Forever Your Earl (8 page)

He narrowed his eyes. They'd spent too long in the narrow confines of the alley, too near each other. And the prospect of dangerous possibilities. “Lesson's over. Time to test your skills in the world.”

 

Chapter 4

The ancient term “The Battle of the Sexes” has existed for millennia for good reason. For what else can we term the constant skirmishes, sorties, and clashes that transpire on a daily basis between men and women? Indeed, with such continual strife, it's a wonder that the population continues to grow . . .

The Hawk's Eye
, May 4, 1816

B
ond Street at dusk blazed with beautiful things and lamplight, throwing gold onto the streets and the passersby. The pedestrians walking along the pavement were as gorgeous and unattainable as the elegant objects in the stores. They lived and breathed a kind of life ­people like Eleanor could only dream—­or write—­about.

The ­people collected here, like the lovely articles in the shop windows, were all her favorite subjects of scandal.

She could barely keep the excitement to herself. She murmured to Ashford, “There's Lady D—­. A known tippler at social gatherings. My sources say when she gets too much negus into her, she talks of her most outrageous secrets.”

“Met her once at a picnic. Looks sober and sedate now,” Ashford answered.

And so the woman in question did, walking with her son and daughter and stopping now and then to admire a hat on display.

“Yes,
now,
” conceded Eleanor. “Who knows what tonight's misadventures for the duchess might bring? More wine and tales of youthful indiscretions?”

“You sound positively gleeful at the prospect.” But there wasn't much censure in his voice.

Eleanor shrugged, and tried to make the gesture as masculine as possible. But she overcorrected and looked like a longshoreman hefting a sack of flour. “How much and in what fashion the duchess handles her spirits is in her power.”

“And it's your job to report it to the abstemious masses,” he said drily.

“Perhaps through her example, others might walk a more temperate path.”

He snorted a laugh. “What a sterling example you set for the city and the nation.”

“As they say, it's supply and demand. Plus, I've got a business to run.” She couldn't feel shame at what she did. She employed nearly a dozen writers, typesetters, and printers, plus the delivery men, and the shopkeepers and street-­corner hawkers that sold her paper.

A corner of his mouth turned up. “That's more than most of my set can say. We let our men of business and land stewards handle the heavy lifting. Meanwhile, the gents down at White's bet how long it'll take old Lord Lawndale to finish a leg of mutton.”

“What's the current record?”

“Two minutes, five seconds,” he answered at once, which led her to believe he was not only one of the bettors but also the winner of that wager.

As she and Ashford continued their slow perambulation down the street, she concentrated on her walk, her posture, trying to remember all the things the earl had taught her. Difficult not to get distracted by the bolt of emerald silk velvet or a pair of aubergine kidskin gloves in the windows. Not when she had to pretend that she was a young
man
of means, with a man's privilege and interests. The only baubles that should concern her were the artificial ones that hung between her legs.

It was challenging, too, to remain focused, when part of her simply wanted to watch Ashford in his natural habitat. In the dusk, with the contours of his face cut sharply in golden light, masculinity radiating from him like a fire, she struggled to keep her gaze either ahead of her or on the shop windows.

She wasn't the only one affected by him. As they strolled, more than a few women's gazes lingered on the earl. Some coy—­usually the younger girls accompanied by their mamas or maids. Some bold—­the older women who were either married or widowed.

“You're a popular attraction,” she murmured lowly.

“Reputation and title are magnets,” he answered, dismissive. “And you shouldn't swing your walking stick so much. You aren't clearing a path through the jungle.”

Trying to match his easy, long-­legged stride, she followed as he moved on. A prickle of annoyance jabbed in her shoulders as she noticed that while Ashford drew many appreciative gazes, not a single passing woman gave her a second glance. Clearly, she wasn't nearly as eligible a prospect as the earl.

How irritating.

“None of the women are looking at me,” she groused.

“You're not telling them to,” he replied.

