fell asleep several times in the warm water, weary from a long day. But anticipation and expectation always sparked beneath the surface of her skin, knowing what was to come later.

She slipped on a plain cotton nightgown, one of her own she'd tucked into a corner of a wardrobe. Daniel had promised her silken gowns, which she'd refused. Stubborn, perhaps, and unreasonable, but it was already a strain on her sense of independence to dine on his food and use his home as though it was hers.

It wasn't of course. It never would be.

Every night, she shoved that melancholy thought from her head and heart. Whatever they had now needed to be enough. Neither could wish for more.

She climbed into his giant bed, which was becoming an all-­too-­habitual luxury. Somehow, by some mysterious grace, she drifted off.

Only to waken hours later at the feel of his big, unclothed body sliding into bed with her. They didn't speak then. Not even a word of greeting. Too hungry for each other after a day apart, they were all need. Hands and mouths and voiceless demands, bodies straining and growing slick with sweat. Groans and sighs. Tonight, they went fast and hard, shaking the posters of his bed as they gave and took with equal ferocity. In the low light of that single candle, they did things to each other that would make the Lady of Dubious Quality applaud.

Eleanor had never been so bold, so free. His body was a wonder—­his carnal, physical self—­and she took greedy possession of it, and every part of him. Just as he laid claim to her. They took ownership of each other in the joining of flesh to flesh. In their ceaseless need for more and still more.

Only after they had exhausted themselves—­and this could take hours—­did they finally speak beyond erotic encouragements and delighted murmurs.

“Tell me of your night,” she said, as she always did, stroking her hands over his long, lean body. He made such a gorgeous picture, stretched out nude atop the covers, slick with the sweat of their desire.

“Very dull without you,” he always answered. His eyes were bright but heavy-­lidded.

“Pretend I was with you,” she said, twirling a finger in the crisp hair on his chest, “and spin me a tale.”

So he did. This evening it had been a private assembly. Last night had been the theater. And the night before that had been a gentleman's party, complete with actresses and demimondaines—­though he'd assured her that he'd never sampled the offerings. She had believed him, though she hadn't been able to stop the barbs of jealousy at the thought of these satiny, perfumed women draping themselves over him like gaudy hothouse flowers.

“And what of Jonathan?” she pressed. “Any sign?”

His mouth flattened into a hard line, and he shook his head. “It's more and more fruitless. The clues to his whereabouts are drying up. Appearing with less regularity.”

“I went to St. Giles again today.”

“Alone?” he demanded, always too protective.

“I took Henry, one of the printers, with me.”

Daniel relaxed at this, but only slightly.

“Same pretense as before. I told everyone, even Henry, that I was researching a story on the gentry touring slums.” Now she shook her head. “No results either, I'm afraid. But I extracted a promise from some of the ­people in the neighborhood that they should find me and let me know if they had anything to report.”

Daniel stared at the fire. “My heart goes cold to think this. I fear either he's left London and England, never to be found again, or, damn it, he might not be alive.”

Resting her head on Daniel's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, she sighed. “What does Catherine think?”

“I haven't voiced my concerns to her. She holds out hope, but I suspect she's also losing faith that he'll be located.”

“Poor girl,” Eleanor murmured. So much rested on Catherine Lawson's young, thin shoulders, which bore the weight of family and dauntless optimism. Even as that optimism faded in the face of grim evidence.

Eleanor burrowed closer to Daniel, absorbing his heat, his solidity and realness. How quickly everything passed. How fragile was this world. She had to hold tight to what she was given for the brief time it was hers.

“Tomorrow night,” he continued, “I'm off to Vauxhall.”

“Didn't you say that place was dull as a parson's sermon?”

“Some other fellows are going, and they expect me to make an appearance.”

An idea quickly came to her.

“Not on your own, you aren't,” she countered, raising herself up on her elbows so she looked down at him. “I want to be out in the world again with you.”

He looked wary. “We agreed that it'd be better if we weren't seen together.”

“But I miss being out in the world with you.” She ran her fingers over the curve of his lips. “You're going to Vauxhall. And I'll be there.”

