Forever Your Earl (18 page)

Yet her world had. If she'd been distracted after her evening with Ashford at the gaming hell, these last few days had seen her fit for a long stay in an asylum. She'd caught herself staring off into space, her fingers on her lips, remembering the feel of his. She'd been unable to grasp her thoughts. They'd been like ships disappearing off maps. Eating had been all but impossible. The mutton pie she now held was a token gesture toward feeding herself when she had no appetite to speak of, her stomach constantly somersaulting.

It was bloody disconcerting, especially because she prided herself on her level head. That equanimity had packed up its belongings and set off on a journey, giving no indication where it was going or when it would return. If only she could follow it and drag it back into place. Right now, she could truly use as much self-­possession as she could muster.

A small, cowardly part of her wanted to turn and walk in the other direction. Hide until the earl gave up and went home. She had a strange fear of what she might see in his gaze when he looked at her. Would he think less of her for kissing him back? The idea was rubbish, of course. If a man kissed a woman and didn't expect her to participate in said kiss, then he was an idiotic boor who only wanted to force his attention on unwilling victims.

Ashford was not an idiotic boor.

“Oi, out of the way, missus!”

She jumped to one side as a man pulling a cart full of fish went barreling past her. And while she didn't appreciate the sound, or smell, it did snap her out of her paralysis.

The
Hawk's Eye
didn't achieve its success because she took the easy way out. When fears, doubts, or other obstacles presented themselves, she'd always tackled them, and to hell with her uncertainty. Nothing was ever accomplished by sitting still.

She knew what she
ought
to do. Tell him that it couldn't happen again. Especially if the series of articles was to continue. And she did want it to continue. Sales had gone up yet again in the wake of the phaeton race piece.

But if he
did
attempt another kiss, she wasn't entirely certain she could resist the temptation. Wasn't even certain she wanted to resist.

All this was speculation unless she gathered up her courage and marched over and confronted him. So, after handing the pie to a nearby beggar, she did just that.

As she neared the carriage, the coachman called down to her. “He's inside, miss.” He pointed toward the building that housed
The
Hawk's Eye
.

She nodded her thanks, then went in. Stepping inside, she had a long view between desks, where her writers were busy scribbling out their stories, even on a Saturday. But all of them kept glancing over at her private office, where the door was closed. She'd left the door open when she'd gone out to pick up her luncheon.

Her pulse gave another kick.

The writers silently tracked her movement as she approached her office. She felt their gazes on her, as if she walked to the gallows or a promised reward.

Outside the door to her private chamber, she hesitated. Should she knock? It was
her
office.

After taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

“You're sitting in my chair,” she said.

Ashford was, in fact, seated at her desk. He appeared as though he'd been in the middle of looking over the latest proofs spread out on her desk's surface. His fingers were folded together, and he balanced his chin on his interlaced hands as he read. He looked the model of intellectual contemplation.

He also looked, she realized with dismay, appallingly good-­looking. Cleanly sculpted and handsome as a falcon. Dressed impeccably, of course. She vaguely noticed his hat and walking stick balanced on a side table in the corner of the room. Dark hair just slightly damp and curling, as if he'd bathed within the hour.

Ashford looked up when she entered, and she resisted the impulse to smooth her skirts and her hair. Doubtless she appeared as frazzled as she felt. Compared to him, she probably looked like some kind of frowzy burrowing creature emerging from beneath a hedgerow to blink at the sun. He dazzled her that much.

Her gaze went immediately to his mouth. She forced her eyes back to meet his.

“There wasn't anywhere else to sit,” he said.

“I don't normally entertain guests,” she answered. “This is a place of business, not a parlor for receiving visitors.”

“Clearly, given you and your staff's sterling sense of hospitality.” He rose from the desk, seeming to fill the space with his lean height. “Nobody offered me a single cup of tea. Including you.”

“As I said, this is a place of business. If you wanted tea or a gracious reception, I can recommend any number of fine establishments within a half mile. I'm sure they'd be happy to have your patronage.”

“But I prefer to be patronizing here,” he said.

“And you're doing a marvelous job of it.”

So they weren't going to speak of the kiss. She wasn't going to tell him that he'd been occupying her every thought for days. Or that she'd wanted his mouth on hers with the same desperate craving with which a sweet lover needed bonbons. No, they weren't going to talk of any of this.

She took another step into her office, deliberately leaving the door open. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, more of that famed graciousness,” he said.

