Forever Your Earl (9 page)

Besides, there could be no real harm in it. Ashford had made it clear that “Ned Sinclair” was only in Town for a few days, so he wasn't much of a prospect for young Miss Phillips.

It wouldn't be a very fruitful marriage, either.

Eleanor took a deep breath. Then attempted to catch Miss Phillips's eye. The young woman at first seemed resolute in avoiding “Ned's” glance. A blush stained her cheeks, and she twisted the strings of her reticule.

But, at last, Eleanor managed to ensnare the girl's gaze. Yet, now that she had Miss Phillips's attention, Eleanor wasn't certain what to do. How to look at her. Flirtation had never been Eleanor's strongest skill—­with her past lovers, they hadn't wasted time on the complex dance of coquetry. Both parties had known what they'd wanted and gotten it with directness. It hadn't been especially romantic, but then, there'd never been much room for romance in Eleanor's life. It was more a struggle of survival. Female newspaper editors didn't have time for flowery declarations or avowals of undying love. She had physical needs to meet and a paper to run. Once one had been taken care of, the other took precedence.

Now, however, she needed to try her hand at what it meant to woo. How might she do it?

She glanced at Ashford, who was alternating between making interested sounds at Sir Frank's ongoing oration, and continuing his wordless seduction of Lady Phillips. Oh, but damn him, he was a handsome specimen, his features sharp yet sensuous, his dark brown hair fashionably tousled, and his blue eyes gleaming with wicked wit. And he did indeed seem to shine with that masculine confidence that was like chocolate to women. Irresistible.

If she could look at him without the protective veneer of their professional association, without the barriers she had erected to shield herself from his charm, how would she do that? What would such a gaze be like? What might it promise?

Bearing all this in mind, Eleanor turned her attentions back to Miss Phillips, imagining that she wasn't looking at the young woman but at Ashford.

Miss Phillips blushed a deeper pink. But instead of turning away or gazing at Eleanor with disinterest, the girl actually batted her eyelashes.

It worked!

Eleanor couldn't take the look too far. After all, “Ned” was a lad of not much experience, and he couldn't make vows he wouldn't be able to keep. So Eleanor had to temper her expression somewhat. Yet she let Miss Phillips know, through subtle locking of gazes, occasionally dropping away and then returning, that Eleanor was most assuredly interested in pursuing a more intimate association.

The girl was like clay in Eleanor's hands. For a moment, Eleanor felt a little sorry for Miss Phillips, who seemed to lack confidence where her allure was concerned. Her mother's beauty shone brighter. And the girl's fortune was decent, but not substantial. She'd face strong competition from the other debutantes that Season.

Abruptly, the game didn't feel quite as fun. Ashford might feel easy toying with women's emotions, but Eleanor
was
a woman, and hadn't the same laissez-­faire attitude.

She gave Miss Phillips an apologetic smile, then kept her gaze fixed again on the toes of her borrowed boots. It might sting the girl to be cut, but better to do it now than prolong the charade.

Ashford must have sensed her sudden change of mood, because he said abruptly, “Perhaps you can tell me more about the grouse situation at your estate another time, Sir Frank. Right now, I need to feed young Ned. You know how these lads are all bottomless stomach at this age.”

“Of course, of course!” The baronet stuffed the letter back into his coat. “I do hope to see you again.”

“Yes,” Lady Phillips said with a small smile. “It would be a pleasure, Lord Ashford.”

Eleanor supposed that if a man could be bold in his intentions, then a woman had every prerogative to exercise the same right. Which Lady Phillips clearly was.

They all took their leave of one another, and Eleanor was careful not to let her attention linger too long on Miss Phillips. The girl might be disappointed, but hopefully it wouldn't last too long.

“An impressive performance,” Ashford murmured as he and Eleanor continued on their stroll.

“I was going to say the same to you,” she replied lowly. “Here I'd been convinced that only Mr. Mesmer possessed such skills, but clearly I was wrong. You took a perfectly happy married woman and turned her into a slavering tiger ready for steak.”

Ashford's stride didn't lessen. “In this case, the tiger has had many other steaks before. As had Sir Tiger.” When Eleanor shot him a confused frown, he went on. “I make a point of never seducing or taking to bed married women—­not unless I know for certain that their husbands are unfaithful.”

Though this surprised her, she said wryly, “Honor among the elite.”

“We don't get many opportunities to be honorable,” Ashford noted.

Something in his tone caught her attention. “And that bothers you.”

He affected a shrug. “I won't bore you with complaints about being too rich or too privileged. It's like saying, ‘They've given me far too much delicious cake.' ” He eyed her. “And it would be too harmful if you published what transpired just now.”

“What am I to write, then?” she protested. “You promised me scandal, and there it was in all its crimson glory.”

