The Earl's Christmas Pearl

by Frampton, Megan

  Although . . . she let her mind drift to what it would be like if she were married to him. She’d be in Wales, far from everyone she knew. Far from London. She’d likely have the freedom to do what she wanted, which would mean being as active as she wished without being deemed “not ladylike” or “too energetic.” As though it was a bad thing to have energy.

  And she’d be married to him, he of the devastating smile and the breadth of shoulders and height.

  She could take Mr. Shorty walking anytime she liked.

  She should not think about all of that, most especially what it would be like to share his bed. Those long limbs flung over her as they slept, his stubble scratching her face.

  Stop thinking.

  “Pearl?” he sounded as abrupt as he had yesterday, abrupt and annoyed, and she realized she’d kept him waiting. He stood in front of the fireplace, gesturing to the holly. “Finished? Are we?”

  “Oh yes, of course.” She nodded enthusiastically. “It looks lovely. You did a lovely job.”

  He looked heavenward as if asking for patience.

  “Lovely,” he repeated, and she folded her arms over her chest and glared at him and his dismissive tone.

  “Look, Owen, this is so you have a semblance of a Christmas, even though you said you don’t care.”

  He flung his hands up. “I don’t care. I don’t know why you do.”

  She stomped toward him, not sure what she was going to do when she reached him.

  His eyes widened as she approached. So he didn’t know what she was going to do either.

  They had that in common.

  “I care,” Pearl said, poking a finger in his chest, “because it is obvious you are a curmudgeon, and you need to find some joy in your life.”

  He raised an eyebrow as he wrapped his hand around the offending finger. “Curmudgeon?” He sounded amused now.

  “Mmm-hmm.” This close, she was keenly aware of how much bigger he was than she. Taller, wider, stronger.

  “I need to find some joy?” he said. His eyes drifted to her mouth, and it felt as though he were kissing her.

  Her breath caught.

  “You do.”

  He stared at her for a moment longer, then shook his head and blinked a few times. She tried not to feel disappointed that he hadn’t kissed her.

  And then decided she didn’t want to be disappointed, especially at this time of year.

  Owen froze as she put her hands on his shoulders, using him to raise herself up on her tiptoes.

  Was she—?

  And then her lips curled into a half-smile, and she brushed his mouth with hers. “Joy,” she whispered, before kissing him again.

  He wrapped his arms around her while leaning back against the fireplace mantle, shifting so he was lower and she was higher. That made it so she was effectively leaning on him so she could better reach his mouth.

  Which, it seemed, she wanted to do.

  Even though, it also seemed, she wasn’t quite sure what to do now that their mouths were pressed together.

  He drew back, just enough to be able to speak. “Do you want me to—?” he began.

  “Yes,” she said in a breathy voice. “Yes, I want you to kiss me. I want you to teach me how to kiss.”

  “And this will bring you joy?” he said, unable to resist teasing her. Even though he never teased anyone—his sisters would say he didn’t have a humorous bone in his body, but not only was that not true, he absolutely did not want to be thinking about his sisters right now.

  “It will. Hurry up, damn it,” she said, and he suppressed a laugh before lowering his mouth to hers.

  He wasn’t an expert in kissing by any means, but he had some experience in the activity. And he knew kissing her would bring him joy—if “joy” was currently the feeling of passion that was spreading through his entire body, not to mention his trousers—and he wanted to bring her joy as well.

  He opened his mouth to lick at the seam of her lips. He heard her gasp, and his tongue slid in, gently, in case this was not what she wanted.

  But it seemed it was.

  Because in the next second, her tongue had met his, and she was enthusiastically participating in the event.

  He tightened his grip on her, and she did the same, sliding her hands across his shoulders to his neck. Sliding her fingers into his hair as she kept kissing him.

  She was a fast learner. And, not coincidentally, he was fast becoming aroused.

  It would not do to continue this, especially given that they were currently alone in the house and had plans to share a room.

  Stop, he told himself. Yet unable to for a moment as she kissed him more thoroughly, making a soft noise in her throat.

  But he must, or this would go in an irrevocable direction. One neither one of them wanted. Which he would tell himself until his . . . want subsided.

  He set her back on her feet, already missing the feel of her body against his. “I think that’s enough joy for now,” he said, his words ragged.

  She met his gaze, keeping her eyes locked on his for a long moment until she nodded her head in agreement. “Yes,” she replied, and she sounded breathless too, “probably enough joy for the evening.”

  She swallowed, then nodded again and stepped back. “Uh—so I will just go get the ribbons.” She swallowed again, and then she spun on her heel and walked out of the room, her back rigid.

  Only the ribbons were lying on the table in front of the sofa, not outside of the room.

  He suppressed a grin as he waited for her return.

  Chapter Six

  On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me

  Six ribbons, one of which was green

  Pearl winced as she realized the ribbons were not actually in the room she’d just gone into. They were back there with him.

  With the large grumpy gentleman she’d just kissed—and who had just kissed her—and who didn’t seem to be all that grumpy anymore.

  More joyful, in fact, if she had to describe his demeanor.

