Forever Your Earl (6 page)

“I
am
the Marquess of Allam,” his godfather answered. “It
is
who I am.”

“You're much more than that. A contributor to the Royal Society who funds expeditions to expand knowledge of other cultures. A man with a love for breeding hunting hounds but who hates to hunt.”

“Never seemed quite fair to the foxes,” muttered the older man.

Daniel flung away from the dresser and paced his room. “My point precisely! You may be the Marquess of Allam, yet you have passions, needs. Is it wrong to want to be perceived as more than my estates?”

“You run those estates well. They also deserve a mistress, and heirs to inherit those properties.”

Daniel fought frustration at Allam's avoidance of his question. “What will I leave them, my future offspring? Land, money, but what else? What purpose have I fulfilled? Nothing.”

Allam's lips pressed tight. “You're still angry about it. That you couldn't join the army.”

“I knew I never could.” Daniel stared out the window, watching the sun dip beneath the skyline. He'd envied Jonathan's status as a younger son, which had permitted him the luxury of having a commission bought for him and going to fight Bonaparte.

That envy had changed to something else, something more complex, when he'd seen the toll war had taken on his friend. But Daniel had pretended
not
to see Jonathan's invisible wounds; he'd chalked them up to readjusting to civilian life, and soon Jonathan would be back to his old self. It would only take a little time. A little space.

How wrong Daniel had been.

“That doesn't mean you aren't still upset about it.”

Outside, the city continued on in its timeless movements, always busy, ever moving. “I wanted to do my part, too.”

“And you did. By keeping the backbone of British society in place.”

Turning away from the window, Daniel raked his hands through his hair—­causing Strathmore to exhale in exasperation. As usual, Daniel ignored his valet.

He dropped his hands. “I'm grateful—­I truly am—­for all that I've been given. But sometimes . . .” Again he struggled to find the right words, when he himself didn't know what he was trying to express. “Sometimes I wish for something more. Some greater purpose other than keeping the backbone of British society in place.”

He couldn't tell Allam about Jonathan. While he wasn't happy for the circumstances, looking for his friend did give him a goal. Of course, Daniel would rather have Jonathan's situation secure, thereby depriving himself of an objective, but as long as his help was needed, he was determined to give every ounce of effort.

Allam sighed and shook his head. “I understand, lad. Why do you think I fund those expeditions? Gives me a sense of meaning. But we're bound by duty to honor our obligations. In your case, that includes taking a wife and begetting children. Soon, while you're young and healthy.”

“So my future bride is a broodmare and I'm the stud.”

“Save your crudeness for your toadies and actresses. I came here to offer my counsel, and now I've given it.” Allam rose, his grip still tight on his cane, and walked stiffly toward the door.

Daniel intercepted him and placed his hands on the older man's shoulders. “Forgive my churlishness, Godfather. I've been . . . out of sorts for some time.”

“I know,” Allam said with surprising mildness. “The scandal sheets talk of nothing else but your attempts to distract yourself.”

His godfather's words hit him like a punch to the chest. Is that what he'd been doing, with all his late-­night revelry and wildness? Distracting himself from the absence at the center of his life? So it had been before Jonathan had vanished.

“I wish I could promise that you won't be reading about me again,” he answered. “But I'm afraid it's going to get worse before it gets better. And lest you give me that censorious look again, trust me when I say it's all for a higher purpose.”

“That's what every rake says,” his godfather replied. “No one believes them, though.” He clasped one of Daniel's hands and gave it a brief squeeze. “My own son won't heed my advice, but I pray you do. Take care of yourself, Daniel.”

A hard knot unexpectedly formed in Daniel's throat. “I'll try.”

“That is all I ask.” Allam stepped back. “I'll see myself out. Enjoy the rest of your night. But not too much.”

As the older man left, Daniel felt a mantle of smothering melancholy settle about his shoulders. It wasn't relieved by contemplating the search for Jonathan. Yet when he thought of his planned evening with Miss Hawke, the despondency that had enveloped him quickly burned away like dissipating smoke, leaving him strangely eager for the night's adventure.