“The girl is barely into her come-­out. You'll affect her chances on the marriage market.”

Eleanor sighed. It was far easier to report on misdeeds and impropriety when she didn't meet the ­people involved.

“Be more selective next time,” she said at last. “If there's something you don't want me to write about, then don't do it.”

“I won't,” he answered.

She didn't press him further on the subject of honor, yet she could still sense a degree of dissatisfaction in him. A kind of restlessness and impatience. It made her wonder. Here she'd believed that men like Ashford had everything they wanted. Could do whatever they desired with impunity, but at the same time, there were certain limitations that she hadn't considered. He could never work. Never truly set his mind to something and earn an honest coin in compensation for his efforts.

“Did you enjoy that?” she asked, nodding back in the direction of where they'd left Sir Frank and the others.

Again, another shrug. “Not much challenge in it. Lady Phillips has been compensating for her husband's long-­term mistress for over a decade. She'd probably take a baboon in tight breeches to her bed if she thought it might get back at him in some way.”

“I think you're better looking than a primate in trousers,” Eleanor said. “Slightly,” she added.

“You are all flattery, madam, I mean—­sir.”

“So you enjoy a challenge?”

“I do,” he admitted after a long pause. “But there aren't many of them. There hadn't been,” he added darkly, under his breath.

What did that mean? Yet she sensed that if she pressed him on the subject, he wouldn't say more. He had his secrets, this earl. And while she'd love to ferret them out, she feared that if she did, or tried to, he'd call a stop to their whole arrangement, leaving her with nothing but the prospect of what might have been.

They proceeded with the rest of their walk, greeting a few ­people and occasionally stopping to look at the shop windows. But Eleanor was preoccupied. Who would have thought that Lord A—­d had more going on in his brain than the constant pursuit of pleasure?

Easier to paint him simply as an empty libertine, use him for the benefits he could bring to
The
Hawk's Eye,
and then go about her business without a by-­your-­leave. But it seemed he was more than what he appeared.

More dimensional. More human. A man rather than a collection of scandalous behaviors.

It wasn't entirely a pleasant discovery.

 

Chapter 5

What does a rake eat? How might he sustain himself? Dearest reader, it might shock you to discover that even the most wicked of men feeds not upon the tender souls of trembling virgins but beefsteak (and occasionally lamb or mutton). After all, the pursuit of pleasure requires nourishment of the most primal kind, and what could feed a man of dissipation better than hot, sizzling flesh?

The Hawk's Eye
, May 4, 1816

D
aniel stood just inside the doorway of the Eagle chophouse. Miss Hawke had positioned herself just slightly behind him, letting him lead the way. This was his world, after all. Though she was a journalist in pursuit of scandal, she also seemed to possess a considerable degree of sagacity, allowing him to serve as guide. She could have simply plowed ahead, pushed by enthusiasm and eagerness, blundering along and creating snares and muddles. But no, she was wise enough to know the value of discretion. An admirable trait in women
and
men—­and one he seldom encountered.

They'd left the commercial and visual pleasures of Bond Street to get some supper before the night's diversions. He'd been concerned about taking her to the Eagle. It was one of his few refuges. A place he could let all artifice fall away as he simply enjoyed the pleasures of a good beefsteak and pint of ale. Even when Jonathan had been present, the Eagle had been for Daniel alone.

The chophouse wasn't the most elegant, even though its clientele tended toward the elite. The beams were dark with smoke, and the framed pictures on the painted walls could use a dusting.

Mr. Bell, the proprietor, hurried forward. “Ah, my lord, a pleasure to see you this evening!” The older man glanced at Miss Hawke. “And who is this young gentleman?”

“His cousin,” she answered in that strange “masculine” voice she'd affected. Daniel wouldn't have been fooled by it, but everyone else seemed to be. Perhaps he was simply too aware of Miss Hawke's femininity—­despite her profession and her current disguise.

“From Lincolnshire,” he added, as if that explained everything.

Bell nodded sagely. “I'll show you to a special table.”

“What's wrong with my usual place?” Daniel demanded, glancing toward the settle near the fire.

“Well, uh . . .” Bell coughed into his hand. “It only seats one.”

“Then fetch a chair, man.”

“Of course! If you'll indulge me and wait just a moment, I'll . . . yes . . .” The proprietor hastened away in search of a chair.

“Do you not dine with friends?” Miss Hawke asked after they were left alone.

“Not here I don't.” There had been times that he'd taken meals with Marwood or Jonathan, but he seemed to prefer his own company when it came to dining, especially lately.

“Why?”

