Forever Your Earl (19 page)

“Why? I've answered your questions.”

“While this has been, to my vexation, an eye-­opening experience,” he answered, “I haven't learned everything.”

“What else is there?”

He leaned close, filling her senses with his nearness, and spoke lowly. “Your secrets.”

I
t didn't surprise Daniel that she immediately strode from the printing room and hastened to her office. After all, no one wanted to confess their secrets in a noisy room full of one's employees.

What had brought him here in the first place? Yes, he'd wanted to give her his gift, but another desire had driven him. As if he couldn't stop himself from wanting to know more of her. A growing need that had been building ever since . . . ever since he'd met her, he realized. He'd simply planned on dropping off the box, seeing her reaction to opening it, and then leaving. Yet once he'd set foot inside her offices, a greater demand built. A demand for knowledge. Of her.

But he'd had to protect himself. Cloak himself in layers of nonchalance. As if he could fool both of them into thinking he didn't care as much as he did.

Perhaps she didn't know—­but she was too astute to let anything slip by her. His own understanding came with a goodly amount of fear. With the exception of Jonathan and Marwood, he didn't get close to ­people. It was easier, safer that way.

When it came to her, however, he couldn't seem to stop himself. She pulled upon him with a magnetic force that could no more be denied than the laws of physics themselves.

Still, he strove for control.

He now stayed close at her heels. As soon as he entered her office, she shut the door behind them, though she did not draw the blinds. The box still sat on her desk, and she looked at it with alarm before seating herself. There was no other chair in the small room, so Daniel had to remain standing. He did so comfortably, his hands folded behind his back.

“I have no secrets,” she said.

“Everyone has them,” he replied. “You, of all ­people, should know that.”

“Not everything is worth printing in my paper.”

“I'm not interested in what gets printed in your paper. But the editor and owner of the paper holds a certain interest for me.”

“I cannot see why,” she snapped.

“Call it more of my aristocrat's idiosyncrasy.” He was reluctant to divulge something that he wasn't comfortable revealing to himself.

She narrowed her eyes. “I don't believe that. There was more than idle curiosity when you were talking to my workers. Stands to reason there's more going on here than you're telling me.”

He paused. Should he? It was a hell of a risk. But worth it, he realized. “A truth for a truth, then.”

“All right.”

“Because,” he said candidly, “I've never had a kiss like the one we had after the phaeton race. And I want to learn everything I can about the woman who can kiss like that.”

His bluntness seemed to catch her off guard. “I don't make it a habit of kissing strange men, you know,” she muttered.

“I rather hope not,” he answered, “because if you did, you'd have no time for writing, editing, proofreading, or anything else. There would be a line of men around the block, queuing up for the chance to kiss you.”

“Then I'd send them home disappointed.”

“But consider how disruptive that would be, getting up every five minutes to shoo away herds of young bucks all vying for your attentions. And you're stalling,” he added.

She folded her arms across her chest. “I don't owe you any answers,” she said sullenly.

“I gave you my truth. Now you owe me yours.”

“And if I refuse?”

Straightening, he brushed a fleck of paper from his sleeve. “Then
To Ride with a Rake
will be only two articles, and no more.”

Her lips tightened into a line. “I might've suspected you would descend to blackmail.”

“Leverage,” he corrected. “
Blackmail
is such a brutal word.”

“It's my job to pick words very precisely,” she said. “And I stand by my original choice.”

“Very well.” He exhaled. “I see you are determined to extract some tiny measure of honor from me. You don't have to speak of anything you don't want to.”

“Thank you,” she said tartly.

“But if you want to know what's in here,” he said, setting his palm on the large box, “then you might favor me with the merest hint about yourself.”

“You'd really withhold that to get what you want?” she demanded.

“Of course,” he answered easily. “Haven't you noticed, Miss Hawke? Ethics and morals are in short supply where I'm concerned.”

“I have noticed,” she grumbled. “Too bad they don't sell them with the haddock at Billingsgate market.”

“Ethics smell worse than fish,” he countered.

“And are just as perishable.” She glowered at him.

For half a moment, he thought she might refuse him. But he banked on her writer's curiosity.

His gamble won out, because after a minute, she said, “What do you want to know?”

Everything.
Touring the premises of
The
Hawk's Eye,
seeing the running of a scandal rag through her excited, passionate eyes, kindled a need to learn all that he could about her. To delve into her innermost self. What drove such a woman as her? He envied her that drive, that determination. Envied, and admired.

He'd tried, as much as he could, to smother that sentiment, but the more he saw of what pushed her, what she cared about, feelings shoved against the bulwark of his inner defenses. Defenses that had, for so many years, kept him sheltered behind walls of disinterest and the weary pursuit of distracting pleasure. And here she was, full of energy and vitality, and those fortifications began to fracture.

“One moment.” He abruptly left the room and walked out into the main chamber where the other writers were gathered. Spotting an empty chair, he grabbed it and, to the wondering eyes of the ­people around him, carried it back to Eleanor's office.

He set it down in front of her desk, then closed the door behind him. Taking a seat, he said, “That's more accommodating.”

“I've never been very accommodating,” she replied.

“Today's your first day. Now, you asked me what I'd like to know.”

“You rather forced my hand to ask you,” she said defiantly.

“I get what I want,” he said. “Nobleman's prerogative, and all that.”

“I think they might have the right idea in America. No aristocrats.”

“Plutocrats, however,” he pointed out. “And even without my title, I'd have a sodding lot of money.”

She threw him a sour look. “Gauche of you to keep reminding me of that.”

“Perhaps all this rubbing elbows with the laborers of London has made me so.”

“I've kept to the rules,
my lord,
” she said acidly. “Took you on a tour of my paper in exchange for looking in this box. And now you've gone and changed the rules.”