 

Chapter 3

Much has been made in publications far superior to this unassuming periodical of the differences between men and women, and the struggles that arise when the two sexes attempt to interact with each other. It would be the grossest understatement to assert that two species could not be more oppositional. Perhaps this lamentable state of affairs could be remedied were men and women to mutually realize that what we believe we know about the other is entirely rubbish, and the only way to achieve understanding is to toss into the ash bin every assumption. Nay, this author humbly offers the suggestion that, in order to attain true understanding, men and women ought to trade places, if even for a single day . . .

The Hawk's Eye
, May 4, 1816

E
leanor wasn't certain what made her more nervous—­spending the evening in one of the hearts of masculine privilege, or the fact that for the entire night, she'd be fastened to Lord Ashford's side. Watching him. Listening to that rough, velvet voice of his. Observing him at play and being wicked.

In her disguise, she waited for the appearance of Lord Ashford's carriage outside the side entrance of the Imperial Theater. Though Maggie had offered to wait with her, Eleanor had declined, needing several moments alone to prepare herself for what was to come.

She tapped the walking stick Mr. Swindon had loaned her on the slick cobblestones. Maggie's warning echoed in time with each tap. Be cautious around the earl. A known seducer. With a hidden agenda.
Noblemen are as trustworthy as adders
.

Eleanor would simply have to avoid being bitten.

The thought of Lord Ashford
biting
her sent a pulse of electricity through her. That was precisely the thought she needed to avoid. He was her subject for her articles—­nothing more. At some point, the articles would end, and she and the earl would part ways, each having gotten what they needed from the other.

She wouldn't be another used and discarded commoner. Didn't Maggie's own experience teach Eleanor firsthand the cold truth of what happened when the classes intermingled?

Though she ran a scandal sheet, she tried to cling to some shred of journalistic integrity. Otherwise, she might as well publish outright lies. Some other scandal sheets made up stories from whole cloth, like
Pauley's Miscellany
and that story about a Russian prince with a famed opera dancer
.
But her newspaper didn't do that sort of thing.

A ­couple passed by, and Eleanor stiffened. Would they know? Could they peer beneath the surface of her masquerade? She tried to affect a manly stance—­legs apart, shoulders back. But the ­couple was too engrossed in each other to pay her any attention, and they moved on.

She deflated a little. She'd hoped for either a “Good evening, fine young sir,” or else shocked whispers and pointed fingers. Instead, she got neither. Well, perhaps that was a fortunate omen. She'd passed men on the street countless times and given them no heed. Now she was one of their anonymous numbers.

More of Maggie's words resonated. As a man, Eleanor could get into any variety of trouble. She could go literally anywhere without fear. No one would question her presence or catcall her. She was free. Free of the burden of womanhood, where every shadow contained a threat and numerous doors were closed to her. Not tonight. Tonight, she could do whatever she wanted.

Her head spun with the possibility.

Giddy with these thoughts, she almost didn't hear the sound of a well-­sprung carriage clattering over the pavement until it was almost on her. She stepped back just in time to keep from being run down.

“Out of the way, lad,” the driver snapped.

A bubble of excitement rose in her chest. The coachman had called her “lad”! Of course, he'd almost killed her, but that was a small matter compared to the fact that her disguise had worked.

Pressing back against the wall of the theater, she took a moment to admire the vehicle as it came to a stop. She'd seen the carriages of the wealthy, but usually at a distance, or whizzing past her. But this was her first opportunity to see one up close, and by God, was it a marvel. All dark lacquer, sleek lines, and an actual crest upon the door. The horses were beautifully matched, just as wondrous as the carriage, as they stamped and snorted, shaking their tack.

A liveried footman hopped down from the back of the carriage and opened the door. With the sun already low in the sky, the interior of the vehicle was swathed in shadows, so she could only hear an amused voice from inside. A voice she'd recognize if she stood in utter darkness.