He smothered a curse. It was likely a hazard of spending time with someone in her line of work that he'd be peppered frequently with questions. But perhaps there was something slightly refreshing about keeping company with a person who was genuinely curious about the world, rather than simply accepting things as facts or remaining steadfastly superficial.

And he'd opened himself up to this when he'd invited her along on his nightly activities.

“Before the noise and bustle of the evening,” he said, holding tight to the head of his walking stick, “I enjoy . . . being alone.” Not entirely the truth, though there was a grain of veracity in it. For all the time he and Jonathan had spent together, Daniel also liked his own company, when he could be isolated within the sanctum of his thoughts.

She continued to stare at him. Clearly, his response wasn't enough to satisfy her scribbler's curiosity.

So he continued. “There are always so many voices around me. So many distractions. But they can get very . . . loud. Here, I can be by myself.”

“You could be by yourself at home, too,” she pointed out.

And lonely,
he thought. Something about eating by himself in that cavernous dining room that could seat two dozen guests felt as hollow as the chamber itself. He would occasionally eat in his chambers, but he'd grow too restless, too aware of his isolation.

“I like this better,” he said.

Fortunately, he was saved from the need for further explanation by the timely return of Bell. “Many apologies for the delay, my lord. All is in readiness.”

They followed the proprietor through the maze of filled tables. As Daniel and Miss Hawke progressed, he'd give an occasional nod to acquaintances, ignoring their curious glances at his companion. He supposed that Bell wasn't the only one who'd noticed his preference for isolation, and here he was, breaking from his usual mold.

It felt . . . good.

Daniel wanted to offer Miss Hawke the settle, while he took the chair. But between him and “Ned Sinclair,” he was the one with greater status, so the ruse had to take precedence over politeness. Miss Hawke sat down with an unconsciously feminine little flourish, which made him wince, but at least she remembered not to cross her legs.

“The usual to drink, my lord?” Bell asked once they'd been seated.

“Yes, ale for me,” Daniel answered.

The proprietor turned expectantly toward Miss Hawke. She looked momentarily flustered.

“Ah . . . lemonade,” she stammered. “No, I'm sorry. I'll have an ale, too, thank you.”

“Very good, sir.” With that, Bell rushed off, perpetually the busy host.

Alone again with Miss Hawke, Daniel said lowly, “Don't apologize. Not for changing your mind. And you don't thank a servant for doing his job.”

She frowned. “I just don't want to put him out.”

“It's your prerogative to do as you please. As a man. And a man of status, too.” He shook his head. “Women apologize too much. Always begging someone's forgiveness for the smallest trifles. You catch a cold and apologize for being ill. Take a breath, and it's, ‘I'm so sorry for using your air.' ”

“Because we're taught to,” she replied. “Men just take and take. Like they're the world's rude houseguests.
You're not going to eat that, are you? I'll just spread my legs and arms out in the omnibus and take up every last inch of space.
And we're harridans and harpies if we point it out. I suppose no one has ever said the word
no
to you.”

“Untrue.” He hadn't been able to join the army when the war had broken out. Of course, nobody had directly said no, since it was tacit that the heir couldn't go to battle, and he'd never asked. But he'd felt the restriction, just the same.

Yet she raised a valid point. That word was alien to his ears. Even Allam, outspoken as he was, refrained from outright denying Daniel.

How bloody irritating. As if he couldn't possibly have the fortitude to not get exactly what he wanted. He needed to practice more self-­discipline.

Of course, he was learning more and more about that word
no
when it came to finding Jonathan. That's all he'd been hearing as of late when it came to that objective. But things had to change. It was imperative that they did. The man's life hung in the balance.

“Just once,” Miss Hawke said, “someone will say no to you. And I'd like to be there when it happens.”

“If you're looking for more fodder for your scandal rag,” he rejoined, “that's a closed line of enquiry.”

Yet she only smirked. “I can be very persistent, Ashford.”

“As can I,
Ned
.”

The barmaid, a tall, bosomy brunette, appeared beside the table. She smiled enticingly at Daniel. “The usual, my lord?”

That seemed to be the night's refrain. Much as he hated being called a rake, he made a piss-­poor one if all his actions could be predicted. “Lamb chops tonight, Victoria.”

Her eyes widened at his divergent order. My God, he was a hell of a dull bloke if switching from beef to lamb caused so much astonishment. He should wear his boots on his hands and see what kind of amazement that caused.

“Yes, my lord. And you, sir?”

“Lamb, too,” Miss Hawke answered. “No—­what's the house special?”

“Beefsteak, sir.”

“I'll have that.”

“Yes, sir.”

The barmaid hurried away to place their order. As she did, Miss Hawke sent Daniel a triumphant little look. No apologizing, and no thanking the server, either.

He gave her a small nod. She was learning.

But there was more for her to learn.

