Forever Your Earl (35 page)

“I love you, Eleanor,” he said against her lips. “Let me wake up beside you every morning. Let me hold you in my arms each night. Let's compose filthy limericks together and ride like demons in phaetons together and grow old together. You have me forever, Eleanor.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Yes.”

He held her close, and their hearts beat in beautiful synchronicity.

It was a beautiful word:
yes.
She loved every word, but at that moment, none was more precious to her than
yes
. Because it opened to her a world of possibility. One that contained him. One that held the potential of them. Life was a blank sheet, and they would write their story together.

 

Epilogue

There is nothing which ends which does not foretell something else's beginning.

The Hawk's Eye
, July 15, 1816

M
aggie was surrounded by tables, chairs, sofas, luggage, mirrors, even a gilded wooden horse and a set of ninepins. Cluttered as it was, the prop room of the Imperial Theater remained one place in the madness of stage life where she knew she could find a relative degree of peace. Upstairs, on stage, rehearsals were already underway on her next burletta. Which meant there would be an infinite number of questions. So she had taken the latest issue of
The Hawk's Eye
and retreated. The only other occupant was the theater's resident mouser, an orange tabby cat that was busily sleeping upon a velvet-­upholstered throne.

The front page of Eleanor's paper was full of new accounts of scandal, but that's not what interested Maggie. She turned to the third page and began to read.

Though this publication reports on the events of the Town, and not on itself, there are occasions wherein convention must be dispensed with. Perhaps the author of this article flatters herself overmuch in considering her private life to be the source of public speculation. Yet it cannot escape notice that she, that is, I, have crossed over the line from one who writes about the lives of others to one who is written about. Considerable conjecture has been hazarded of late, and so I find that I must take to the pages of this periodical in order to ensure as much of the truth as possible.

Yes, the author of this article has indeed married the earl of A—­d. It was a decision made by both parties, and not under the duress of any forthcoming natal event. Gauche as it may seem, it was a love match.

A special license was obtained, and the ceremony itself was small and without spectacle. Shortly thereafter, my husband and I journeyed to one of his country estates to pass a most enjoyable honeymoon, the details of which shall not be reported here. We have since returned to Town and resumed our old habits, with the exception of dwelling under the same roof. Yes, reader, it is true. Though I am a countess, I continue to work.

Due to the circumstances of this author's birth, and the fact that she is actively engaged in gainful employment, there are some of the earl's social circle who have declined the pleasure of our association. The loss is not a great one, or so my husband asserts. We are received in most company and find that not a single whisper or intimation of calumny can despoil the singular contentment of our union.

It is my humble estimation that keeping up with Society's opinion can only end in despair and frustration. So I urge you to read this publication with an eye less to the misfortunes of others and more to your own happiness.

Maggie set the paper aside with a sigh. Of all the endings to Eleanor's involvement with an aristocrat, even she, a playwright, could not have predicted so felicitous an outcome. But Eleanor's was a rare tale. One that would not see its repetition. Maggie knew this from punitive experience. But she was pleased for Eleanor. She deserved this contentment.

She remembered how Lord Ashford had made Maggie laugh at Vauxhall. He'd been generous and self-­deprecating. He'd said that he was glad the odious Mr. Smollett had been the object of Maggie's cutting wit rather than himself—­since Ashford claimed he had no armor strong enough to protect himself against her. Truly, he'd said, if Maggie had been deployed against Napoleon, the war would have lasted days, not years. The Corsican would have crawled away, cradling his masculine pride. The image had been so ridiculous that she'd had to laugh.

Now Maggie gazed at a birdcage perched atop a sedan chair. As elated as she was for her friend, there would be no handsome, gallant nobleman for her. There would be no one. Only her work. She had that, and her freedom. It was enough. It would have to be enough.

“Y
ou are distracting me from my work,” said Eleanor.

Daniel looked up from reading a book on the exploration of the Amazonian interior. His wife—­how he enjoyed thinking that—­sat nearby at her desk. They shared his study, their desks on opposite sides of the room. His home was expansive enough for her to have a study of her own, but she'd declined, preferring to keep close. He couldn't deny her. He always wanted her nearby.

“I'm sitting here quietly,” he said. “Reading. Silently, mind you. My lips aren't even moving. How, pray tell, am I a distraction?”

Eleanor set her quill aside. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Because I cannot stop looking at you.”

That was a reason he couldn't find fault with. “Then the culpability lies with you, my lady. Though I have two possible solutions.”

She rested her chin on her interlaced fingers. “I am all attentiveness.”

