Dedication
To Gunnar, my dear friend Myretta’s departed Welsh Corgi.
You are the inspiration for Mr. Shorty,
and I am grateful for the time you got to spend with Myretta.
Bark on, dude.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Announcement page to Never Kiss a Duke An excerpt from Never Kiss a Duke
Chapter One
About the Author
By Megan Frampton
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
An earl who was very grumpy
“Alone!” Pearl exulted, unable to resist twirling in the hallway of her parents’ London town house.
Pearl’s first thought, on realizing she’d been left behind, was to dash after the carriage.
Her second thought was definitely not to.
Her third thought was most definitely not to.
Which was why she was both exulting and twirling.
Her mother, the Duchess of Marymount, had insisted on driving up from the country for some Christmas shopping. And insisted that Pearl accompany her. Not only because Pearl was the quiet organization behind her mother’s chaos, but also because there was an infinitesimal chance that there would be some unsuspecting gentleman who discovered he’d bought a bride along with his Christmas gifts, and the duchess was going to ensure that Pearl was the one he bought.
Even though Pearl did not wish for that at all, something she’d tried—unsuccessfully—to tell her mother since she’d become the focus of her mother’s marital determination.
But even if Pearl, the sole remaining unmarried Howlett sister, had to come with her, she didn’t have to go back with her. Not if she was accidentally left behind.
The duchess was scattered at the best of times—hence the need for Pearl’s steady hand—and under the duress of choosing the right gifts for all her daughters and their husbands and their children—well, small wonder that the duchess ensured everything was properly packed into the carriage.
Except for Pearl.
It might take a few hours, or if Pearl was lucky, a day or two before anyone realized the mistake.
But meanwhile, Pearl was alone. In London. Right before Christmas.
“Alone,” she whispered again.
The housekeeper and butler, both of whom resided in the town house when the family was away, had left to spend Christmas with their families, and wouldn’t be back until after New Year’s Day.
She’d not been alone since—well, ever. She had four sisters, after all, including her twin, Olivia. When her sisters had been away, there had always been a maid or a governess or someone to keep company with her—since it was apparently the Worst Thing Ever for a young unmarried lady to be alone.
Except it was the Best Thing Ever.
What should she do first?
She could strap on her skates and try gliding down the hallways. Except she was wobbly on them, and she didn’t want to ruin her newfound freedom by breaking a bone or anything.
She could go jump on the beds, something that was most definitely frowned upon by a young lady with certain expectations. But that would disturb the bedding, and she didn’t want to make more work for the housekeeper when she returned.
She wanted to be alone, but she wasn’t a monster.
She could see how long it would take to run from the front door to the uppermost attic. Pearl never got enough physical activity; a young lady was supposed to sit and look placid, two things Pearl was most definitely not good at.
She was always restless, always yearned for some sort of exercise. Something that would make her warm, and perhaps even perspire.
Even though ladies never admitted to perspiring.
She twirled again, spreading her arms out wide, feeling her skirts billow out. If her mother saw her she would be appalled.
Which was the point of doing it, wasn’t it?
Her mother wasn’t here.
Nobody was here.
She was completely, entirely, and absolutely alone.
She flung her head back and laughed, a joyous laugh that was most definitely not ladylike. It was too loud, too happy, too noticeable.
Just once, Pearl wanted to be loud, happy, and most importantly, noticeable.
It was difficult to be the not sister—she was not Della, the scandalous runaway eldest sister; she was not Eleanor, the good sister; nor was she her twin Olivia, the very opinionated sister. She was definitely not Ida, who was determined to show everyone how intelligent she was.
She was Pearl. Not any one of the duke’s other daughters.
Just once she wanted to be known for who she was, not who she was not.
“Ooh,” she said as the idea popped into her head. Instead of skating, jumping, or running, she would go out and walk by herself. Perhaps get a cup of chocolate at a tea shop. Maybe—if she was feeling particularly daring, which she absolutely was—visit a pub and have a glass of ale.
Apparently the consumption of beverages was high on her list of things to do when she was alone.
She strode determinedly toward the front door, then halted when she realized she didn’t have a cloak.
It was December, after all, and she’d feel like an idiot if she squandered her precious freedom by getting a cold. And if she got sick she might be the not alive sister, which was definitely not the type she wished to be.
“Where could it be?” she mused. She’d never had to think about where her cloak might be; a footman or the butler just appeared with it whenever she went out.
Being alone also meant being responsible for one’s self.
Discovering, for example, where outer garments might be stored. She would gladly accept that responsibility; she was an adult female of twenty years, after all—she should have an idea of where clothing was kept, for goodness’ sake.
She pivoted to walk toward the back stairs that led to where the servants did their work.
She would locate her cloak, she would put it on without assistance, and she would walk outside without accompaniment.
