Forever Your Earl Read Free Page B

Hawk’s Eye .
    â€œNothing,” he said. “Only my own inclination.”
    Her brow still lowered in thought, she stood and began to pace the length of her office—­which wasn’t very far, so she caromed back and forth like a snooker ball.
    â€œWe could make it a regular feature,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Advertise it in upcoming issues leading up to the series. Drive up sales. And we’ll call it . . . we can call it . . .”
    â€œ The Adventures of Lord A., ” he suggested.
    She threw him an exasperated look, as if disappointed with his efforts. “Not nearly titillating enough.”
    â€œForgive me if I’m not familiar with the ways of lurid prose.”
    â€œYou’ll never make it as a journalist,” she fired back.
    â€œThank the heavens,” he replied.
    As she paced her tiny office, she continually brushed past him. He caught her scent of ink, oil from printing presses, and cinnamon. Daniel had no desire to press himself into the corner like a frightened dog, so he remained where he stood, despite the disconcerting proximity of Miss Hawke.
    Suddenly, she stopped, and her face lit up. Inspiration had struck, and it turned her from pretty to extraordinary in an instant.
    â€œ To Ride with a Rake, ” she pronounced.
    He winced. Of all the names he’d been called in his life—­“rogue,” “prodigal,” “libertine”—­ rake had always been one of his least favorite. It implied a certain leering, cheap smuttiness. “We don’t need to use that word.”
    â€œOh, but we do,” she answered, face shining. “Other than the word duke, nothing intrigues potential readers more than rake . You do want ­people to read the columns, don’t you?”
    Given his preferences, his natural inclination was to say no. But these were extraordinary circumstances, and he needed as many eyes fixed on his activities as possible. “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.
    She beamed at him. “Excellent. To Ride with a Rake it shall be.”
    A sudden thought bloomed in his mind. “My exceptionally keen powers of observation have noted that you are, in fact, female. Keeping company with me will harm your reputation.”
    Her laugh was husky, honey over polished stones. “I’m a writer, my lord. I have no reputation.”
    Most of the women of his acquaintance guarded their names assiduously, fearfully. They lived in a world where a woman’s social standing meant everything. But this strange Miss Hawke seemed to dwell in a fringe realm, unconcerned about what anyone thought about her. As if she were a man. Or, at the least, a man’s equal.
    How very intriguing.
    â€œThen we’re agreed, my lord?” she pressed. “I’m to accompany you on your sundry activities, and write about them for The Hawk’s Eye ?”
    This was it. His last chance before throwing wide the doors of his life and making himself the object of public examination. He’d been scrutinized before, but never to the extent that he proposed now. The very thought made his chest tighten and his fists clench, ready to defend himself and his privacy. Gentlemen never did anything for notoriety’s sake. They were discreet, elegant, reserved.
    There was nothing discreet, elegant, or reserved about appearing like a circus attraction in the pages of Miss Hawke’s scandal sheet. Yet he had to. For Jonathan’s family. More importantly, for Jonathan himself.
    â€œWe’re agreed,” he said.
    She stuck out her hand. Offering it to shake. He stared at it for a moment. Ladies didn’t shake hands—­they presented them to be bowed over, or else the women curtsied. But here was more proof that Miss Hawke was unlike any other female he’d ever known.
    His handshake was his bond. This final gesture would seal his fate.
    Finally, he took her hand in his.