Forever Your Earl (7 page)

He actually looked abashed. “I like plans,” he muttered.

“Clearly.” But this was still a revelation. Who would have suspected that the rakehell earl was a man who enjoyed order and structure? She would have thought he'd chafe against such restrictions. Was he more responsible, more serious than she'd thought? Definitely not
too
serious, the way he took pains to quiz her.

The Imperial Theater was several miles from Bond Street, which left her and the earl with a goodly amount of time to ride in silence. After several moments, however, she couldn't keep quiet.

“You haven't mentioned my disguise,” she burst out.

His eyebrows raised. “Oh, are you wearing a disguise?”

Scowling, she clenched her walking stick tighter, though it was a struggle not to brain him with it.

“In truth,” he said, holding up placating hands, “it's remarkable work. I almost didn't recognize you on the street except for your . . .” He glanced away.

“My what?” Her eyes? No, he wouldn't be able to see them at a distance and in the dim light of dusk. Her hair color? She wore a wig, though it matched her hair's natural hue.

“Your arse,” he finally said.

She started, then tried to twist and glance back at the anatomical part in question. “My coat hides it. And besides, we only met yesterday. It's impossible for you to have memorized the shape of my . . . my arse.”

“Never underestimate a man's capacity for ogling.”

“If I embroidered, I'd include that in my next sampler,” she said drily. But in the midst of her exasperation, she became aware of two things: one, that he was aware of her physically; and two, that to one man, at least, she was recognizable as a woman. “Does that mean that anyone can tell my gender?”

“Doubtful,” he answered. The sun had descended even more, and streaks of gold from streetlights and shop windows traced the clean lines of his face. “I think I'm more . . . attuned . . . to you than most would be.”

She wasn't certain that provided comfort.

“The costumer and cosmetic artist at the Imperial did a very fine job,” he said, as though eager to change the subject. Though she considered herself a worldly and generally hard-­to-­shock person, she couldn't stop her eyes from widening when he stared directly at the apex of her thighs. Admittedly, wearing trousers was a novel, and snug, experience, but
this
kind of inspection wasn't expected.

“They didn't miss any detail, did they?” he murmured. “Gave you a sausage and potatoes.”

“It'd look awfully strange if I didn't have anything down there, wouldn't it?” She resisted the urge to give her faux genitalia a poke. “I have no idea how you men walk around with these ridiculous articles hanging between your legs.”

“It's even worse when they're made of flesh and blood,” he said solemnly. “They try to stage a coup against men's brains every day.”

“But higher reason triumphs,” she pointed out.

“Occasionally. It's a tenuous balance of power.”

Thank God she'd grown up around very colorful, outrageous characters, and spent considerable time with Maggie and her wild theatrical colleagues, or else this conversation about men's genitals might have sent her into a state of waking unconsciousness.

“The costumer did a good job with that, too.” He waved in the direction of her compressed breasts.

“With what?” she asked disingenuously.

“Your . . . chest,” he said through his teeth.

“Come now, Ashford,” she chided. “Don't try to fool me into thinking you have delicate sensibilities. You're the same man who couldn't resist saying the word
bollocks
to me over and over again. I think you must be talking about my breasts. Or would you prefer I use the word
bubbies
? Maybe
tits
would suit your sensitive nature. Or—­”

“Your breasts,” he gritted. “They concealed your breasts well.”

“I suppose you got a decent ogling of them yesterday,” she said. Though she was used to speaking with her normal circle in such blunt terms, it felt odd and . . . exciting . . . to talk with the earl so openly.

His silence confirmed that he'd done just that, despite the fact that she'd been wearing one of her most modest dresses.

“I should stare at your thighs just to even the score,” she said. “Perhaps you should take your coat off that I might leer at you in your shirtsleeves.”

“Later,” he replied. “I believe right now we were discussing your breasts.”

She fought the blush that threatened to heat her face. “I might not be wearing a corset, but the bindings they put on me make me feel like a trussed roast.”

“A roast can be delicious,” he said, velvet in his tone.

Maggie's warning, and the countless examples from Eleanor's own newspaper, flared to life. Aristocrats couldn't be trusted, and
this
aristocrat was a known profligate with a hidden agenda. Resisting his lures was imperative—­but she couldn't hold him too much at bay, lest he weary of her and take his story elsewhere.

“Or stringy and tough,” she pointed out.

“Best way to find out is through taste.”

“We're dining in just a few hours. I'm sure your appetite can hold.”

“I might have a taste for something else.”

“Clearly not flirtation.” She laughed. “Because we're practically drowning in it.” She shook her head. “I bet you aren't even aware that you're doing it. Flirting comes as second nature to a rake like you.”

He scowled at the word
rake
. “It's just a common form of currency. I flirt with my seventy-­year-­old housekeeper. It doesn't mean anything.”

“Of course,” she answered. But a strange sting accompanied his words. She shook her head at herself. Which was it she wanted? To keep herself at a safe and aloof distance, or to attract his interest? It couldn't very well be both. Besides, her own feelings were immaterial. All that mattered was getting the story. She'd simply have to remind herself of that.

T
he evening had barely begun, and already Daniel had acquired a novel experience. He'd never flirted with a man before. Miss Hawke wasn't a man, but she wore a very convincing disguise. Was he entering a new stage of his life, or was it something else that compelled him to coquette with “Ned”? He rather hoped it was the latter, as complicated as that would be.

As they continued on to Bond Street, it dawned on him that he hadn't had such an enjoyable conversation with anyone, male or female, in a goodly while. Each sentence was like practicing fencing—­a strike, a parry, the excitement of wondering how and when his worthy opponent would strike next.

Though normally he enjoyed conversing with Catherine, all their conversations lately had been about what had happened to Jonathan.