It was ridiculous how exhilarating those mundane tasks felt.
She found her cloak, eventually, after poking through several cupboards that yielded surprising items such as a porcelain statue of a particularly gruesome-looking shepherdess, a container full of gentlemen’s snuffboxes, and several pairs of children’s rain boots, likely hers and her sisters’ that they had outgrown.
She made a face at the shepherdess, opened one of the snuffboxes and immediately sneezed, and made a mental note to collect the rain boots to send to the Society for Poor and Unfortunate Children.
Once properly dressed for the weather, and collecting the money she hadn’t spent on gifts, she opened the door and stepped outside, a huge grin on her face. She’d never opened the front door to the town house herself, and it felt wonderful to do so, even more so when it was just her in the open air.
It was drizzling, one of those half-hearted storms that punctuated winter in London. But for Pearl, it felt as though the sun was blazing.
She skipped down the stairs, holding her arms out for balance, slid on the final step, which was damp from the rain, and wobbled onto the sidewalk,
her heart racing from the near accident.
She was righting herself when she felt a hand clamp onto her arm.
“Do you need some help?” a man’s voice said, sounding entirely displeased he’d had to ask. He spoke in some sort of accent, but Pearl couldn’t place it.
“No, thank you,” Pearl replied, straightening as she shook the man’s arm off. It was rude, but then again it was rude to hold on to another person in the first place. Especially when one did not need assistance.
“Good.” The man’s tone was even more curt, and Pearl felt a rebuke welling up inside her—something she normally resisted, what with being a lady and all—but now, on her own, alone, she would do as she pleased.
“I am perfectly capable of . . . “ she began, raising her eyes to him.
Oh.
His expression was indeed fearsome—the gruesome shepherdess might even cede the field of unpleasant expressions to him—but the scowl was on one of the most compelling faces she’d ever seen.
He had dark hair, nearly black, and his eyes were dark as well, surrounded by dark, thick lashes. His eyebrows were two strong slashes, and his nose was an equally sharp blade. His cheekbones were prominent, and he had stubble on his cheeks, indicating it had been some time since he’d shaved.
He looked like the physical manifestation of all the brooding heroes in the shocking novels Olivia loved. And that Pearl secretly read as well.
Pearl felt a whoosh in her stomach and knew it was a visceral reaction to him.
An equally strong reaction happened when she spotted the little dog winding around the man’s long legs. It was light brown, with ears that almost seemed too big for its body, and its face appeared to be smiling.
“Oh,” she said, beginning to bend down to scratch the dog’s head. She leapt back up when the man tugged on the leash, jerking the dog away from her hand. The dog seemed to frown because of being denied the opportunity to receive petting, but Pearl might have been reading into that.
“I’ll be off then, since you don’t need me,” the man said, giving a brief nod. “Come on, Mr. Shorty.” He and his dog walked down the sidewalk, the dog glancing back to look at her.
She stared at him for another moment—that whooshing feeling still unsettling her stomach—then set off down the street in the opposite direction, resolving to look as though she had a purpose and wasn’t just wandering around the city searching for beverages. And definitely not as though she were a young lady tasting her first draught of freedom.
And—“Mr. Shorty?” she said aloud, chuckling.
She glanced back in his direction, surprised to see him walking up the steps to Lady Robinson’s house. Hm. Lady Robinson lived alone.
What was he doing there?
Owen cursed himself as he walked slowly up the stairs to his godmother’s town house. He hadn’t been able to resist reaching out to steady the woman, even though he did not want to converse with anyone at all, either now or in the future.
He wanted to be alone.
Alone to recover from his injury, alone to ponder how he would deal with his mother and sisters’ determination to marry him off, and alone to concentrate on his business interests.
Alone without being the focus of everyone’s attention.
“And there’s you, of course,” he said to Mr. Shorty, who was having just as hard a time going up the stairs, but his dog’s issue was the shortness of his legs, not that his leg was injured. “I’m not truly alone, am I, if you’re with me?”
Mr. Shorty did not reply.
Owen shrugged, then swung the door open, limping inside. Mr. Shorty trotted off toward the kitchen, knowing a treat was in the offing. His godmother’s housekeeper had remained to take care of Owen while he was in town, and she’d learned to stay out of his way, even as she cultivated Mr. Shorty’s acquaintance.
But even she would be leaving in a day or two, going to spend Christmas with her family.
Owen slowly removed his cloak, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. His right-hand man, Enfys, had offered to come to London to valet for him, but Owen had refused. Christmas was in a few days, and Enfys should be with his family, not fussing over Owen.
He hadn’t always been so grouchy; at one point in his life he’d been almost cheerful. Almost.
But then he’d inherited his father’s title as well as the mess his father had created. And the care and feeding of his three sisters, plus his mother, who alternated between insisting she could take care of herself and then complaining when things didn’t go as precisely as she’d hoped.
