Forever Your Earl (31 page)

The man made a dismissive gesture with one gloved hand. “Not a bit. I merely speak the truth, though such is the world today that flatterers consider themselves great wits.”

“We would never think that of you, sir,” Eleanor said.

“And now the kindness is yours,” Mr. Smollett replied. “Ladies, would you do me the greatest honor of accompanying me around the grounds? I can think of no higher pleasure.” He offered them both his arms.

Maggie shot Eleanor a glance that said she'd rather be forced to claw her way out of a dung heap than spend any additional time in the company of this
gentleman.

“I thank you, sir,” Eleanor said, “for an offer that is so terrifically gracious and complimentary. Yet I'm afraid that we must demur.”

For half a moment, Mr. Smollett looked confused, as though he could not quite believe that Eleanor had declined. Then his smile widened. “Ah, but I understand that as women of refined breeding, you cannot accept a gentleman right away.” He gave them a conspiratorial wink. “Fear not, ladies. You may consent at your discretion. No one but we three shall know.”

“But
we
will,” Eleanor pointed out. “And that is the only opinion that matters.”

Warmth suddenly spread up the back of her neck. She felt a familiar, welcome presence nearby. Just behind Mr. Smollett, she caught a glimpse of another tall male figure emerging from the shadows. There was only one man whose presence could fill her with this much happiness.

Daniel.

Like the other gentlemen in attendance at Vauxhall tonight, he wore evening finery. Usually, by the time Eleanor saw him in the late hours of the night, he'd disrobed, so she took this opportunity to admire him. A bottle-­green coat fit snugly across his shoulders, and he wore a gold-­and-­cream waistcoat and snug white breeches. He looked every inch the elegant aristocrat, yet with a decidedly wicked air that shone in his eyes and revealed itself in the curve of his lips.

Her stomach clenched. Good God,
this
man was her lover? It seemed too fantastical, as though she were Psyche shining a candle upon the sleeping form of Cupid. Any moment now, her hand would shake and drip scalding wax upon him, causing him to flee and the whole enchanted interlude to end.

But he was
here
now.

He sent her a look, his gaze darting toward Mr. Smollett in a silent question.
Would you like me to get rid of him?

She shook her head, the tiniest movement. This she could handle on her own.

“You are all that is modest,” Mr. Smollett continued, seemingly unaware of Daniel's presence nearby. “An excellent quality in a woman. Each demurral only increases my opinion of you, and thus I must again request that I attend you both for a stroll through the garden.”

“Sir,” Eleanor said, more firmly. “I wonder that you speak the King's English without a trace of an accent.”

“Indeed, ma'am?” Mr. Smollett cocked his head to one side, like a spaniel trying to catch a sound.

“Surely,” Eleanor continued, “this language must not be your first if you do not yet understand that neither I, nor my friend, have any desire to walk with you.”

He looked flustered. “Oh, but ma'am, your propriety—­”

“It is not a concern for propriety that motivates our refusal. It is our utter lack of interest in spending a minute more in your company. Is that modest enough for you?”

The man's look darkened. He scowled at her. “I have revised my opinion. Surely no woman of good breeding would speak thusly to a gentleman.”

“Indeed, no,” Maggie said. “For neither I nor my friend are of good breeding. And you,
Mister
Smollett, are not a gentleman.”

He drew himself up. “I can assure you, my family is of the highest caliber.”

“Your name might be considered estimable by its presence in
Debrett's,
” Maggie said coldly, “but a gentleman is distinguished by his behavior, not his blood. I've known too many of your stripe to consider a carriage and country estate to be the valuation of a man's character.”

“I . . . I . . .” Mr. Smollett sputtered.

“Good evening, sir,” Eleanor said, hardly able to keep the glee from her voice.

“It is most certainly
not
a good evening,” the man said, then marched off, muttering beneath his breath about women with too high an opinion of themselves, and they should be
honored
by his attentions, the ungrateful trollops.

The moment he was gone, Daniel stepped forward. He bowed.

“Vicious,” he murmured with admiration. “I haven't seen such a thorough evisceration since I saw a gazelle fed to a lion at the zoo.”

“The lionesses have dispatched their prey,” Maggie said with hauteur, yet she smiled.

“With great efficiency,” he agreed.

Eleanor's hands burned with the desire to touch him. Yet she kept them folded at her waist. There would be a time for that later.

“Ellie's been jumping out of her skin all night,” Maggie noted. “Now I know why. You've been here the whole time, haven't you, my lord?”

He bowed again.

Maggie looked at Eleanor. “ ‘Come to Vauxhall,' you said. ‘Just us. We've been so busy lately. Let's have a holiday.' ”

Eleanor's face flamed. “I didn't mean to mislead. I
do
want time alone with you.”

