Forever Your Earl Read Free

emulate. Teachers or philanthropists.”
    He looked insulted. “I donate generously to orphanages and veterans’ assistance organizations right here in London.”
    â€œDo you?” She should make a note of that later. None of her sources had ever uncovered that aspect of the earl’s life, but it would make for a surprising and rather delicious counterpoint to his rakish public behavior. It also spoke well of Lord Ashford that he did not attempt to make public his charitable endeavors. But it was rather easier to do her job if she didn’t think too highly of him.
    â€œRegardless of the content of your character, my lord,” she went on, “you live a life only a minute fraction can ever hope to attain. As such, that makes you an object of fascination. And the truth of it is, you cannot stop me or anyone on my staff from writing about you.”
    â€œA miserable fact of which I’m well aware,” he answered.
    She strode back around her desk. “Then I believe we’ve said all we can to one another, delightful as this exchange has been. Good day, my lord.” She started to sit. “I’m rather busy, but I can have Harry show you to the door if you require.”
    But Lord Ashford didn’t move. Stood exactly where he was, with his arms still folded over his chest. “If you are going to use me as your subject, the least you can do is proper research.”
    She hovered over her chair. “Forgive me for not being Cambridge-­educated, but I’m not certain what you are suggesting.”
    Unfolding his arms, he braced his hands on the edge of her desk, leaning slightly forward. Despite the expanse of the desk separating them, she felt compelled to lean away.
    â€œWhat I am suggesting, Miss Hawke,” he murmured, “is that you accompany me. Day and night. That way, you can see exactly what I do with my time. You see,” he continued, a slow smile unfolding, “I don’t want you to stop writing about me at all. I want you to get it right.”
    D aniel still hadn’t quite recovered from his shock at learning that E. Hawke was, in fact, Eleanor Hawke. She also wasn’t the sort of slattern he might expect in this Grub Street milieu. Miss Hawke resembled a prosperous shopkeeper’s wife—­granted, a pretty shopkeeper’s wife, with her wheat-­blonde hair, bright hazel eyes, strong but feminine features, and nicely curved figure. She looked to be about his age of thirty-­two years, as would befit someone who owned and operated their own business.
    A female in a field almost entirely dominated by males. If there were any other women in her line of work, he’d never heard of them. She must have inherited the paper from some male relative—­a father or husband, perhaps. Maybe a deceased husband. Certainly she hadn’t founded the periodical herself.
    Still, here she was, surprising in her respectability. She wore a modest peach-­colored dress, and her hair was neatly pinned back. The only sign she worked for a living was the ink staining her fingers.
    He hadn’t counted on a woman being E. Hawke. But it was actually perfect. His suggestion would be all the more enticing to her. A journalist and a woman were the two most inquisitive creatures on earth. Combine them, and only a cat could rival her for curiosity.
    He’d turn her attention away from the activities that had been consuming him these past two weeks and distract her from his true purpose. While he had her gaze focused elsewhere, he could continue on with his true goal—­finding Jonathan.
    His proposition clearly intrigued Miss Hawke. She continued to hover over her chair.
    Despite her interest, she asked suspiciously, “Why would you want me to write about you?”
    â€œAs you said,” he explained, “I cannot stop you from penning these absurd articles about my life. And if I can’t stop you, the very least you