Yet was this what he missed by only associating with women of his class—­and actresses? Perhaps most females of Miss Hawke's station had her same intelligence and wit.

Doubtful. It was a rare enough quality in anyone. Logic alone would dictate that she was an uncommon creature, and a strange warmth threaded through him at the thought. Almost as if it was . . . a privilege . . . to be in her company.

And she was in no manner awed by his title. She treated him with refreshing candor and equality. Few dared the same.

She's a means to an end. For all her charm, don't let that slip your memory.

She was using him. Just as he used her. They'd reached a kind of equilibrium on the foundation of mutual manipulation and mistrust.

There was no creature on this earth more devious than a journalist. Writers, on the whole, were a slippery lot. Cunning-­eyed creatures, sly observers who made the whole world fodder for their quills. Human emotion was something they lived to exploit. He'd best remember that.

At last, the carriage turned onto Bond Street.

“Bring us to an alley entrance,” Daniel called up to the driver.

The coachman obeyed, and in a moment, the carriage stopped in front of a narrow but decently lit passageway between shops.

The footman opened the door, and Daniel alit from the vehicle. He had to stop himself from helping Miss Hawke step down. She saw to it herself.

The woman in question frowned as she glanced down the alleyway. “Are you planning on robbing me in there? I assure you, my lo—­Ashford, your pockets are more richly lined than mine.”

“I doubt that,” he answered, “as I travel with very little cash.”

Her snort was decidedly unladylike. “Should have figured. So if it's coin you're after, I can give you one pound sixpence.”

He waved off her money. “Before we take a turn down Bond Street, there's one thing we need to practice.” Gesturing toward the alley, he said, “Walk for me.”

Her frown deepened. “I won't give you another opportunity to ogle my arse.”

“This isn't about ogling anyone's arse.” Though that wasn't entirely true, since it was nigh impossible for him not to watch the way she moved, or the shape of her body, even beneath her disguise. “It's about the nuances of being a man.”

“And here I thought there were no nuances when it came to being a man.”

“Just walk.”

She shrugged, then did as he'd suggested. She strolled down the alley and then back.

When she returned to him, he sighed and shook his head. “It's as I feared. You move like a woman.” She had a natural roll to her hips, a sway that indeed drew his eye to her arse. Yes, she was dressed in convincing masculine attire, but it was only a shell hiding the female beneath.

He'd also seen actresses in breeches parts before. And courtesans dressed in the sheerest gowns. But seeing Miss Hawke's legs encased in breeches, revealing their length and active energy, shot heat right to his groin.

“An odd correlation, given that I am a woman.” But her mouth twisted. “What do I need to do, to move like a man?”

“Watch me.” He strode up and down the alley, all the while conscious of her eyes on him. For the first few steps, he felt oddly awkward, knowing she watched. He was used to being observed—­it came with being an heir and then a nobleman—­yet something was different, knowing that
her
gaze was on him, assessing, judging. Did she like what she saw? He'd never had complaints from other women before. In truth, he fielded more than his share of compliments. Observation had taught him that he wasn't a plain man, not the way women and some men responded to him. But it didn't matter. He'd no control over his looks, his height. He might as well take credit for the tides.

Yet he wanted Miss Hawke to like what she saw when she looked at him. Why the hell should it matter to him what she thought?

Get out of your damn head and just bloody walk
.

So he did.

“What did you see?” he asked when he returned to her, waiting at the entrance to the alley.

Her brow furrowed in thought. “I'm not much of an expert on refined female behavior, but even when I was a little girl, I was told not to run, not to swing my arms or make my stride too big. That”—­she gestured to the alley, indicating Daniel's performance from a moment ago—­“it's the diametric opposite to the way women are taught to walk. We're told to take up as little space as possible. Not attract attention to ourselves. Not claim anything as our own.”

He started. None of this had ever occurred to him. He'd always suspected that women walked differently from men because of biology, but never from truly learned behavior, lessons that included how females were perceived or thought of themselves in the world.

“But you,” she continued. “It's like everything is yours. You can claim it all, and no one will gainsay you. The way you hold your shoulders back.” She tapped him on one shoulder. “Like you're afraid of nothing. You don't need to fade away or slide between spaces. Same with the way your legs eat up the ground. There's no fear. Not to mention,” she added with a sly smile, “the presence of those bollocks you're so enamored of. That changes the mechanics of your walk. But they're your passport, aren't they? Your privilege simply hanging between your legs.”

His laugh was short, and strained. Here he'd taken her into this alley to give her some simple instruction on the way to walk like a man, and suddenly he'd been given an entirely new insight into what it meant to
be
a man. What it meant to be a woman.

He'd thought he'd be the one in power here, but with only a few sentences, she'd stripped him entirely of that power. He felt oddly defenseless, even though she was right. Outside of this alley, he was always in control, given the benefit of his gender, his class.

It wasn't entirely a comfortable sensation, to be seen with such incisiveness. As though he had nothing to hide behind. Not his name, his wealth. He was only himself.

“That's a considerable amount to keep in mind when one is simply perambulating,” he said instead of voicing these thoughts.

She grinned. “I could be entirely wrong. It wouldn't be the first time I fabricated motivations.”

“Such a ringing endorsement for the credibility of your paper.”

Her smile widened. Definitely not a man's smile. Too much prettiness. Too much . . . allure. “Never there, of course.”

He waved toward the passageway. “Try again. If you think you can manage to put one foot in front of the other whilst plotting supremacy of the globe.”

“I'll endeavor to do my best.” She walked to one end of the alley and back again. “Well?”

“You move like your bollocks weigh two stone. They don't swing like a leaden pendulum.”

“Show me again,” she said, “and this time I'll pay particular attention to your genitals.”