“Horse blinkers might prove an adequate deterrent to looking anywhere but at your work,” he offered.

She made a very unladylike gesture. “And the second solution?”

He set his book aside. “Come here, and I'll show you.”

Her mouth curled. “Then I'll get nothing done.”

“On the contrary, I think we'll accomplish quite a lot.”

For a moment, she seemed to seriously consider it. Then she shook her head. “I can't. I have a deadline.”

“Let's compromise. I will remove myself from your sight for the next thirty minutes.”

She raised a brow. “What happens in thirty minutes?”

“You put down your quill and come to the bedroom. A bath will be waiting. As will I.”

That smile he'd come to prize above everything brightened her face. “I accept the terms of your compromise.”

He rose from his seat. “Mind, if you're late, I will be forced to seek you out.”

“And then?” she asked pertly.

“Then, my lady, you will see what happens when you keep an earl waiting.”

“Heaven forbid,” she said, though her cheeks turned a delicious pink.

He bowed. “Thirty minutes.”

“We shall see,” she said airily. Her eyes gleamed wickedly. A minx, his wife. She had upended everything in his life. Torn it completely asunder. Scandal still accompanied them, but he didn't mind, and she didn't seem to, either. Scandal had brought them together, after all.

He'd never been happier. Judging by the smile she continually wore, and the way he caught her sometimes humming softly to herself, she was happy, too. It was all he ever wanted. More than he deserved.

Lord Rakewell had indeed found his perfect match. And her fingers were always stained with ink.

 

Don't miss the next smart and sexy novel in

Eva Leigh's

Wicked Quills of London series

Scandal Takes the Stage

Coming November 2015

Read on for a sneak peek!

 

Enter Phoebe, in country dress.

Phoebe: What a task I have set before me!

The Shattered Heart

London, 1816

T
he curtain at the Imperial Theater fell. The audience rose to its collective feet and applauded.

Standing in his theater box, adding his own applause, Cameron Chalton, Viscount of Marwood was filled with excitement. Much as Cam enjoyed the theater—­he went practically every night, and often saw the same work over and over, enjoying it anew each time—­half the pleasure came after the performances.

“What say you, Marwood?” drawled Lord Eberhart, one of Cam's companions for the evening. “Gaming at Donnegan's? Shall we away to the rout at Lord Larkin's? He's brought in a whole bevy of beauties from France just for the occasion.”

“Why choose?” Cam answered with a laugh. “The night's in its infancy, and we can do anything at all.”

“Good point.” Eberhart grinned. He wasn't the brightest star in the firmament, but ever since Cam's good friend Ashford had wed and settled into marital bliss, Cam couldn't afford to be as selective with his company. Besides, Eberhart was always up for a night's revelry. “Let's go.”

“Not yet,” Cam answered, watching the theater slowly empty.

The Imperial was smaller than the other popular theaters in London, with only three tiers for seats and boxes, plus a smaller pit and orchestra. Yet it wasn't shabby. The proprietors kept its appearance well. Painted plaster friezes depicting scenes from mythology adorned the fronts of the boxes, and blue velvet curtains draped the sides and top of the stage. Gas lamps provided lighting.

The boxes now released their occupants like tropical birds flying free of their cages. In the pit, the younger, wilder set laughed and boasted, jostling one another, flirting, arguing. Orange girls and women of fast reputation circulated freely among the young men.

Cam's status prevented him from sitting in the pit anymore, but he missed it. The energy, the rowdiness. Still, he couldn't complain, not when he'd just watched a performance of a work by the celebrated and mysterious Mrs. Delamere. Not when the evening opened up for him like an endless banquet. One he would sample to his heart's content. But not quite at this moment.

“Tell you what, Eberhart,” Cam continued, turning back to his companion. “I'll meet you at Donnegan's, then we'll sally forth from there onto Larkin's.”

“Going to circulate?” Eberhart said with a grin.

“This is my kingdom,” Cam replied with a wink. “I must inevitably tour my realm. Inspect its crops.”

“Of actresses.” His friend leered.

Cam tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Merely a part of my dominion.”

“Enjoy, Your Highness.” With a chuckle, Eberhart slipped from the box and out into the night.

Once his friend had gone, Cam took one last minute to enjoy the theater's house as patrons continued to leisurely make their way. The thrills from the performance still resonated in Cam's body, palpable as electricity crackling along his veins. Though he'd seen this particular work several times, it never lost its excitement—­the soaring highs and resounding lows that came from watching characters' love and loss. He especially loved how the heroine thoroughly humiliated the aristocratic villain before gaining her tragic vengeance against him.