He smiled. “Rules shift and change all the time.”

“Then they aren't
rules
but
suggestions
.”

“Such is the nature of government.”

“And in this regime,” she said tartly, “you are in command. As always.”

“Really,” he objected, enjoying himself considerably, “you act as though I'm as bad as a Borgia.”

“Poisoners, those Borgias.” She tapped a finger on her chin. “Maybe they had the right idea.”

“Now you're making it far more difficult than it needs to be. Just answer a simple question, and then you can see what I've brought you.” He patted the box in enticement.

She sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “What do you want to know?”

It was a bittersweet victory, winning out over her. He could have bantered back and forth with her all day, but his own curiosity was too strong to withhold from her any longer. Yet what he was about to ask would reveal not just her secrets but his own. His secret that he found her deeply fascinating and wanted to learn whatever he could of her history, of herself.

“Why did you become a writer?” he asked.

For a moment, she said nothing. Would she guard herself too much to reveal this about herself? But this seemed the key to her, and he wanted that key.

At last, however, she said, “Because of my father.”

“He encouraged your efforts? A rare thing for a father to do for his daughter.”

“He was a drunkard,” she said flatly. “A Grub Street hack who, more often than not, was too far in his cups to finish his writing assignments. I learned early that if I wanted to eat, I had to finish the work for him.”

Daniel stared at her. “You . . . wrote his articles?”

She turned her gaze from the ceiling to the top of her desk, running her fingers over the blotter, circling splatters of ink. “From the time I was fifteen. He was so drunk or bleary from his dipsomaniacal rampages that he actually believed he'd written the pieces himself. He learned the truth one day when he woke up on the floor and found me writing what was supposed to be his review of a novel. After that, he let me take over completely. It gave him more time to drink.”

Daniel thought he'd been astonished before at learning that she'd bought the newspaper herself, rather than inheriting it. But he felt utterly staggered, pinned in his chair. “And your mother?”

A small, fond smile toyed at the corners of Eleanor's mouth. “Kind. Warm. Taught me everything I knew about gambling. But . . . she wasn't particularly inclined toward motherhood. She left when I was nine. I had to leave school to take in mending, though the schoolteacher lent me books. It was just me and Father, after that.”

“The scribbling sot.” It stunned him, the sudden wave of anger on her behalf.

Her smile turned wry. “Father did the best he could, given his fondness for gin. It was almost like a sickness with him. As if he couldn't help himself.”

Still, the fury went unabated. Someone had needed to look after young Eleanor, and no one had. And where had Daniel been during this time? On his Grand Tour. Carousing. Caring only for the next pleasure. He couldn't have known about Eleanor, of course, but a blade of self-­blame pushed itself between his ribs.

“He had a young daughter to raise,” Daniel heard himself growl, as if he couldn't stop himself from speaking. “He bloody well should have helped himself.”

Unexpected, the depths of his rage. He couldn't stop himself from picturing a young Eleanor, forced to take care of herself and her drunkard of a father. Other children worked. It was a cruel truth of this world. He always gave flower girls and crossing sweeps extra coins. Who'd seen to Eleanor's needs when she had been a girl? Who had looked after her? She had.

“Is he still in his cups now?” he demanded. If so, Daniel would seek the man out and . . . well, he didn't know precisely what he'd do, but someone had to make Mr. Hawke pay for what the inebriate had done to Eleanor.

“He sleeps in Cross Bones,” she said.

The paupers' cemetery.

“He's been there for over a decade,” she continued. “A shame, really. If he'd waited a few more years, I could have afforded a decent burial.”

The flatness of her tone belied the pain in her eyes. Daniel's hands itched to reach across her desk and weave his fingers with hers. But he sensed such a gesture wouldn't be appreciated. Not at that moment, anyway. Yet he could sense beneath her armor an aching vulnerability. One he wanted to shield and care for.

Care for?
Aside from Catherine's and Jonathan's, and occasionally Marwood's, when had he cared for anyone's welfare beside his own?

And yet he felt an ache in his chest when thinking of Eleanor, young and alone, fighting for survival when everyone around her had abandoned her. Her brazen, bold persona had been formed in the blistering forge of experience. She hadn't collapsed. She'd endured, survived. Thrived, if
The
Hawk's Eye
was any indication.

“Took me a while, though,” she went on, a little more brightly. Rallying herself. “I did more hack work under my own name. Seemed there were newspapermen out there who didn't much care about the gender of their writers, so long as the work got done. And I did it. Worked my way up the ladder as a writer and editor. Became the assistant to a man who ran another rag.”

“So industrious.” But his attempt at insouciance sounded hollow even to him.

“I couldn't work for anyone anymore,” she said. “I wanted life on my terms. So I saved. Bought this place—­with the help of my friends, like I said. It used to be one of those dreadful women's etiquette journals. I changed all that,” she added with pride.

He couldn't fault Eleanor her self-­satisfaction. If he'd accomplished half of what she'd done, he'd be feeling smug, himself. And she'd done it all with the handicap of her sex in a world that didn't favor women advancing themselves.

“Ever consider writing something more than just a scandal sheet?” he asked.

Her smug look vanished, replaced by a scowl. “This isn't
just
a scandal sheet,” she said bitingly. “It's years of hard work and sacrifice.”

“Of course it is.” He peered at her. “But I've read your work. You could do so much better than scribbling about the likes of Lord A—­d. Your work here is very good. You deserve more than this. This paper could be truly important, instead of just a trifle.”

Now her frown was thunderous. “What a bloody dismissive, demeaning thing to say. After everything I've told you about myself. All the sweat I've poured into
The
Hawk's Eye
. And I can ‘do better'?”

“Perhaps I didn't pick my words correctly,” he allowed.