Yet her friend held up her hands. “The truth is all I ask of you. Only that.”

“I'm sorry, Maggie.” Eleanor glanced down at the ground, then back up again. “I hope, in time, you'll forgive me.”

“It's not much recompense,” Daniel said, “but might I invite you and Eleanor to supper?”

“In one of the boxes?” Maggie raised her brows.

“Of course.”

For a moment, Maggie looked tempted. Eleanor couldn't blame her. It wasn't an everyday occasion—­or any occasion, for that matter—­that either of them could gain entrance to one of the exclusive supper boxes. But then Maggie shook her head.

“Thank you, my lord, but no. It's time I ought to be returning home. Sadly, my burlettas have not learned how to write themselves, and so I must guide my quill over the pages if they are to have life.”

“I'll come with you,” Eleanor said at once, though she was loath to leave Daniel now that he'd finally appeared. Yet she wouldn't neglect her friendship, and it was clear that Maggie was still hurting from Eleanor's subterfuge.

Again, Maggie shook her head. “My characters can't take shape unless I have a good thirty minutes of solitude before writing.”

That was the first Eleanor had ever heard of that rule—­and she'd known Maggie for nearly a decade.

“I'll go alone,” Maggie said.

“Let me at least escort you to my carriage,” Daniel offered. “It can drop you off at home—­or whatever destination you wish—­then return here.”

Maggie looked as though she was about to object, perhaps on the basis of sheer pride. But then she shrugged. “Foolish of me not to accept such a suggestion.” She gave a wry smile. “Prideful feet are aching feet.”

Daniel made another bow and offered Maggie his arm. She took it.

“The Dark Walk,” he murmured to Eleanor. “Ten minutes.”

She gave a small nod.

Surprising, how Eleanor felt no stab of jealousy at seeing her friend's hand upon her lover's arm. There was no cause for it. She had absolute faith in both of them. Even watched sedately as they strolled toward the exit. It made her smile when Daniel bent close to say something to Maggie, and her friend laughed. The two most important ­people in her life ought to enjoy each other's company.

But why? To what purpose? It wasn't as though they'd be spending any time together. That would imply a certain degree of openness that could never exist. It was inevitable that all this must come to an end—­the book closed and put upon the shelf, never to be read again.

Under the tarnish of these thoughts, the gleam of Vauxhall dimmed, leaving Eleanor suspended in shadow despite the lights.

 

Chapter 23

It has ever been the object of this periodical to venerate
behavior that is upright and virtuous. But sometimes one must stray from the paths of lightness into the realm of the shadows, for even the most moral heart craves passion and emotion. Otherwise, we are destined for a cold and solitary existence, which, while honorable, provides little pleasure or comfort.

The Hawk's Eye
, May 26, 1816

S
tanding amidst the trees in the deliberate shadows of the Dark Walk, Daniel's heart thundered like cannon fire as he awaited Eleanor. It was as if they were new lovers enjoying the heat and anticipation of a first tryst, rather than a man and a woman who had been exploring each other's minds and bodies for half a month. Yet it didn't matter if the time they'd spent together had been a day, a week, or a year—­he couldn't seem to get enough of her. And this game they were playing in Vauxhall only whetted his appetite for more.

A ­couple's low laughter curlicued over the manicured lawn and between the shrubbery. Then a woman's sigh. This was a place for amorous encounters, designed exclusively for that purpose. Daniel was no stranger to the Dark Walk, but it had never held the promise that it did now.

He shifted restlessly, his gaze on the barely lit pathway ahead of him. When would she be here? He'd said ten minutes, but surely no ten minutes had ever moved with such glacial slowness. Civilizations could rise and fall in the span of these minutes. His own edifices and structures had succumbed to wilderness—­the wilds of unrelenting need.

It confounded him. Astonished and terrified and amazed him. For years, he'd been drowned beneath a wicked man's ennui, occasionally coming to the surface when some relatively new pleasure or sensation appeared. But they faded all too fast, and he'd be submerged again in the murk of his own privilege. He had a goal with finding Jonathan, which both gave him purpose and reminded him of how little he contributed to the world.

But Eleanor had truly brought him up, through the depths, to breathe and see and feel. As though he'd never experienced any of these actions before.

At this moment, he'd allow himself the exquisite agony of waiting for his lover in the sly shadows of the Dark Walk.

A woman strolled leisurely past. He didn't move. Even in this darkness, he knew Eleanor's shape, her walk. Knew her as well as he knew himself. Better, because he gave a damn about her.

Just thinking of the scent of her skin and the way she murmured the most wicked, witty things late in the night made him tighten in anticipation.