“Well, you're no stranger to where I work.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You did storm in here several weeks ago, after all.”

“I didn't
storm,
” he countered. “I
ambled
.”

“You don't
amble
anywhere. You
stride
or
stalk
.”

“I hadn't realized you spent so much time thinking of synonyms for how I walk.”

Her face heated. She'd been contemplating many, many synonyms for him. Most of them flattering. If only she didn't possess such an extensive vocabulary.

“I'm a writer,” she answered. “Words of all varieties are my currency. I'm far richer in words than I am in coin.”

He moved around her desk, then sat on the edge, crossing one leg over the other. “Truly, if words were money, you could buy me a hundred times over.”

“If I bought you,” she couldn't resist saying, “what should I do with you?”

His gaze darkened, his body tensed, and she wondered if she'd just made a critical mistake. They weren't to go down this path, yet she couldn't seem to stop herself.

Seeking a distraction, she noticed a large box set to one side on her desk. It was so substantial that it was a wonder she'd missed it before. But then, he had a tendency to muddle her thinking, so that all she saw was him.

“What's in there?” she asked.

“The reason for my being here.”

“You could have had it delivered rather than bring it yourself,” she pointed out. “I imagine an earl doesn't play errand boy very often.”

The most ridiculously charming flush spread over his cheeks. “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “My footmen can be clumsy, and I didn't want them damaging it.”

If anything, the servants Ashford employed were overly fastidious and careful, proud of their responsibilities. Earls didn't employ ungainly footmen.

“Who's it for?” she asked.

He frowned. “You, of course.”

Her brows lifted. “A present?”

“Part of our arrangement,” he said. “Operating expenses, et cetera.”

“I'd like to see this ‘operating expense.' ” She reached for the box, but he edged it from her grasp.

“The ‘operating expense' has a small price,” he said.

She planted her hands on her hips. “I'm half afraid to ask.”

“The price is this: I want a tour of
The Hawk's Eye
. You see, my dear Miss Eleanor Hawke, you seem to know everything about me.” His smile did alarming things to her bones, turning them to aspic. “Now it's my turn to uncover your secrets.”

 

Chapter 13

Behind every printed sheet of paper is a story that extends far beyond the margins. Consider, dear reader, that the very item you hold in your hands now and read for amusement has undergone a journey that rivals any traveler for effort, peril, and hope. Let no scrap of writing go unacknowledged, for therein lie the dreams of many.

The Hawk's Eye
, May 11, 1816

E
leanor wasn't certain about revealing her secrets, but when it came to the running of a newspaper, in that she was fully conversant. Easier to speak of her work here than to delve into other, more personal topics.

Still, Ashford's interest in the paper seemed odd.

“I didn't know the operations of a newspaper were at all interesting to earls,” she said bluntly.

“Earl Stanhope invented a printing press over a decade ago,” he pointed out.

The fact that he knew this set her back for a moment. But she managed to recover. “That, he did. In truth, our own presses are Stanhopes.”

“I'd like to see them.”

She frowned at him. “Again, I wonder why.”

“Idle curiosity, call it,” he answered at once, lightly. “The whims of the wealthy.”

She had a sense this wasn't quite the truth—­his words came too readily, too blithely. As though disguising some other motive. But what might that other motive be? He certainly couldn't be interested in starting his own paper. Then, what?

There wasn't much reason to refuse his request. After all, she'd nothing to hide or be ashamed of when it came to the running of
The
Hawk's Eye
. It was her proudest accomplishment. Why not show it to him? Show him what she'd built herself.

She wanted him to see that. See what she'd done.

As if . . . his opinion mattered.

The fact that it did—­it mattered quite a lot—­shook her. She'd gone most of her life forging a path for herself, ignoring the voices of dissent inside and around her. It was either that, or let herself fade into obscurity, be swallowed whole by the cold, unfeeling machine of life. But she'd fought back, keeping her head held high, her ears covered whenever someone told her, “You cannot do that. What an absurd idea—­a woman running a newspaper.”

She'd gone ahead and done it, despite every obstacle.

What if Ashford dismissed what she'd worked so hard to achieve? How would she bear it?

Because she always did. And she had a hint of suspicion that he, of all ­people, wouldn't dismiss or demean her. Somehow he'd know what it all meant to her.

“This way, then.” She waved him toward the door to her office. But he was too polite, and gestured for her to precede him.

She stepped out into the large room outside her office, and he followed. The writers continued to work, but she could sense their attention.