“Miss Hawke?”

She nodded stiffly. How was she to answer? In a man's voice, or a woman's?

A broad, gloved hand appeared from within the carriage, then suddenly retreated. “Can't help you in,” Lord Ashford said, almost laughing. “Very un-­manly, and I'd hate to impugn your honor this early.”

She stepped inside on her own, feeling how strange it was to move without skirts impeding her. Stranger still was, as she'd seen earlier, the carriage's being wonderfully sprung, so unlike the rough vehicles she was more accustomed to. It barely moved beneath her as she took her seat on the lushly upholstered squabs opposite the earl. The footman closed the door, and suddenly she was in a very small—­though luxurious—­space, with a man she hardly knew except through reputation as one of London's most notorious rakes.

Though it was dim within the carriage, her eyes adjusted quickly, and she finally saw Lord Ashford dressed in his evening finery. If he'd been stylishly appointed when he'd appeared in her office yesterday, now . . . now he was a revelation.

It hardly seemed sporting that a man could look both elegant and powerfully masculine at the same time. And yet Lord Ashford did. More than his beautifully cut and expensive clothes, though, was the ease and confidence with which he inhabited them—­and his lean, muscled body. The carriage interior nearly radiated with the strength of his presence, yet he barely moved or spoke.

His eyes never leaving her face, he rapped on the roof of the carriage. It started forward. She gripped the strap to keep from flying into his lap. Managing to settle herself, she stared back at him. His features were slightly too rough to be considered classically handsome, but she couldn't look away from their lines and contours. His clean, straight jaw. The unfair brilliance of his cerulean eyes. Eyes that possessed far too much knowledge of the world and its sensuous pursuits.

Silence filled the inside of the vehicle for several moments.

“You're sitting wrong,” he finally said.

She glanced down. Her legs were crossed—­demurely, she thought, recalling instruction from her childhood. A lady always—­

Oh. She wasn't a lady anymore.

“A man sits like that,” he continued, “and he'll crush his bollocks to pulp. And another thing,” he added as she adjusted her stance, “don't make that face when a man says something like
bollocks
. You risk looking like a milksop prig.”

“Maybe I just have good manners,” she retorted.

“Or you're a milksop prig. We're going to have to do something about your voice. It's like your bollocks haven't dropped.”

“You enjoy saying
bollocks,
don't you?” But when she spoke, she lowered her voice to what she thought was a reasonable imitation of a man's timbre.

He shook his head. “Better not speak much at all.”

“That's rather convenient for you.”

His grin came as an unexpected flash of white, and it made her belly knot. “Everyone benefits.”

“Horrible man.”

“More like,
You rotten bastard
—­when ladies aren't present. If they are, call me a bounder or cur.”

“Do men really alter their conversation so much when in the company of women?”

His lids lowered slightly, but his eyes glittered bright blue. “You'll find out tonight just how much.”

She couldn't stop her grin. “The prospect is both terrifying and thrilling.”

“Don't smile, either.”

“What! I've seen men smile.”

“But you've got a woman's smile, through and through. And it brings out the tiniest dimple . . . here . . .” He reached toward her cheek, and she reared back.

“Men have dimples,” she protested on a rasp.

“Not like yours. Small and soft and tempting.”

It would be impossible for her to lower her voice to the depths Lord Ashford's had just taken. But his words not only caught her off guard; they seemed to catch him by surprise as well. He frowned and straightened.

“Not exactly used to complimenting the dimples on another man,” he said darkly.

“But I'm not another man,” she noted.

“And thank God for that,” he muttered, “or else I could be tried for unnatural acts.”

“Presuming I allow those unnatural acts to happen.”

“There would be no
allowing
but a mutual participation.”

She forced out a laugh as her face heated. “Are you trying to teach me how to flirt?”

His frown deepened. “That lesson is for later. For now, we should get our story in order. Who you are, how I know you.”