 

Chapter 22

Much has been made in countless other writings of the manifold pleasures of Vauxhall Gardens—­the abundant lights, the proliferation of music, the paltry yet remarkable viands one dines upon, the spectacle of fireworks and the greater spectacle still of those promenading up and down the celebrated walks, including the infamous Dark Walk. In truth, Vauxhall Gardens have fallen in and out of fashionable favor too many times for your humble author to count. But know this, dear readers, the pleasure garden is once again in the fullness of its esteem, and one has only to pay the entrance fee to assure oneself of a night of adventure . . .

The Hawk's Eye
, May 26, 1816

D
usk fell in a purple curtain over the pavilions and pathways of Vauxhall, suspending the guests in a misty haze. Eleanor pulled her borrowed silk cloak closer, seeking a small amount of warmth. Cold, damp air clung to the walkways and in the trees. It was far too cool for this time of year, yet that hadn't kept anyone at home. The gardens were abundant with those seeking diversion, with Eleanor and Margaret amongst their number.

And Daniel. Somewhere out there, amidst the supper boxes and fountains. He kept himself at a distance, and she'd yet to glimpse him tonight. The idea that he was also here, unseen but present, thrilled her far more than any engineered spectacle.

Eleanor and Maggie stopped their slow perambulation as a whistle sounded. The crowd paused in its collective breath, waiting. Servants stationed at various points around the pleasure garden touched matches to fuses. All at once, the garden blazed with light as thousands of multicolored lamps in trees and hanging from the colonnades lit up at the same time. Eleanor had to shield her eyes from the sudden, dazzling light. The crowd burst into applause at the stunning effect.

“Theatricality and showmanship,” Maggie grumbled.

“And yet you clapped along with everyone else,” Eleanor said, smiling.

“Theater's my livelihood,” her friend countered. “I can appreciate stagecraft. Even one as obvious as this.” Yet she smiled, too, and tucked her arm through Eleanor's.

They continued on their walk down a tree-­lined pathway, watching what seemed like all of London parade and display itself in its finery. Cold weather be damned—­women still wore low-­cut, flimsy evening gowns, and men, in accordance with custom, walked bareheaded, carrying their hats beneath their arms. Everyone stared at everyone else. If there was anywhere in this city, in this country, where one was meant to see and be seen, it was Vauxhall Gardens.

The music had stopped for the lighting of the lamps, but now it started up again, emanating from an ornate pavilion. Notes rose and fell from the orchestra, and a soprano trilled out an Italian tune. The crowd only partially listened to the concert, more interested in being a part of the pageantry than standing by and simply taking it in.

Where was Daniel now? Watching her? She'd thought she would be able to see him immediately, though they had agreed ahead of time to keep their distance in public. Yet it seemed that her tall, wide-­shouldered lover could hide himself away if he so desired. She had to think it was deliberate. Keeping her on edge, aware of him at all times but never certain exactly where he might be.

“Let's view the supper boxes,” she suggested to Maggie.

Her friend slanted her a look. “Not much to see there besides toffs pretending that paper-­thin slices of ham and diminutive roast chickens are worth the extravagance.”

“Amusing enough to have a look. The emperor's new clothes, et cetera.” She guided Maggie toward where the supper boxes were arrayed. Each of the boxes was constructed like a room with three walls, the fourth wall being open so that the diners within could view the ­people walking past—­and, more importantly, for them to be seen. ­People and paintings adorned the boxes. Those who didn't have influence or prestige had to make do with dining at tables arrayed beneath the trees. But Eleanor didn't care about them. An earl would most assuredly have access to one of the supper boxes.

“Like miniature theaters,” Maggie noted as they strolled past each open-­air chamber. Waiters presented plates of food to the elegant assembly within, who made a great show through laughter and exaggerated gestures that they were having a wonderful time, and wasn't it a marvelous shame that this pleasure belonged to them alone?

Maggie continued, waving at the diners. “See how the missing wall turns each box into a proscenium, lit from within?” She smiled wryly. “Couldn't stage it any better at the Imperial.”

“And what would you title this play?” Eleanor asked.

