The Earl's Christmas Pearl

by Megan Frampton

  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.

  “Ahh,” he said when her fingers gripped his leg. Her hands wrapped around his calf completely, and she began to knead it, gazing at him with a concerned expression.

  “Is this too much?” she asked.

  “No, it feels wonderful.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, focusing on what she was doing. There was nothing remotely sexual about her touch, but the fact that she had seen him in pain and rushed to do something about it was incredibly appealing.

  “I might have mentioned, I had a cricket injury a few summers back,” she said, her fingers still working his leg muscle. “And my twin, Olivia, was determined to relieve my pain, so she sent our other sister Ida to research what might help.”

  “Ida is your intelligent sister? Your version of my sister Bryn?”

  “If Bryn likes to display her knowledge at any moment on the slightest provocation, then yes,” Pearl replied dryly.

  He laughed, then winced as she hit a particularly sore spot.

  “Too much?” she asked. It seemed she was keeping a close eye on his reactions. He wasn’t used to that either. It felt good, nearly as good as her touch did.

  “No, it’s good. Just a bit more, I don’t want it to get sore.”

  “Of course.” She worked in silence for a few more moments, then removed her hands. He opened his eyes to see her leaning back on the floor.

  “Thank you,” he said. “That has definitely eased the pain.” He made as if to stand up, only to have her hold her hand out in a “stop” gesture.

  “No, you go lie on the couch. I’ll finish the candles.”

  “But—” he began, and she shook her head. Definitively. As she seemed to do often. He did like that about her, that she was so decided.

  In fact, he would have to admit, he liked her.

  “No. I want you to have a nice Christmas, not one filled with pain.”

  “So don’t invite my mother,” he murmured as he made his way upright.

  “And definitely don’t invite mine,” she said, her tone rueful. She took his arm and guided him to the couch, then settled him as comfortably as he was able. Thank goodness the couch was long enough to accommodate his height. “Oh! And you mentioned that ornament, a dragon? I can go get it and hang it on the tree, if you like.”

  It touched him that she’d remembered. “It’s upstairs in the second room on the right. That’s been my bedroom. It should be on the dresser. I can go up and get it,” he added, beginning to sit up.

  “No, let me. I can fetch an ornament, for goodness’ sake.” She sounded irritated, and he smothered a grin.

  She went upstairs and returned a few minutes later, holding the dragon. “This is it?”

  She held it out to him, and he took it, their fingers brushing. It was made of wood, and clearly old and worn; one of the jeweled eyes had fallen out, and the tail was bent, but it still evoked memories, good memories, of his father and Christmases past.

  “Do you want to hang it?” she asked.

  He handed it back to her. “No, you. Just there where I can see it lying on the couch.”

  He watched as she approached the tree, glancing back at him to confirm the dragon was in the position he most wanted. He nodded, and she returned to him, clearly about to get him into his position as well.

  “No, not that,” he exclaimed as she drew a knitted throw from where it lay on one of the other chairs. “I’m not an invalid.”

  She laughed, tossing the throw back where it had been. “I see, so your firm limit is that you absolutely will not allow yourself to be covered with a blanket. You might want to reconsider that, Owen, when it’s time for bed.”

  And then they both froze. “Bed.” The word hung there, between them, and their gazes met. He wanted to reassure her that she would be safe with him, but then again, he couldn’t speak.

  “It will be fine,” she said after a moment. “I know you’re concerned for my reputation, but nobody will ever know. Nobody notices me.” She shrugged, as though it didn’t matter. Of course it matters, he wanted to say. “My mother is focused on marrying me off, but as long as I am back in our own house when she arrives, she won’t notice a thing. She is not the most observant person.” Owen felt his chest constrict—in sympathy?—at her tone. Not her joyful, determined, “I will devour cheese and bread in your kitchen” tone. Lost, as though she was just waiting to be noticed.

  He noticed her. But he didn’t want to give her the wrong impression by telling her that, particularly after reminding one another that they would be spending the night in the same house. The same room, given that it didn’t make sense to have two fires going, not when they weren’t sure how long the snowstorm would last.

  “Anyway,” she continued, speaking in a brusque tone, “I’ll finish the candles and then I’ll go make supper.”

  “You?” he said, sounding skeptical. Not unreasonable, given she had just been taught how to crack an egg.

  “Yes, me,” she replied. She sounded determined. Again. “It shouldn’t be too difficult. Just let me do for you for a moment, Owen.”

  Chapter Seven

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

  Seven delicious kisses

  Pearl glared at the eggs in the bowl, which were studded with bits of eggshell.

  “Need some assistance?”

  She twisted around to see Owen, who was standing in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the jamb.

  “I am fine,” she replied, raising her chin.

  He walked into the room, leaning on his cane. His limp was more pronounced, and she felt guilty all over again—she shouldn’t have insisted they have a tree, much less allow him to drag it home.

  “I think you need help. It’s perfectly acceptable to ask for help, Pearl.”

  “Oh, like you do?” she snapped back. Then her eyes widened as she realized how sharp she’d been.