He'd watched from a maddening distance when that bloody preening fool had approached her and Mrs. Delamere. It had taken all his strength not to race over and plant his fist in the bastard's face. He'd taken two steps to do just that when her words had rung out, clear and cutting. She'd verbally disemboweled the idiot—­so cleanly and with such precision that the man hadn't noticed the fatal wound until minutes had passed and there had been no saving him.

Seeing her so effectively defend herself with the blade of her wit had stoked Daniel's hunger to a burning fever. He'd barely been able to keep his hands off her when he had finally approached. Why did some men prefer vapid women? They were as airy and ephemeral as pale clouds drifting across the sky. But Eleanor was a summer thunderhead—­dark and powerful.

Daniel chuckled ruefully under his breath. He'd turned into a poet. Or rather, she'd transformed him into one. The sort of man who compared a woman to a summer storm. Certainly, she'd blown into his life, leveling everything, leaving him standing on the plain of his own identity. Ready to be rebuilt.

God—­there he went again. He'd never considered himself a particularly poetic man, yet she kept inspiring him to linguistic heights. Yet it was merely the feeble attempts to encapsulate something huge and revolutionary, something that could be barely bound by the limits of language.

He tensed at the sound of a woman's tread on the path. A figure emerged, glancing around. Without a moment's hesitation, he understood it was her.

Noiselessly, he stepped out from the shelter of the trees and took hold of her wrist.

She seemed to possess the same instinct that he did. Instead of whirling around and slapping him—­as she would do with an importunate stranger—­she turned immediately toward him and laced her fingers with his.

The barest light from distant lanterns traced the edges of her features. How well he knew her face now. Her sharp angles, her determined chin and full lips. The fiercely intelligent gleam of her eyes. He'd seen those eyes closed in pleasure. But now they looked up at him with happiness and relief. As if she, too, had been bursting with impatience to see him again.

Silently, he drew her off the path, deeper into the shelter of the darkness, to an alcove with a stone bench tucked amongst the trees. They were hidden from all eyes. So he sat upon the bench and gently tugged her down onto his lap. At once, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he clasped her waist. They were face-­to-­face now, the warmth of her body sweet and vital against his.

“You are impertinent, sir,” she said briskly. “Taking liberties with my person like this, when we haven't even had an introduction!”

Ah, so that's how she wanted to play it. He wasn't averse to games.

“The impertinence is yours, madam,” he answered lowly.

“Mine! Pray tell how.”

“It is the height of impudence to parade such a face and figure as yours about. And your eyes, madam, are most rudely enticing. Sparkling with liveliness as they do.”

“Sir,” she returned, “I find your reasoning most unsound—­for I have no control over my face, figure, or eyes, and if you cannot temper your response to them, then the fault lies in yourself, not me. Besides,” she continued, “were I to follow your logic, then I would accuse
you
of insolence.”

“What have I done,” he demanded, “if not heeded the call of your siren's song, as helpless as Ulysses lashed to the mast?”

“Flaunting your excessive height, for one. Making an exhibition of your own handsomeness. Displaying your calves like the veriest braggart.” She tilted up her chin. “It is not to be supported, sir!”

“Were I to own to those acts of audacity, madam,” he said, “what should be my punishment? For surely such effrontery requires a penalty.”

“It does.” She moved her hands from his shoulders to the back of his neck, her fingers slim and hot against his nape. “Some have said I have acid upon my lips.”

His heart pounded as his gaze was drawn to her mouth. “Certainly,” he agreed, “your tongue is sharp.”

“Again with your unmannerly behavior!” She shook her head. “I see no alternative but to subject you to the most severe punitive measures.”

God, how he loved this. “So you keep insisting, and yet here I am, entirely undisciplined.”

She shook her head. “You leave me no alternative, sir.”

Then she brought her lips to his. Or perhaps he took her mouth. He couldn't tell. Only that in an instant, they devoured each other in a burning, ravenous kiss. She pressed tightly against him as he held her close, their bodies nearly fused but for the clothing that separated them. She tasted of sweet wine, her tongue sleek and searching, as he explored her lips and mouth. It had been only a day since they'd last kissed, but in the chronology of his need, eons had passed.

His hand traced up her ribs, feeling her shape, her living self, until he reached her bodice. Through the fabric of her gown, he cupped her breast. She gasped into his mouth, and he took her inhalation into himself as though it was the air he needed to breathe, to exist.

Maddeningly, she rubbed herself against his hips, rousing him even higher. He was hard as stone, aching, wanting.

“Have to stop,” he growled. Yet he couldn't, unable to deny himself the pleasure of her and her own unfettered need. He was drunk with it. With what they created together.

“I know,” she breathed. Yet she didn't pull away, either.

Only when he felt his hands drifting up her skirts did he manage to contain himself. She made a sound of protest when he dragged his mouth from hers.