  Kissed. She’d been kissed. By him, a stranger until yesterday. A man who was only visiting London, who had made no mention of any kind of attachment back home in Wales, who could be married, for all she knew.

  God, please don’t let him be married.

  She spun on her heel and marched back in, an icy feeling gripping her spine.

  He was waiting for her, an amused look on his face. Was he laughing at how inexperienced a kisser she was? Or was he laughing at himself because he had kissed her, even though he found her completely unattractive?

  “The ribbons are here,” he said, gesturing to where they were neatly draped over his arm.

  “Are you married?” she blurted out, then clapped her hand over her mouth. She hadn’t intended to just say it, but then again, she’d had so little experience with being given the space to speak—what with having four very lively sisters, all of whom wanted to share their thoughts—that she was inexperienced at that too.

  His eyes widened and his smile faltered. “No, of course not. Would I have kissed you if I were—oh, never mind,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Many gentlemen do,” she replied in a quieter voice. At least he wasn’t married. “And I kissed you, remember.”

  “I’m not many gentlemen,” he retorted, then uttered a derisive snort. “Something I think you might have noticed by now.” He sounded rueful. “And I was an active participant in the kiss.” He paused, then spoke in a low tone. “Are you? I know you’re not married, but are you engaged?”

  Pearl shook her head before he finished the question. “No, thank goodness.” But she did not want to get into that sticky subject with him, the most attractive man she’d ever seen, let alone kissed.

  Since she’d never kissed anyone before.

  She took a deep breath and walked toward him. “Hand me that green ribbon. I want to do this right.”

  He drew the ribbon from his arm and held it to her. She took it and walked past
him to the holly branches. Then wrinkled her nose as she regarded what they’d done. “There’s not nearly enough holly.” She turned back to look at him. “We should get some more and see if anyone has a tree for sale.”

  He looked at her as though she were insane. Perhaps she was.

  But she’d just had her first kiss. A woman was allowed to be a teensy bit insane after that had occurred.

  “A tree? I have no need of a tree.”

  She regarded him for a moment, tilting her head. “I believe you do. You have an ornament already, don’t you? What’s more, I imagine your doctor would want you to as well. Because,” she began, turning back around so she could thread the ribbon through the holly, willing herself to speak in a conversational tone, not one that would indicate how breathless she was currently feeling, “having a tree, celebrating Christmas, can only put you in a more amenable mood. And I know that being in a pleasant mood will help your recovery.” She tied the ribbon in a bow, then stepped back to look at the work. “Not ideal, it needs a lot more, but it is a start. Don’t you think?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at him.

  He was staring at her as though he couldn’t believe his ears. So he was consistent in finding her impossible.

  That should bode well for their future dealings.

  “We are not getting a tree.”

  She raised her eyebrow. Now that she knew he wasn’t married and that he seemed to feel vulnerable, he felt much more approachable.

  Besides which, they had kissed already, so that should mean something in terms of familiarity.

  Not to mention they’d be sharing a room this evening.

  Oh dear.

  “We should go before the snowstorm gets truly bad. Mr. Shorty has to go out anyway, doesn’t he?”

  She didn’t wait for his answer, but went to where she’d folded her cloak up and began to put it on. “Hurry up.”

  He moved as though he were in shock, putting his coat on and then leaning down to snap Mr. Shorty’s leash on.

  At least he wasn’t still giving her that “you are an insane woman” look.

  A tree, of all things. Because Christmas, of course. And here Owen thought he had left managing ladies behind when he’d left Wales.

  But there was something endearing about how she wanted to lift his spirits. Even though he knew himself to be a grump.

  Or, more accurately, his spirits might be lifted for a few moments—for example, when he was kissing a delightfully appealing woman—but he would return to his usual demeanor in a while. His sister Bryn called it “throwing an Owen,” which wasn’t nearly as clever as she thought it was. Because it didn’t really rhyme.

  Perhaps he should present the phrase to Pearl, to see if she could come up with something better. She seemed to appreciate a good pun after all. Something they had in common.

  Had he ever thought that about a female who wasn’t related to him?

  Actually, he didn’t think it all that often about the females who were related to him. They saw him as the head of the family, the perpetual provider, the man they tried to lead around as though he was a sheep and they were the sheepdogs.

  Only he would not be led. Not into being polite, not into fancy clothing, and definitely not into marriage.

  “Owen?” She sounded impatient. Of course, because he’d been woolgathering—ha!—for the last five minutes.

  “Right. We’re getting a tree because you insist it will improve my spirits.” He didn’t try to keep the dismissiveness from his tone.

  “Have you read Mr. Dickens’s story A Christmas Carol?” she asked, in such a deliberately innocent tone he knew there was something she wasn’t saying.

  “No. Why?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. Just you seem like a particular character in the story, I was wondering if Mr. Scrooge was actually a sheepish Welsh earl.”

  He smothered a snort of laughter at “sheepish.” He didn’t want to let her know, not now at least, that she amused him.

  Even though she absolutely did.

  The snow was coming down so quickly the sidewalks and roads almost had a chance to be white before getting walked or driven over, turning the accumulation to a dingy mush.