“Forgive me,” she snapped, though she was careful to pitch her voice to a lower timbre. “I didn't realize I needed to wear a sign that read, ‘Marvel at my manliness, ladies.' ”

He shook his head. “Too literal. You tell them to look at you without words. By the length of your stride and the set of your shoulders. It doesn't come from here.” He tapped his head. “It comes from there.” He gave a discreet glance toward the front of his breeches.

She didn't particularly want to follow his gaze, but she couldn't help herself. It wasn't her normal policy to leer at a man's recreational regions, but she wasn't able to stop herself with Ashford. Heat rushed into her cheeks.

“You seem awfully enamored and interested in your . . .” She searched for an appropriate term to use when out in public. “ . . . your
manhood
.”

His laugh was unexpected, and rich. “It may surprise you that I don't think about my
manhood
constantly—­though it is a favorite subject of mine. Every man is preoccupied by the state of his meat and veg.”

“What a limiting existence,” she said darkly.

“It can be. But the point I was trying to make—­”

“Finally.”

He shot her a glance. “Is that women know when a man is confident in himself. They can sense his self-­assurance. And that confidence starts below the waist. Don't do that,” he added when she attempted to channel that notion in her movements. “Never lead crotch-­first. Looks like you're overcompensating.”

“I just don't understand,” she said, exasperated.

“It's attitude, not action. Walking like you know you could give a woman the best night of her life.”

“A substantial boast.”

His mouth crooked again with sensual arrogance. “Not a boast, but a truth.”

Another pulse of heat moved through her. She'd definitely need to guard herself against him, even if he wasn't actively trying to seduce her. With as much confidence as he possessed, he could achieve his seductions without much effort at all. And wasn't that just a little embarrassing?

Yet she put her vanity and thoughts of him aside and unobtrusively observed him. Sure enough, he did move with supreme self-­assurance, a masculine carnality that inhabited his whole being. She didn't doubt he could give a woman a night she'd never forget, and he knew it, too. But there was nothing licentious or lecherous in him. It was a general aura of male self-­possession that radiated from him like a kind of invisible sunlight. Light in which any woman would like to bathe.

What if she could channel that self-­possession into herself? She'd never lacked for her own confidence.
The
Hawk's Eye
couldn't exist if she didn't believe in herself. But this was something different.

Maggie had told her the secret of some of the more acclaimed actors at the Imperial. Instead of simply articulating their lines as histrionically as possible, they actually thought about what it must be like to
be
the character they played. To have their history. Their experiences. To become more than a pasteboard cutout of a role, they needed to truly
inhabit
that person.

So she could do the same with her role as Ned Sinclair. Imagine herself as a less-­experienced version of Ashford. A man of wealth, privilege, experience—­sensual knowledge.

The feelings moved through her in powerful reverberations. She stopped thinking and simply
was
.

And damn her if she didn't actually catch a woman's eye. Granted, the woman in question was a lady's maid, but she'd take whatever she could get.

“Much better,” Ashford murmured. “I'd almost feel the sting of your competition.”

“Almost?”

“You haven't got the means to carry through on your promises,” he said with a tiny smile. “I do.”

To distract herself from thinking of exactly how he'd make good on his silent vows, she said, “This is all highly educational, but it's hardly scandalous—­sedately walking down Bond Street. I doubt my readers would consider any of this behavior truly rakish.”

“I'd hate to disappoint your readers.” A tinge of sarcasm edged his voice. “This should give them something to titter over their morning tea.” He walked toward three ­people, moving with stately pace down the street.

The trio consisted of a middle-­aged man, a handsome ash-­blonde woman slightly younger than him, and a girl who looked as though she'd come out into Society within the past year. All of them were, of course, dressed quite finely. A wealthy family out for an evening's stroll before supper and the night's respectable entertainments.

“Sir Frank and Lady Phillips,” Ashford said smoothly, bowing. “Miss Phillips,” he added, addressing the young lady.

“Lord Ashford!” Phillips seemed shocked and pleased that the earl acknowledged him and his family. He was only a baronet, after all.

Ashford turned to Eleanor. “May I present my cousin, Ned Sinclair. He's in Town from Lincolnshire for a few days.”