“You could've given her arse a pinch,” he advised.

“That's a masculine delight I'll gladly forgo,” she answered. At that very moment, the barmaid's squeal could be heard across the room as some other gent decided to do the very thing Miss Hawke had declined.

“It's a wonder castration isn't more common,” Miss Hawke muttered.

“The perpetuation of the human race is grateful that it isn't.”

“But not the arses of barmaids. I might not get much respect as a female writer, but at least my bottom is free of bruises. My pride, however, takes a regular drubbing.”

“Then why do it?” he asked.

“Because I love it,” she replied simply, her gaze holding his.

What would that be like? To have something he cared about so deeply that he didn't care what kind of abuse he took, what sort of physical or psychological walloping he'd endure, all for love of that one thing? And to test himself to the limits of his endurance, in ser­vice to his great passion.

A filament of something hot and tight wound through him.
Envy.
He actually envied Miss Hawke her determination, her drive to accomplishment.

Perhaps when he'd finally succeeded in locating his friend, he ought to turn his attention toward finding a wife and raising a family to ensure a happy, healthy continuation of the Ashford name. He'd never been a disinterested master of his estates, but maybe he could apply himself more. Fund some of those technological innovations he'd been reading about. He could leave behind his gallivanting, and have purpose, like Miss Hawke did.

Good God. Just a few hours in her company, and he was thinking of turning his life completely on its head.

The woman was dangerous.

“Why here?” she asked, breaking his thoughts. She glanced around at the somewhat shabby chophouse, her gaze lingering on the faded paintings, the table stained with rings from countless pint glasses. “Surely there are more elegant establishments for a man of your rank.”

“The Eagle serves the best steak in London,” he answered. He nodded as Victoria delivered their drinks and left.

“Surely better steaks exist in London so that one doesn't have to put up with this.” Miss Hawke glanced down at her feet, where the soles of her boots stuck to the tacky floorboards.

“It
is
a good steak. But I like that it's not the most soignée chophouse. It's not . . .” He picked through the thoughts in his head, trying to make sense of them. “It's not some rarefied palace of isolation and hierarchy. Over there,” he nodded toward one table, where two men sawed happily at their beef, “those men are both industrialists. That man in the corner, the one with the green cravat. He's a baron, and his wife is the half-­black daughter of a Caribbean merchant. Some places in the city wouldn't serve them. But here, they're treated just like anybody else.”

Miss Hawke gently, thoughtfully rubbed at her chin. “I thought you toffs didn't like rubbing elbows with the
hoi polloi
. Wanted to keep the parvenus and plebes on the other side of the gate.”

He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “Here's a scandal for you: not all of us toffs are the same. Some of us don't give a damn where someone's money comes from, or who they choose to marry.”

“That
is
a scandal.” But a corner of her mouth turned up as she spoke, poking fun at herself as much as him.

Bugger.

“But I have some scandal for you, too,” she continued. “That table, with the six gents around it? My sources say they'll be visiting a brothel tonight, in honor of the youngest bloke's engagement to an iron mine heiress.”

He nearly choked at how easily she said the word
brothel.
No decent female of his acquaintance would be so bold, or worldly. But then, Miss Hawke had made it quite clear she wasn't a
decent female
.

Daniel glanced over to the table in question. He knew two of the six gentlemen to be regular visitors of the bawdy house—­which was reputed for having its girls wear gauzy dresses and fairy wings—­but the others often trumpeted their virtue in public. And the young lad, a viscount's son, looked much more enthusiastic about going to the bagnio than he did about his upcoming nuptials, despite his parents' loud proclamations of the happiness of the union.

Very interesting, indeed.

“You've got an extensive network of information,” he murmured.

She smiled mysteriously. “Information is my business.”

“Does your information tell you that there's a nobleman here tonight who likes to wear women's clothing?” he asked. “I won't say who.”

“I know about the man in question,” she said in riposte, “and his modiste says that he prefers ruffles to lace on his drawers.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “No shocking you, is there?”

“It takes quite a lot. But,” she added with a smile, “I'm hopeful for this evening.”

W
atching Ashford eat wasn't shocking. He wasn't raised by bears, after all, and actually used a knife and fork when cutting into his lamb and potatoes. Nor did he smear gravy all over his face. But she almost wished that he did, so that her fascination with him could lessen.

Sadly, he had beautiful table manners. Not overly fussy, nor excessively crude. As she bent over her—­admittedly excellent—­steak, she watched him discreetly. He held his knife comfortably, using it to cut large but precise bites of meat, which he smoothly ferried to his mouth. Instead of plowing through his food, he took his time to chew and savor. Nor did he talk with his mouth full. In truth, he hardly spoke as they dined, but the silence didn't feel uncomfortable.