He walked down the hall to the library, where he was conducting his business. He found it comforting to be surrounded by books, inanimate objects that could reveal knowledge if he looked hard enough.
Unfortunately he hadn’t consulted a book about the danger of groundhogs until it was too late.
He’d been helping to shear the sheep on the farm when his foot twisted in a groundhog hole, and he’d fallen, injuring both his leg and shoulder.
If he were being honest with himself, he had to admit it was a relief to have to come to London to recuperate, especially at Christmas, with so much focus on the family. It was when they were all together that the crescendo of pleas for him to marry was the highest. As though his family wouldn’t immediately find fault with whatever woman he chose.
But that wasn’t fair, was it? His family loved him and they wanted him to be happy; they just didn’t understand him. Or, perhaps more accurately, they understood only that his purpose in their lives was to assist them. The few times he’d asked for help from his family he’d been met with blank stares. He knew it was because they saw him as set up on a pedestal to be admired, not assisted. Eventually he hoped to find someone who saw him as a man, faults and all. And if that person were female? He’d leap off his pedestal so quickly to embrace her he’d likely break something else in his leg.
Until that happened, however, at least he had Mr. Shorty, who was most appreciative of whatever Owen did for him, showing his thanks with barks and slobber.
That young lady hadn’t thanked him, had she? If anything, she had nearly growled at him when he’d offered his help.
Perhaps she was his perfect match? He chuckled at the thought.
He heard a noise and turned to see his godmother’s housekeeper standing at the entrance to the library, a surprised expression on her face. Because he was smiling and laughing?
“My lord?”
I do smile sometimes, you know, he wanted to say.
“Yes, Mrs. Hopkins?”
“If it’s all right with you, I’ll be leaving after supper. My sister wrote and said that—”
“Fine, fine,” Owen interrupted, waving his hand in dismissal.
“Fine,” Mrs. Hopkins repeated, sounding stiff. She turned on her heel and walked back toward the kitchen.
Had he managed to offend her? He’d spoken five words, at most. He certainly had a talent for it.
Damn it, he wished he could figure out these kind of small interactions better—he never knew when he was about to make an ass of himself. Or horribly offend someone when he didn’t intend to.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hopkins,” he called in what he hoped was a grateful tone after the housekeeper’s retreating figure.
Nine words. Hopefully those last four hadn’t also offended her.
Owen shrugged as he surveyed the papers he’d been working on prior to taking his doctor-mandated walk. It wasn’t as though he could do anything about his personality. Thirty years of being precisely like himself could tell him that much.
What he could, and would, do, is focus on regaining his strength, tending to his business, and relishing being alone.
“Sounds bleak, Owen,” he murmured with a rueful shake of his head.
Mr. Shorty trotted back into the office, flopping down on the pillows Owen had snagged for a dog bed.
“At least I have you,” Owen said, lowering his hand to pat Mr. Shorty’s head.
Chapter Two
On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Two sharp knocks on the door demanding entry
Pearl wasn’t feeling quite as adventurous as she trudged home to her parents’ house.
For one thing, the hot cocoa had not been very good. It had lumps, and when Pearl had pointed that out to the server, she had been told in no uncertain terms that there was nothing to be done about it. The server had then bustled away to help other customers before Pearl could even utter a retort. Especially galling, since she had been thinking about replying “So I can lump it and leave?”
The server would never hear her brilliance.
She’d left the café, giving a moderate tip, and then had peeked in at a nearby pub, but the clientele looked far too male for her to venture inside.
Was there a pub for ladies, or was that just called a drawing room?
And the drizzling rain, which had kept up while she was inside the café, was now a downpour, sending icy raindrops to the back of her neck and down her cloak. She had looked in vain for a cab, but there were none to be had.
Not that she knew how to hail one, but she wouldn’t even get the opportunity to try.
Perhaps being alone was not so wonderful after all.
She perked up, however, when she turned onto her street. Soon she’d be home, and she’d be able to find something to eat.
The house still looked empty, so the duchess still hadn’t realized Pearl had been left behind.
“More time to be alone,” Pearl whispered to herself. That was good, wasn’t it?
The stairs were even more slippery when she walked up, and she glanced over at Lady Robinson’s house, the one she’d seen the gruff, handsome gentleman enter.
Lady Robinson was not the friendliest neighbor. So perhaps this man was an equally distant relative? Was there a proviso in the family charter that all of them had to be abrupt?
She grinned at the thought.
Pearl would have liked to pet the dog, who seemed friendly, at least. She chuckled again at “Mr. Shorty.” The dog’s owner couldn’t be all bad; he had a dog, and his dog had such a funny name.
The Earl's Christmas Pearl Page 1