  The snow had gathered on her hair, which he’d just realized wasn’t covered by a hat. Didn’t ladies usually wear hats?

  But this lady was unlike any he’d met before, so perhaps this lady did not wear a hat.

  “We have to hope we find a seller soon,” she said, brushing snowflakes off her nose with her left hand. Her right was once again tucked in his arm, helping to steady him as they walked through the slippery snow. He barely needed his cane.

  “Oh no,” he replied in mock dismay. “What will we ever do if we can’t find a tree?”

  She turned to glare at him. “We are going to have fun, Owen, even if it kills you.”

  “It just might,” he murmured, but he didn’t mean it. Today and yesterday felt like a long dream, one where he was understood and someone wanted him to celebrate the holiday just because it was fun, not because they would get something out of it.

  “There!” she exclaimed, increasing her pace so she pulled him along after her.

  A man stood next to a cart that was half-filled with trees, glancing worriedly up at the sky. Of course, the merchant only had one day left to sell his trees before Christmas, and this bad weather was bound to discourage some shoppers.

  Not them, though.

  “Hello, sir,” she called as they walked up to the cart. “We would like to purchase a tree.”

  “You’ve come to the right place,” the man said, a wide grin on his face. He gestured toward his cart. “I can show you any type you like, tall or short, skinny or fat.”

  “Just show us the tree that looks most Christmassy,” she replied.

  Owen shook his head at that lack of description, but it appeared the man knew what she was talking about, since he dragged one tree off the cart and stood it up, stamping its trunk on the ground while turning it. “That one there.”

  Owen looked at the tree, unable to tell what made it more or less Christmassy than the others. Now that it seemed he was committed to this course of action, he would let her take the lead. That was unusual for him—normally he was the one who had to make all the decisions. It was a relief to be able to follow someone else for a change.

  “Yes, that is perfect,” she said in approval.

  Owen withdrew his wallet from his coat and handed over some bills. “Thank you.”

  The man glanced at the bills, then looked back up at him. “Do you need it delivered? I’m just finishing up here anyway, need to get home before the storm makes it impossible.”

  Owen shook his head. “No, thank you. We’ll carry it home ourselves.”

  “Are you certain I can’t help?” Pearl asked for what seemed like the hundredth time. She brushed snow off his shoulders, as though that would ease his burden.

  Plus she liked touching his shoulders.

  “It’s fine,” he said in his grumpy earl voice.

  “But it’s so heavy!” she replied. She gestured with his cane, which he’d passed to her when he’d taken the tree.

  “It’s fine.”

  “You’re stubborn, do you know that?” she asked. “And your leg and shoulder are hurt. I am certain your doctor would disapprove.”

  He stopped walking, turning to look at her. He didn’t look as grumpy as he sounded. If anything, he looked—nearly delighted?

  “Look, I know you want to make this a wonderful Christmas for me. And I appreciate that. But one of the things that I am accustomed to doing is . . . doing for others.” He gestured to the tree with the hand that wasn’t holding the trunk. “And this is doing for you and making me have a wonderful Christmas. It serves two purposes. Like sheep. Milk and wool,” he explained, presumably in answer to her puzzled expression. “And when we get home, I promise I will rest my leg. But let me do this now.”

  “Oh.” It explained a lot, actually, hi
s talking about doing for others. He knew how to build a fire, knew how to make eggs, knew how to drag trees across town—not that he’d likely ever done that before.

  “Do you do for others often? In which case, I should be the one hauling the tree so you could have a well-deserved rest.”

  “It’s a little late to be asking that question now that we’re nearly home,” he said in a dry tone of voice.

  She glanced up. She hadn’t realized how close they were—they just had to turn around the next corner and they’d be on their street heading to their—no, his—no, Lady Robinson’s town house.

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  Owen paused in the middle of affixing a candle to one of the branches of the tree. Their tree. He was kneeling on the floor with branches poking him in the face, but he was determined to finish the task she’d set out for him. “Didn’t answer what?”

  She tilted her head, a candle in each hand. They’d scoured the house for as many as they could find. Pearl was apparently determined to set the house on fire. Or, as she put it, decorate the tree the same way Queen Victoria and Prince Albert did.

  “Do you do for others often?”

  The question made Owen pause. Nobody had ever asked him that before.

  “Yes.” He put the candle on the floor and leaned back, stretching his injured leg out in front of him. He let out an involuntary groan as he did, which made her hurry to his side, kneeling down as she placed her candles next to his.

  “See, I knew you shouldn’t have dragged that tree.” She went to place her hands on his leg, then hesitated. “May I?” she asked in a soft voice. “I found when my own leg was injured that it was helpful to have someone rub the injury.”

  They’d already engaged in such scandalous behavior it wouldn’t matter one way or the other if she touched him. “Go ahead,” he said, wincing at the pain. He really had overdone it, and if he were less bound by his own honor and his pride at being able to do something for her, he would not have dragged that damned tree home.

  But her eyes had lit up when she’d seen it, and he didn’t want to have anyone see their unusual—albeit temporary—living quarters.