Free Forever Your Earl by Eva Leigh

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—­”
    â€œYour breasts,” he gritted. “They concealed your breasts well.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œLater,” 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.”
    â€œA 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.
    â€œOr stringy and tough,” she pointed out.
    â€œBest way to find out is through taste.”
    â€œWe’re dining in just a few hours. I’m sure your appetite can hold.”
    â€œI might have a taste for something else.”
    â€œClearly 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.”
    â€œOf 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