Not every work affected him as much. But for a reason he couldn't quite articulate, Mrs. Delamere's tragic burlettas stabbed him through as beautifully and cleanly as a jeweled knife. Her use of language, perhaps, was so much more articulate than other staged dramas. Or the relatable human longing and pain contained within in each work. Whatever caused it, Cam craved the next work from her the way a drunkard needed wine.

Still somewhat tipsy from the performance, he strode from the box. Almost at once, he ran into two young, red-­faced lordlings, already listing from too much ale. A pretty courtesan snuggled between them.

“Marwood!” they exclaimed, practically tripping over themselves as they clumsily bowed.

“Gents,” Cam answered, a little coolly. He didn't mind being a little disguised from drink, but it was a classic mistake of the young not to pace themselves.

“Come with us!” they cried. “We're going to Vauxhall. Supposed to be quite a crush.”

For a moment, Cam contemplated it. The pleasure garden always promised a good time, and delivered. Its theatricality and lurid beauty never failed to entertain, and more than once, he'd taken a female companion to the Dark Walk for an
al fresco
amorous encounter. There was something thrilling about being outside when engaged in carnal pursuits—­the fresh air, the possibility of being caught.

The courtesan accompanying the two young men gave him a not very discreet looking over. Judging by the way her eyes brightened, she liked what she saw. Maybe she would be agreeable—­if not enthusiastic—­about the prospect of a trip to Vauxhall's Dark Walk.

However . . .

“Save me a slice of roast beef,” Cam said. “I'll join you another time.”

The two bucks looked somewhat crestfallen, but after a quick exchange of further pleasantries, they and their female friend moved on.

Leaving Cam free to head toward his destination: backstage. That's where the real action took place.

As he slowly ambled toward his goal, he passed more and more friends and acquaintances. All of them hailed him. Dozens of invitations were issued. Some to sanctioned Society events, others to more daring, exclusive gatherings. Tempting, every one. He wished he had more than one self, so that he might partake of everything presented to him. Galas, private assemblies, midnight horse races. There was no shortage of amusements, no limit on the pleasures he might experience. Bold widows and bored wives offered their own wordless invitations with their provocative glances and heated gazes.

How could he resist? More often than not, he didn't.

Tonight, however, he had other plans. Specifically, the actress playing the ingénue.

After disentangling himself from another poesy of aristocratic theater patrons, he headed down the stairs. Closer to his objective.

“What a perfectly dismal surprise,” someone behind him said wryly.

Cam's heart rose. He knew that voice, almost as well as he knew his own. Now the night could truly begin! He turned to face the Earl of Ashford.

Standing beside Ashford was the earl's new wife, a very pretty blonde, and some of Cam's enthusiasm dampened. It wasn't that he disliked Lady Ashford. Far from it. But ever since she'd come into the earl's life, Cam's own world had been in a state of upheaval. It wasn't nearly as much fun running wild through the Town without Ashford.

“Now the evening's truly ruined,” Cam answered.

Both Ashford and his wife were elegantly attired for a night out. Lady Ashford, in particular, glowed in blue. Though she was a countess, she prided herself on being a working woman. Yet Cam felt certain that the substantial sapphires around her neck and hanging from her earlobes were placating gestures to her husband. Ashford tried to spoil her at every turn.

The ­couple stood unfashionably close. Ashford had his hand on the small of his wife's back.

After kissing Lady Ashford's gloved knuckles and giving his old friend's hand a shake, Cam said wryly, “I'm older than I thought, since I'm certain that my eyes are failing. This can't be Lord and Lady Ashford actually leaving their home. Joining those of us who haven't found wedded bliss.”

“It's not our fault that the female population of London considers you an irredeemable rogue,” Ashford said.

His wife smiled warmly. “To women, his reputation acts as a lure, not a deterrent.”

“And yet they'll find themselves sorely disappointed,” Cam noted, clasping his hands behind his back. “Because this piece of beefsteak is not for sale at Smithfield market.”

Ashford shook his head. “Don't tell your father. He comes to me almost once a fortnight, despairing of you ever finding a wife.”

Cam rolled his eyes. His father was also Ashford's godfather, and ever since his friend had married, the efforts to see Cam settled and applying himself to the business of getting an heir had redoubled.

“So much labor,” Cam said with mock sorrow, “and for so little an outcome.”

“You are determined to remain a dedicated bachelor, then?” Lady Ashford pressed, ever the journalist. She used her matching blue fan to cool herself against the oppressive heat in the theater.