  He froze. “You’re right. I don’t ask for help. How about we both learn how to do it? I’ll go first. ‘Pearl, can you help me walk my dog? He needs to go out, and I fear it is too snowy for me to manage.’”

  She leaned to one side to peer out one of the high windows that looked out onto the back garden. Sure enough, the snow was coming down even more thickly, piling up into soft white drifts.

  “And now you,” he prodded.

  She exhaled exaggeratedly, then crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine. Owen, will you help me make dinner?”

  He held his arms out wide. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

  Mr. Shorty trotted into the kitchen as though on cue.

  “We can just let him out into the back garden, but I wasn’t certain I could go fetch him if he didn’t return after he finished,” Owen explained.

  “Ah, I see.”

  He walked past her to the other end of the kitchen and unlatched a small door—too small for him without ducking his head—and opened it just a bit, but still enough to let swirls of snow pour in.

  Mr. Shorty scooted quickly outside, and Owen shut the door behind him.

  “He’ll be all right out there?” Pearl asked.

  “He will,” Owen assured her. “I’ll open the door in about ten minutes; he shouldn’t need any longer than that.” He walked back toward her. “Now show me what you’re making.”

  They salvaged dinner, although they were low on eggs, so they had to make do with the ones Pearl had already cracked. Mr. Shorty was eager to return back inside—likely because his little legs were sinking into the snowdrifts—so Pearl didn’t have to go out and rescue him. He tracked snow all over the kitchen, making the floor slippery, so Pearl insisted that Owen take a seat and direct her activities so he wouldn’t slip and fall.

  It was so cozy and domestic, not as though either one of them usually had servants to take care of everything. As though they belonged together doing cozy, domesti
c things.

  It felt scarily right.

  “It’s just that I didn’t realize the shells were so fragile!” Pearl explained for what seemed the hundredth time after Owen made a face while eating.

  “No, it’s not that,” he said.

  They were back in their room, sitting side by side on the large sofa Owen had been lying on earlier. The scorned throw was on Pearl’s lap, while Mr. Shorty was on Owen’s.

  “What then?”

  “I think I had you heat the pan up too long so the butter got burnt. That’s my fault, not yours,” he said. He waved his hand. “But it’s fine, as long as you haven’t noticed.”

  She hadn’t. Mostly because she was enjoying herself too much to notice anything about their dinner—Owen had finished the eggs, while Pearl had collected all the cheeses she could find, placing them on a platter that was stored high above her head, requiring Owen’s help to retrieve. A quick wash later—and Pearl was embarrassed at how proud she was of actually washing a dish—and she was arranging the cheese in color order, from the palest cheddar to . . . the darkest cheddar.

  “Your godmother is very fond of cheddar,” she observed. “Not that I blame her, it is delicious.”

  Owen leaned forward to take one of the bits from the platter, popping it into his mouth. “Mm,” he murmured.

  She felt her breath catch at the sight of his pleasure. Oh lord. He was gorgeous when grumpy, of course. Still gorgeous when being pleasant, as he had been this entire day, save for the maligned throw incident. But when he was enjoying himself? When his eyes fluttered closed as his strong jaw chewed, his mouth moving, the cords in his neck shifting?

  Was there a word stronger than “gorgeous”? “Gorgeousest”? Ida would know, but thankfully Ida wasn’t here. Only Pearl was. Here to savor every moment with this handsome man, to have conversations she doubted either one of them had ever had.

  “Do I have something on my face?” he asked, startling her out of her reverie.

  “Uh—” she began, feeling her cheeks start to heat.

  His brows drew together as though in concern. “You’re not feeling ill, are you?” He shook his head before she could reply. “I knew we shouldn’t have gone out in this weather.”

  “No, you ridiculous man,” Pearl said at last. He kept staring at her with that concerned expression. It touched her that he was worried about her.

  Had anybody who wasn’t one of her sisters ever been worried about her?

  She knew the answer to that question.

  “It’s none of that. It’s that—it’s that I want more joy,” she said in a low voice before leaning over to him and placing her mouth on his.

  She was kissing him. Again.

  It was awkward because they were seated next to each other on the sofa, and Mr. Shorty was on his lap, shifting in reaction as she leaned into him. Owen scooped his dog up without breaking the kiss—an impressive feat, he had to admit—and lowered him gently to the floor, then wrapped his other arm around Pearl, drawing her nearer.

  She wriggled closer, and then put her hand on his face to hold his jaw, angling him into a better position for a kiss.

  He liked how . . . determined she was.

  She drew away, and he suppressed whatever disappointment he felt.

  “Is this—is this acceptable?” she said in a whisper. “Because I just—I mean, it’s that you—?” and then she shook her head, sending hair spilling around her face.

  “This is more than acceptable, Pearl.” He spoke in a hushed tone of voice. “I want to kiss you more than anything.”

  She smiled, that lovely wholehearted smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good. I just wanted to make certain.”