“More,” she demanded.

“Not here.” His voice was a hoarse rumble.

“No one can see us.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “Not going to make love to you in bloody Vauxhall.”

“What if I want you to?”

Hell—­she would kill him. “I want more with you than a hurried tup on a bench. Been watching you all night, and goddamn it, when I'm inside you, I want to take my time.”

Her lids lowered. “Do you think your carriage is back from dropping Maggie off?”

“It'd better be.” With supreme effort of will, he removed her from his lap, setting her on her feet. “To hell with discretion. We'll go to the exit together.” He stood, painfully.

“To hell with everything,” she said, stepping close and once more looping her arms about his shoulders. Yet instead of kissing, they only held each other, wrapped tight in an embrace.

A woman.
This
woman, in the darkness. He felt anticipation and want and the alignment of their selves. He would always count this moment as one of the finest of his life.

D
aniel paced in his study, crossing back and forth through blocks of translucent afternoon light. Pacing did no good, except to wear tracks in the carpeting, but he couldn't sit or be still.

He whirled at the soft tap on the study door. “Enter,” he said.

The door opened, revealing Eleanor. His heart gave a kick to see her again, though they'd parted in the early hours of that very morning.

A small frown creased between her brows as she stepped into the chamber, shutting the door behind her. They met in the middle of the room, clasping hands.

“I came as soon as I received your note.” She looked up at him with a worried expression. “There's been a new development with Jonathan?”

“A message came with the morning post,” he explained. “From the tobacconist.”

“Someone's made a purchase of the cheroots,” she deduced.

“Yesterday, just before closing.”

“Was it him?”

He gave a helpless shrug. “No idea. The message only said that somebody bought the same variety of cheroots that he favors. I'm going down to the shop to investigate. Don't know where it might lead, but I have to follow all avenues.”

“We ought to let Catherine know,” Eleanor noted.

“She's been called away to the country. Won't be back for a few days. But I wanted to let you know because . . .” Because? He knew this mattered to Eleanor. He needed her by his side. She'd become essential to him, and he couldn't think of anyone he wanted with him for this task more than her.

He loved her. The words always hovered close, like swift moths around a flame. Yet he and Eleanor had never spoken of love, and a part of him still feared it, feared revealing this last, vulnerable part of himself. She cared about him—­this he knew. But did she love him? He couldn't ask. He'd rather take a stab wound to the chest than learn that the depths of his feelings for her went unreturned.

“Because you said you wanted to help,” he finished.

She nodded. The frown creasing her forehead lessened, and she exhaled. “When your note arrived telling me to come at once, I thought . . .” She glanced away.

“Thought what?” he prompted. His chest tightened.

She looked back at him, offering a rueful smile. “A writer's fancy. And seeing too many of Maggie's tragic burlettas.”

Something loosened and freed itself within him. As if walled battlements cracked. He couldn't remember anyone worrying about him—­aside from his role as the heir.

Her own admission seemed to embarrass her. She couldn't meet his gaze. “If the message from the tobacconist came this morning but the purchase was done yesterday,” she said, her tone turning brisk, “each minute that passes means the trail turns colder.”

He understood. This thing between them was too large, too bright. Easier to turn their focus to something else, something that could be picked apart and hopefully solved.

“My carriage is already waiting,” he said.

T
here was little to distinguish the tobacco shop from any other. It had its wooden Highlander stationed outside the front door, announcing its intent as a purveyor of cigars, cheroots, and snuff. The gilded letters on the glass-­fronted door proclaimed that the shop had been in continuous business for half a century, making it precisely the sort of place where a titled gentleman might go to purchase his tobacco—­to his wife's strained tolerance.

Daniel alit from his carriage and helped Eleanor down. She studied the front of the shop, and he watched her take in the details, from the polished brass knob on the door to the large, sparklingly clean bay window. Evidence that it was a well-­cared-­for establishment that prided itself on appearances. Next door was a boot maker, and on the other side was a tailor, each with samples of their fine wares on display in their windows.

“Doesn't seem like the sort of place a desperate man might come,” she noted.

“It could be the one extravagance he allows himself,” Daniel offered. “And if he is truly without recourse, he might seek out one familiar comfort.”

“We'll know the truth in a moment.” She placed her hand on his arm, and together, they went into the tobacconist's.

A rich, toasted aroma clung thickly to the air. Painted ceramic jars and small wooden barrels lined the walls, and a scale sat with self-­importance upon the counter. A few top-­hatted gentlemen chatted with an aproned clerk, and everyone gave Daniel and Eleanor a bow as they stepped inside.

It was a risk, Daniel realized, to be seen with her in public at this hour of the day. He should have thought of that earlier—­but neither he nor Eleanor seemed to have given it any consideration.