“Fill in the details.” She tapped her chin in thought. “Perhaps I'm a young gentleman of means who has just come into his inheritance, and you're introducing me to the Town.”

“You're my distant cousin. A lad from the country,” he added. “It's the only way to explain that waistcoat.”

She scowled. “Out of fashion, perhaps, but not out of fortune. I've got a country estate in Lincolnshire, and this is my first visit to London.”

“You're too young to be officially introduced into Society—­”

“Back to those undescended bollocks,” she said.

“—­so you aren't on the bride hunt, and I won't be taking you to any official Season events.”

“But gaming hells are appropriate for an impressionable lad?”

“With me as your guide and guardian,” he said, a corner of his mouth turning up, “everything is appropriate.”

She crossed her arms over her flattened chest. “I get the feeling that the opposite is true.”

“And your name shall be—­”

“Maximus Sinclair,” she said.

“Ned Fribble,” he declared.

Her lips pursed. “I will
not
be Mr. Fribble.”

The earl gave a sigh of forbearance. “As you like. Ned Sinclair. From Lincolnshire. A young man of uncommon shyness. But try to make the family proud.”

“I can't bring any more disgrace on them than you already have.”

That seemed to startle a laugh out of him, and his expression turned puzzled. “I have the oddest feeling that I'm going to enjoy tonight.”

“Me, too, my lord,” she confessed.

“You'll have to address me as ‘Ashford' for the duration of the evening. It'd seem suspicious if my relative addressed me as ‘my lord.' ”

“I could call you by a nickname,” she suggested. “Ashy.”

He scowled. “Nobody ever called or calls me ‘Ashy.' Everyone knows me as ‘Ashford.' ”

“Even your closest family? An aunt, perhaps?”

He glanced around, as though someone might be listening in. “When we're alone, my godmother calls me . . . ‘Danny.' But only her,” he added hastily.

Danny.
How ridiculously, utterly adorable. Especially given that the man seated opposite her seemed the very opposite of that childlike name. She tucked the knowledge away, hoarding it like ammunition. Or something even more precious.

“Are we headed toward the gaming hell, Dan—­Ashford?”

He didn't rise to her attempt to bait him. “It's too early. Donnegan's doesn't even open its doors until ten, and even then, the crowds will be thin until midnight.”

She checked her pocket watch, enjoying the novelty of pulling the timepiece from her waistcoat. Ten o'clock was three hours away.

“I already have our evening's agenda planned,” he continued. “First, we'll take a stroll on Bond Street. You'll get a chance to practice being a man before heading into the lion's den of iniquity.”

“But it will be just as likely that my true sex would be discovered on Bond Street than at the gaming hell.”

He adjusted his cuffs, his movements sleek and controlled. “Foppish behavior is generally more expected where shopping is concerned.”

“Foppish!” Too late she realized that her voice had come out on a very feminine sound of outrage.

He smirked, his point having been proven. “After a few turns up and down the street, we'll take our supper at the Eagle, my favorite chophouse.” Realizing his mistake too late, he sent her a piercing look. “The Eagle's a haven for me—­even more than White's. If, after our arrangement is over, I see one reporter there, spying on me, I'll go to
The Well-­Informed Londoner
and have them print a retraction and complete disavowal of the article series. Wouldn't be so difficult for me to blackball your paper.”

She didn't doubt that. And while she had to admire the lengths to which he'd go to protect his privacy, it chilled her how easily, how readily he wielded his power over her and ­people of her station. In the face of a nobleman's strength, there wasn't anything one of the middle or lower classes could do.

“The Eagle will be forbidden territory,” she added, just to be sure he trusted her, “and I won't mention it by name when I write the article about tonight.”

He exhaled, seemingly mollified by her concession.

“Once we've dined,” he went on, “then we're on to Donnegan's for some gambling until the doors close for the morning.”

“My,” she murmured, “you truly do have the whole of tonight—­and tomorrow—­planned.”