  “That you weren’t taking undue advantage of me?” he said, humor threading through his voice. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, before returning her lips to his.

  This kiss was slower, less frantic than before. Perhaps because she had explicitly asked if he wanted it? And had likewise communicated her enthusiasm?

  And there was also the truth that they were here, together, for the foreseeable future.

  So they could take their time.

  Owen placed his fingers at her waist, feeling the warmth of her on his skin. She had slid her hand from his jaw to the side of his head, cradling it in her palm. He made a moan deep in his throat when she raked her nails on his scalp, then slid her hand down his neck, over his collarbone, to rest at his chest. He placed his other hand on top of hers, moving it so her palm skimmed across his nipple underneath his shirt. He wished he could just remove his shirt entirely, but he did not want to stop kissing her, nor did he want to scare her with how quickly things were proceeding.

  Also, he was likely to be cold, given that it was storming outside and he hadn’t stoked the fire since before dinner.

  Her fingers were hesitant, but then more insistent, finding his nipple and rubbing it, and he made that groan in his throat again. As much to encourage her as to express his appreciation.

  She was the aggressor in their kiss now, sliding her tongue into his mouth and tangling it with his. He felt her shift on the couch, and then she had somehow raised herself up and eased herself onto his lap, facing him directly.

  Her body rested on his thighs, and once again he resisted the urge to draw her closer, to place her bottom directly on top of his hardening cock.

  And then she shot backward and would have tumbled off his lap if he hadn’t caught her.

  “Oh my god,” she said, her eyes wide, “am I hurting your leg?” She scrambled off him back onto the couch, the skirt of her gown hiking up just enough for him to see her calves. “You shouldn’t have let me do that, I could hurt you.”

  Owen stretched his arm out on the back of the sofa and put his fingers on her shoulder, stroking the soft skin there. He shook his head. “My leg is only injured below the knee. I promise, I will speak up for myself if I feel that I am in danger.”

  “Oh.”

  Her face was flushed, whether from the kissing or the embarrassment of the kissing, of course he didn’t know.

  “It was lovely, Pearl,” he said in a low voice. “You made me forget the pain, made me forget everything while you were kissing me.”

  Her cheeks were blazing red now, so he could safely assume her heated reaction was to the embarrassment, not the kissing.

  She licked her lips, and he froze. The sight of her tongue darting out to spread moisture on her mouth—well, he’d have to be the most unimaginative man in the world not to think about what else she could lick.

  Stop that, Owen, he reminded himself. This young lady is temporarily in your care. It is your responsibility to ensure she is kept safe.

  “I can sleep in another room,” he said, but her head was shaking no before he could even finish.

  “No, if anything, I should sleep in another room. Clearly—” and she spread her hands out to indicate them and the couch “—I am not to be trusted around you.”

  He repressed a chuckle at how earnest she sounded.

  “We are both reasonable people. There is no one else here. At least,” he continued, glancing down at Mr. Shorty, “nobody who will say anything. We can do whatever we like. Or not do. And I will tell you if you do anything that I do not like.”

  She kept her gaze on him, her expression reserved. He could tell she was thinking it all out, and wondered at her saying that one of her other sisters was the intelligent one—clearly, Pearl was very smart. And thoughtful, considerate, kind, and determined.

  Damn it. He already thought better of her than any other female he was not related to, and he’d only known her two days.

  What would happen if they were snowed in until Christmas?

  Chapter Eight

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

  Eight ways to distract me (from kissing him)

  Pearl was seriously considering running outside to plant her face in the snow so it would cool down.
She felt as though she was a stoked fire herself, which perhaps, given what she’d just done—what she’d just done!—she might be.

  “Pearl?” His voice came as though through a fog, distantly reaching her through her tumbling thoughts.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Other than worrying she might explode in a passionate conflagration?

  “Yes, I am fine. I was just thinking.”

  “Don’t think too hard,” he said, humor lacing his tone.

  She snorted. She couldn’t help herself. “I’ve seen how you look, you can’t tell me you don’t think all the time.”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “Yes, of course, but I can offer you advice I don’t take.”

  She appreciated how he was deliberately trying to relieve the situation with humor. Even if his humor was acknowledging that he refused to do what would be best for him—doing for others instead.

  She glanced at the clock in the corner. Which was no help, since it had obviously stopped some time before. No servants were there to wind it after all.

  “It’s probably close to nine,” he said, noticing where she was looking. “Are you getting tired?”

  Not really, but then again, right now I feel as though I could stay up for the rest of my life, as long as I have you to talk to.

  “Yes,” she said, imbuing her words with a determination she did not feel.

  “I can take this couch, and you can have the other one over there.”

  She got up and walked to the couch he’d indicated, beginning to drag it closer to the fire.

  “Wait, let me help,” he said.

  She stopped her movement and gave him a forbidding look. “You are not to further injure yourself. I am strong, I can do this myself.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  She didn’t wait for him to continue arguing, she just made short work of what she’d been doing, bringing it within a few feet of the fire, which was also within a few feet of his couch. They both had a good view of the tree.