Eleanor had to remind herself to bow rather than curtsy when she and the Phillipses exchanged greetings. She also remembered to murmur, very lowly, “A pleasure,” rather than launch into her usual harangue of reporter's questions. Why was the Phillips family on Bond Street tonight? Were they shopping for anything in particular? And what exactly were their plans for the rest of the evening?

All these queries she kept firmly tucked away. Tonight she was Ned Sinclair, young gentleman of leisure, not Eleanor Hawke, owner and editor of a newspaper.

She didn't miss the way Lady Phillips's gaze lingered on her for a moment—­but not in a salacious manner. No, it was clear from the mercenary gleam in the lady's eyes that Eleanor—­or, rather,
Ned
—­was being sized up as a potential suitor for the young Miss Phillips, who now glanced shyly at the hem of her skirt.

“We don't ordinarily see you at this hour on Bond Street,” Sir Frank exclaimed to Ashford.

“Ordinarily, no,” the earl drawled. “But young Ned here is stranger to the sophisticated pleasures of this wicked city, and I thought to introduce them to him.”

“And what do you think of our bustling metropolis?” Sir Frank pressed. “Rather a sight, eh?”

Before Eleanor could speak, Ashford cut her off. “Forgive Ned, Sir Frank. He's uncommonly shy and rarely says more than a word or two in a given day.”

Eleanor managed to control her glare, and instead gave her best impression of an extremely bashful young man, pretending mortified fascination with the pavement.

“Ah, youth,” sighed Lady Phillips. “How quickly it passes.”

“But not with you, surely,” Ashford said smoothly. “Have you command of the seasons? Surely they pass more slowly for you, and you've seen only eighteen summers.”

“Oh, Lord Ashford,” the older woman trilled. She was indeed a fine-­looking female, hardly touched by time—­a marked contrast to her husband, whose waistcoat struggled to contain his belly. His hair was marching slowly away from his forehead.

Struggling not to stare at Ashford, Eleanor marveled at the man's cheek. He was flirting with Lady Phillips as the woman's husband stood right there! It oughtn't surprise her, given what she knew of Ashford's wild tendencies, but it was one thing to hear and write about his rakishness, and something else entirely to witness it with her own eyes.

Yet, to her further surprise, he turned to Sir Frank. “I've heard that the grouse at your country estate are coming along remarkably.”

“Indeed, yes!” The baronet lit up brighter than the shop windows. “I received a letter from my gameskeeper the other day. Just a moment. I have it somewhere.” As he patted down the pockets of his coat, distracted, Eleanor watched as Ashford returned his own gaze back to Lady Phillips. It was a subtle glance, but one full of both humor and heat.

The lady at once returned the look.

Meanwhile, Sir Frank produced the letter in question and read aloud from it. Oblivious to the fact that no one seemed to care about the number of eggs found in one bird's nest, or the conditions of the hedgerows, he nattered on as if the subject was the most enthralling in the whole of human existence.

And as this happened, Ashford and Lady Phillips continued their silent flirtation, their gazes practically setting the air aflame.

The bold bugger! Eleanor had wanted a display of rakish behavior, and here she watched it with the same fascination one might reserve for a master painter creating a portrait fit for the Royal Academy. Granted, he hadn't swept Lady Phillips into his arms and kissed her, but the seduction was there just the same. The baronet's wife soaked up his attention eagerly. Her husband had to be a very inattentive lover—­if his engrossment with the state of his grouse was any indicator.

Ashford flicked his gaze toward Eleanor, and then to Miss Phillips. Eleanor understood. The earl wanted her to practice her own flirtation skills on the young lady.

Eleanor shook her head slightly. She simply couldn't! Surely she'd make an utter ass of herself, especially in comparison to Ashford's masterful skill of the art.

But the earl wouldn't be gainsaid. He made it clear from his look that he wanted—­nay, insisted—­that she attempt some flirting.

She could outright refuse. Yet where was the fun of that? How would that look to her readers if she missed an opportunity to not only watch a rake at work but also attempt being a man of free morals, herself?