“We do all the writing in here,” she said, gesturing to the bigger chamber, crammed full of desks, ­people, and paper. “I keep a staff of ten full-­time writers, plus day jobbers who fill in any gaps we might have.”

“Where are your editors?” he asked, glancing around.

“You're standing next to her.”

He gazed at her, a look of both gratifying and annoying surprise on his face. “All you?”

She shrugged. “It's all we can afford,” she said. “And I don't trust anyone else to review the articles.”

“How very . . .”

She waited for the expected words.
Controlling. Mannish.

“ . . . unusual,” he said.

“
The
Hawk's Eye
is my enterprise. I try to take care of her the way a mother might tend to her colicky infant. Changing nappies is just one of my many responsibilities.”

“When you say that the paper is your enterprise,” he said, “you mean you inherited it, correct?”

“I mean nothing of the sort.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I purchased a struggling little rag five years ago and turned it into
The
Hawk's Eye
. And before you ask, the funds were entirely my own—­and loans given to me by friends. I paid them all back, with interest, within two years.”

“Friends? Not family?”

“I've no father, no brothers. Never been married. Everything in my bank account was placed there by me alone. Years of saving and deprivation to achieve my goal.”

“Saving?” He spoke the word as if he didn't know what it meant. A corner of his mouth tilted in a self-­mocking smile.

She shook her head at him. “It's what us plebeians must do if there's something we want to purchase.”

“I simply cannot understand that.” Yet she saw a gleam of what looked suspiciously like respect in his eyes.

“You'll have to stretch the limits of your imagination, Ashford.”

“Oh, I try.” He sighed. Despite his indolent artifice, he stared at the busy writers' room, his gaze far sharper than a man affecting languid disinterest. “And . . . you built this all yourself.”

“I did.”

He said nothing in response, though he frowned slightly, as if grasping the enormity of the task she had set out for herself. She waited. Would he say something trivializing? Mock her ambition, especially as a woman? Others had done so.

A cold fear clutched her stomach. She'd survive if he did say something disparaging—­but it would be a rocky road to traverse.

“I see” was all he said.

It wasn't praise—­but she almost didn't want it. Better to have this unadorned acceptance than effusive approbation. As if her work was worth more than pretty baubles of words.

“No chastisement for behaving in an unfeminine manner?” she pressed. “No mockery?”

“Not from me.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Consider it part of a wealthy man's eccentricity,” he said with a shrug. “I can afford to think in more abnormal ways, because no one will gainsay me. I've too much power.”

She began to walk down the row of desks, and he kept pace beside her. “Like Caligula making his horse a consul.”

“Caligula thought he was a god.”

“Don't you?” she wondered.

He rewarded her with a grin. “Most men think of themselves that way.”

“That explains quite a lot about your sex's tendency toward delusion.”

“For a woman who's never been married,” he said, “you have quite a few opinions about men.”

“I'm very observant,” she replied. “Besides, just because I haven't had a husband doesn't mean I don't know the male sex intimately.”

“How intimately?” he asked, one brow raised.

“I cannot reveal my sources,” she answered. They'd reached the end of the room and now stood in front of a thick wooden door. She placed her hand on the knob. “But I can show you part of what makes
The Hawk's Eye
so successful.”

“By all means.”

She turned the knob and opened the door. Instantly, sound assailed them. Metal clanking, and the pound of a mallet. They entered a second chamber, twice the size of the writers' room. Rows of printing presses lined up, and men in aprons busily fed sheets of paper into them. Overhead, sheets of printed papers dried, like exotic plants hanging from tree branches.

“This,” she said, opening her arms wide to encompass the chamber. “Unlike other smaller newspapers, who contract out their printing, We save costs and increase our distribution by doing all our printing in house.”

“A noisy house,” the earl said above the din.

“The price we pay, and gladly. In the first days, we farmed out, but then I reviewed the numbers and realized we could make much bigger strides if we invested in our own presses.” She nodded toward the large cast-­iron machines. Two workers manned each press, churning out page after page. “These are Stanhopes, though you already know that.” She led Ashford forward, and they watched the two printers laboring quickly to produce sheet after sheet of the next issue.

“I've read of the man's work,” he said above the clang of the machine, “but never saw it with my own eyes. Looks dangerous.”

“It can be, if operated by a novice. But I don't employ novices.”

He asked, “How many sheets can you print in an hour?”