“I have a younger brother,” Cam noted. “He has three qualities in his favor that I do not.” Holding up his hand, he enumerated each aspect on his fingers. “One: he has already taken a bride of suitable lineage and fortune. Two: they have produced a child. And third: he has no compunction about assuming the role of Marquess of Allam should anything happen to me.”

Shrugging, Cam said, “There are no obstacles to me continuing to live my life as I so desire it. Free of entanglements.” Free of disappointment.

His parents had a remarkably happy marriage. While they didn't show affection in public the way the Ashfords did, at home, it was another matter. His mother and father were devoted to each other, brushing hands, exchanging looks, even—­God help him—­sequestering themselves in the middle of the day in the bedchamber.

It hadn't been a love match, but it had become one, and Cam knew things like that occurred rarely. What had happened with a seasoned rake like Ashford was the exception, about as common as finding a pearl in an apple.

The only place where love happened consistently was on the stage. It wasn't meant for the real world. Not meant for him. He'd only find disenchantment if he tried for what couldn't be.

Which is why he always kept his amorous encounters temporary.

Lady Ashford raised a brow. “You are quite convinced that you want no such ‘entanglements.' ”

“As convinced as you are that you must continue to work,” he rejoined with a bow, “despite your new social standing.”

She tipped her head in acknowledgment. “I yield—­for now.”

Ashford smiled. “Careful, Marwood. That only means she's taking a tactical retreat. When it comes to matters of significance, my wife is quite tenacious.” He said this with obvious affection.

Cam couldn't begrudge his old friend this happiness. A new brightness and life shone in Ashford's eyes now, as if he'd discovered his purpose, the meaning of his existence.

After glancing around to make certain no one listened in, Cam leaned closer to Lady Ashford and said conspiratorially, “I saw a certain Lord V—­ deep in private conversation with Lord W—­'s new wife.”

Her smile was wise and knowing. “Already made note of it.” Though she was a countess, she continued to own and run
The Hawk's Eye
, one of London's most popular scandal sheets. In fact, a series of articles in the paper about Ashford had actually brought the two together.

Cam bowed. “I see I cannot top you for intelligence, my lady.”

“Few can,” Ashford said with a grin.

Lady Ashford said, “It appears to this intelligent eye that we're detaining Lord Marwood from some objective. Perhaps he plans on paying a call on Miss Smith, who so delightfully played the role of the ingénue this evening.”

Shaking his head, Cam had to admire the countess's shrewdness. “I admit nothing,” he said instead.

“A good rake never does,” she countered, though she smiled.

“Enjoy the hunt,” Ashford chuckled.

“I will.”

With that, Cam took his leave of his old friend. A bubble of melancholy settled in his chest at the thought of what he'd lost with Ashford's marriage, and that his friend had found love, when it was such a rare commodity. Given that lightning had struck twice so close to Cam, it seemed even more unlikely that it would strike him. How much genuine love was there in the world? Very little. It was mostly contained within the proscenium arch of a theater.

He wasn't in search of love tonight. Only pleasure.

A tall, broad man stood guarding the backstage entrance. His thick arms crossed over his chest as half a dozen young men vied to be admitted behind the scenes—­to the actresses' dressing rooms, most of all. Other theaters had a more lax policy regarding backstage visitors, but someone at the Imperial had years ago instituted a rule wherein all would-­be suitors had to be vetted. Clearly, none of these bucks met the criteria.

“Come on, let me in,” one lad whined. “She's expecting me.”

“I've got a twenty-pound note with your name on it,” another pled.

The mountain guarding backstage wouldn't be moved.

As Cam approached, the crowd parted. The noise died down. All the younger men stared at Cam with something like reverence. He tried not to preen. After all, he'd worked hard for his reputation as a hellraiser of the first water. It would be a shame if all that labor was for nothing.

“That's Marwood,” one of the men whispered reverently to the other.

“Think he'll take us with him tonight?”

“Did you hear about the party he threw the other month? A masked ball the likes of which hasn't been seen since Ancient Rome.”

“I say, Marwood—­”

He ignored them. Instead, he stepped in front of the giant man.

“Lord Marwood?” the massive gent asked.

Cam inclined his head.

The man stepped to one side and waved him forward. “If you please, my lord.”

Before he moved on, he turned to address all the panting, eager young chaps. “Never beg for anything,” he said. “Makes you look desperate. No one respects a desperate man. Especially women.”

With that, he strode backstage. All at once, the cacophony started up again. Sadly, it seemed none of the blokes took Cam's advice. Ah, well. They'd discover the truth of his words sooner or later.