“
Privilege; or, Full and Empty Bellies
.”

“Comedy or tragedy?”

Maggie's expression darkened. “It starts out a comedy. Very romantic and full of laughter. Then it turns unexpectedly to tragedy.”

Eleanor knew most of the details of her friend's history, yet it hurt her anew every time she saw the lasting pain caused by past betrayals. “Then, triumph,” she reminded her.

She peered into the boxes as they strolled around, looking for one face in particular. Every time they passed a new supper box, her heart lifted, then sank again.

“At a cost,” Maggie noted.

“Most worthwhile things come at a high price,” Eleanor countered.

“Such as the adoration of an earl?”

Eleanor stopped and faced her friend, heedless of the ­people swarming around them. “I am careful—­”

“Not careful enough.” Melancholy brimmed in her friend's dark eyes. She took Eleanor's hand in her own. “Oh, darling, there is no use in pretending. Either to me or yourself.”

“There's no pretense,” Eleanor said. “The earl and I are lovers. I've never hidden that from you. And I certainly know what I do with my own evenings.” Heat washed through her body and into her cheeks, thinking only of last night in Daniel's bed. More warmth crept through her when she recalled the time they'd spent afterward, lying in each other's arms.

It was always an agony to leave him in the morning. This dawn was no exception. And though she knew he wasn't an early riser by nature, he was always awake whenever she left, kissing and caressing her and making it so damn difficult to go. Yet she had no choice.

“But what do you do with your heart?” Maggie pressed. “My dear, even if he shared your feelings—­”

“He does,” Eleanor said immediately, confidently.

“There isn't hope for either of you,” Maggie continued gently.

Eleanor glanced away, at the thousands of lights dancing from the trees like distant dreams. A sudden burn glazed the back of her eyes. She blinked it away.

“I'm aware of that,” she said, sounding wounded to her own ears.

Maggie gave a dispirited sigh. “I'd hoped to save you this heartache. Warn you.”

“You did.” Eleanor turned back to her friend. “But all the warnings in the world turn to paper mulch when presented with a man such as Daniel.”

“Daniel?” Maggie shook her head. “Dear heart, you
are
far gone. You say his name as if it contains every word of poetry ever written.”

A small, sad laugh bubbled up from Eleanor. She pulled her hand from Maggie's and gave her friend's shoulder a little swat. “My God, Mags, don't descend into sentimentality now. What will your critics think?”

“My critics can swallow half the Thames.” Maggie tipped up her chin. “I'm planning a burletta that will be so brilliant, it will send every last one of them to the madhouse.”

“I'd buy a ticket for that.”

“I'll reserve a seat for you in one of the boxes.” Maggie nodded toward the supper enclosures.

Eleanor hadn't seen Daniel in any of the boxes. It didn't mean he wasn't here tonight. She had to remind herself of that. They'd planned on coming to Vauxhall separately and enjoying its pleasures, knowing that the other was nearby—­even if they couldn't actually be seen together.

“Someone seems very interested in you, Mags.” She glanced toward a booth, where a company of voluptuaries and their female companions was assembled around a table, drinking and carousing. One of the men stared right at Maggie. He was dark, raffish, the sort of man women steered their daughters away from—­then returned to later on their own.

Lord Marwood.

Maggie followed Eleanor's look. Her gaze seemed to catch Marwood's. Strangely, instead of returning his gaze, Maggie glanced quickly away.

“He's always around the theater,” she said stiffly. “Flirting with actresses and dancers.” She tugged on Eleanor's arm, and they began to walk away. Yet when Eleanor glanced back, Marwood continued to watch them. More specifically, he watched Maggie.

“Have you ever spoken with him?” Eleanor asked.

Her friend sniffed. “Why would I waste my time with some aristo?”

“Because he's rich as the Prince and handsome as wickedness embodied.”

Maggie's back was straight and tense. “All the more reason to give him wide berth. His kind are gold-­dipped parasites.”

“They aren't all like that,” Eleanor said. They walked down a long, tree-­lined lane, past fountains and statues, tiny panoramas, and even a flower-­bedecked goat on a jeweled leash.