The fact that that even interested him astonished her. “Four hundred and eighty. That's twice the rate from the old wooden and metal machines. And the effort to operate a Stanhope press is considerably less than the old machines, as well.”

Ashford watched the printers with a slightly detached, bemused expression, his hands clasped behind his back. She thought he might be bored by the process. Even though the inventor of the press she used was an earl, most noblemen—­especially those with reputations as rakes—­generally didn't find the wonders of this new industrial age particularly compelling.

Despite his aloof attitude, he asked the printers questions about how everything worked, and what it took to become a master printer. Though he drawled his questions, as if he couldn't quite be bothered to hear the answer, let alone ask the question itself, the things he asked were insightful. Surprisingly deferential.

Instead of watching the presses, as she normally liked to do, her attention was solely fixed on Ashford and the keen, perceptive sharpness in his gaze, regardless of his languid attitude. She even caught hints of respect in his expression as he talked to the workers. There was no dismissiveness, no aristocratic sneering at the labor involved.

The printers cared about the work. And it appeared that some part of Ashford cared, as well. Almost in spite of himself.

It crept into her. On soft cat's feet. A feeling that went beyond attraction—­for of a certain, the earl was an attractive man, and he drew her on a primal level. Yet there was something more to him. Something else that pulled her toward him, knotting around her, making her heart jump and her blood speed whenever she heard him speak. When he stood close, or when he aimed that smile at her, as he did now. That smile that was more than a little self-­deprecating, and full of awareness and intelligence.

Goddamn him. Why the hell did he have to be so bloody
likeable
? Why couldn't he conform to what she believed dissolute noblemen to be? His charm, she expected. But not this. Not his intellectual curiosity, his esteem for work and ­people who had to earn their bread.

Once he'd exhausted his questions, she led him away from the row of presses. “I'm saving to buy a steam-­powered Koening press,” she explained. “The
Times
has them, and it'll make the whole process even faster.”

“Won't that put men like those”—­Ashford nodded toward the printers—­“out of work?”

Damn bastard, showing concern for her employees.

“They'll all be trained on the new equipment,” she said. “The process will go faster, but we won't lose any men to it.”

“Ah.” He actually seemed relieved by her answer, then caught himself showing too much interest. “Not that it matters to me, of course.”

“Of course,” she said with limited conviction.

“What's all that activity there? It fair makes my head ache with its industriousness.” He nodded toward one end of the room, where more apron-­clad men gathered around large trays.

“Those are the compositors—­typesetters,” she clarified. “They take the written pages and turn them into proofs for printing.”

The typesetters took metal letters from large cases and arranged them in composing sticks, which were then transferred to the type galleys. “Once the galleys are filled,” she explained, “everything is tied together into one unit.”

“So it can be moved without falling apart,” he speculated.

“Exactly. We make a proof, and then it goes to a proofreader, who makes sure there aren't any errors.”

He made a show of looking amazed. “You actually allow someone else to review the proofs?”

In response, she sent him a rude hand gesture. Then admitted, “At the beginning, the proofreader was indeed me. But then my responsibilities became too great, and I had to hire somebody.”

“What a devastating blow that must have been.”

“I barely recovered.” She waved toward another of her workers. “That gentleman is the stoneman. He's converting the tied bundles of type into forms, which is what gets placed on the press.”

They both watched as the stoneman arranged the pages of type onto a flat imposition stone.

“It requires a discerning eye to get the job done right,” she continued. “Taking into account the page size, and the paper used, many pages can be printed at the same time on a single sheet—­which saves us money, of course. This part of the process also makes certain that the pages are facing the correct direction, and are in the proper order.”

Much of the noise came from one man wielding a mallet to tap in pieces of metal, filling in the blank sections of the pages. He leveled the type, too, making certain that the surface was flat.

“Here's the final step before printing,” she said, gesturing toward the men taking away the cords holding the type in place. They used keys to lock everything—­type, metal blocks, additional pieces, and the frame—­into place. “That's the
form
. That's what goes to the printing press. And once it's printed, we dry the sheets”—­she waved overhead to the inked pages—­“then put them in our folding machine. Finished papers are bundled up and sent out to newsagents.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “And now you know, very loosely, how a newspaper is run.”

He made a small, elegant bow. “It's been most . . . educational. Much to my chagrin,” he added.

“What an imposition on your lackadaisical existence,” she said drily.

“Is there somewhere a little more quiet?” he said above the din.