“Perhaps your earl isn't,” Maggie countered. “But he's the exception to a well-­proven rule.”

Her
earl. Eleanor liked the sound of that. Too much. Because it presaged what was certainly to be insupportable pain when they would have to part. When he wouldn't be
her
earl anymore.

An earl had to think of future generations. He had a responsibility to his title and holdings to keep the bloodline going. That meant marriage to a suitable woman of his own rank. Having a family with her.

This awaited him, as surely as the earth turned and the tides rose and fell. There was no avoiding it. And Eleanor could have no part of this future.

God, how would she withstand it?

She barely saw the wonders around her or the stylishly attired ­people walking past. She thought only of that inevitable time when she would be working, and a wedding and then birth announcement would cross her desk.
Lord A—­d has abandoned his rakish ways and now welcomes his future heir into the world.

The thought felt as though someone had rammed an elbow between her shoulder blades, robbing her of breath.

No, tonight is about enjoyment. Pleasure.
If her time with him was to be limited, let it be the best of her life. Even if he wasn't close by, she knew he was out there, somewhere. Near enough.

She and Maggie walked on toward the Colonnade, a long portico of columns with arched roofs, all brightly lit with more of the celebrated lights of Vauxhall. It was indeed beautiful, and even Maggie grudgingly admitted admiration.

A finely dressed man suddenly appeared in their path, stepping out from behind one of the columns. He was tall, his fair hair shining in the lamps, and handsome, with a well-­defined jaw and nicely shaped, if somewhat small, nose. By the way he smiled, it seemed evident that the man knew the catalog of his charms.

Eleanor saw at once that he was no threat to her or Margaret. Though he was attractively formed, she suspected that the width of his shoulders came more from padding than muscle.

“Ladies,” he said, bowing.

They curtsied in response. “Sir,” Eleanor and Maggie responded in unison.

“A confession,” the man said, continuing to smile with the air of a man who anticipated his presence would be eagerly welcome. “I have lost the rest of my party. A shame, though, for the company is unwilling to do anything without my approval.”

“And yet,” Eleanor noted, “they somehow manage to exist in the hours you spend apart.”

“Unless,” Maggie added, “his friends lie upon the floor, unable to feed or fend for themselves.”

The man laughed in short, sharp barks. “Ha! Ha! Indeed, I would not be surprised were that the case, for I hear always, ‘Where are we to venture today, Mr. Smollett?' ‘Shall we dine now, Mr. Smollett?' ”

“ ‘Shall I wipe my bum, Mr. Smollett?' ” Maggie whispered into Eleanor's ear, causing her to snort.

“Indeed, sir,” Eleanor said, reining in her laughter, “you sound nigh indispensable to them. It's a wonder that they managed to wander off without you. Perhaps you aren't as essential to their happiness as you thought.”

The man—­Mr. Smollett—­frowned faintly at this. From this, it seemed clear to him that Maggie and Eleanor were not as enchanted by tales of his importance as he'd anticipated.

He tried another tactic. “Though I ought to locate them, I find my own happiness increased considerably by your company, ladies, and am loath to leave.”

“If you must . . .” Maggie said.

“No, no,” he said, waving his hand, “I shall play the gallant and remain with you.”

“Chivalrous of you to remark upon your chivalry,” Eleanor noted.

Mr. Smollett fought a scowl and seemed to struggle to make himself look agreeable. “Of course, I know that you would recognize it without such overt direction. But you possess a finer understanding of grace than most.”

Eleanor dipped into another curtsy, though she shot Maggie a look as she did so. “Thank you, sir, for your condescension.”

“You are most welcome.” He beamed at her, his prized pupil.

Maggie and Eleanor shared a look. Her friend's lips twitched, and Eleanor herself could barely hold back her laughter. Oh, poor Mr. Smollett would find his way into the next
Rake
article, and if he recognized himself, he would not be flattered by his inclusion.

“Though the lamps burn brightly,” Mr. Smollett continued, “they do not shine with the same brilliance as you ladies.”

“Again, you flatter us excessively,” Maggie said drily.