The Earl's Christmas Pearl

by Megan Frampton

  “The eye of the dragon catches the light,” she remarked as she sat down on her sofa.

  “Mm.”

  “I like that you told me about the ornament. Do you take it with you always?”

  An exhale. “I do. It—it feels like home. As though as long as it is here with me, I am home. Even if home is an empty town house in London.”

  “Not so empty now.”

  “For which I’m quite pleased.”

  She smiled at his firm tone.

  “We’ll need blankets,” she said, getting up again. “I’ll go find them.”

  “You won’t accept my help,” he said. It was not a question.

  “No, I will not. You and Mr. Shorty stay there.”

  She returned about half an hour later, blankets and linens piled up high in her arms. It felt rather empowering to do things like this for oneself, even though that was a ridiculously privileged thing to think—after all, there were very few women who didn’t do things like this as part of their daily routine. It was just that Pearl was one of the privileged few, which meant that everyday things like finding one’s cloak, cracking an egg, and locating blankets were out of her range of experience.

  Kissing a man.

  Not that she thought women who weren’t duke’s daughters did that all the time—just that she was usually so protected, so chaperoned, that there wasn’t even that possibility.

  Nor were any of the men she’d met in fashionable ballrooms gentlemen she would like to kiss anyway.

  He was still on the couch, Mr. Shorty now on his chest. One of his large hands was petting his dog, while his other was flung behind his head.

  “You look nearly comfortable,” she remarked as she walked toward him. She bent down to place the stack in her arms on the floor. “Do you want linens and a blanket? Drat, I didn’t think to get pillows, I can just go—”

  “I don’t need a pillow,” he said, interrupting. “You’ve done far too much already.”

  “I’ve barely done anything,” she retorted. “You’re the one who got the fire going, told me how to make our dinner, and had food in the first place.”

  He waved his hand. “That’s what I do.”

  “So you’ve said.” She took the top blanket off the stack and shook it out, then lay it over him and Mr. Shorty, who quickly escaped onto the floor, coming up to her with a pleading expression on his face.

  “He wants cheese. Do not give it to him or we will be regretting it all night.”

  “Why—oh!” she said, putting her hand over her mouth to suppress her laughter.

  “Precisely.”

  Owen drew the blanket further up his body, tucking it right under his chin. He looked funny lying there, completely covered except for his face.

  His gorgeous, rakishly unshaven face.

  “I don’t need anything else,” he said after a moment. She realized she must have been standing there staring at him. Oops.

  “Right, yes, well, I will take the linens here and then this blanket,” she said in a hurried tone, walking over to her couch to begin making her bed.

  “Will you need help with—with?” he asked in an awkward tone.

  “With—oh!” she said. “Uh . . .” she began.

  “I’ve done it before for my sisters.”

  “Is there anything you can’t do?” she said, wishing she didn’t sound so peevish.

  He chuckled. “Well, apparently I can’t offer to help a lady undo her gown without raising her hackles.” He shook his head. “That sounded far more inappropriate when I said it aloud.”

  “You weren’t inappropriate, I promise. You were just responding to me. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  He exhaled, as though in relief. “Well, thank goodness. It’s fine. No offense taken on either side.”

  How much time had he spent reassuring her thus far? It’s fine you gobbled up my cheese, that you made me take your arm, that you kissed me.

  “Come over here,” he said in a low voice after a few moments.

  She walked toward him, a hesitant expression on her face. He wanted to reassure her that he had nothing on his mind beyond helping her undo her gown, even though that would be a lie.

  But it would be truth to say he wouldn’t do anything except help her undo her gown so she could sleep more comfortably.

  This had to be the oddest situation he’d ever been in.

  It was also one of the most intriguing.

  And he didn’t know how long it would last—when her family would come to collect her, when he’d be sufficiently healed to return home—but he would savor every moment.

  “Turn around,” he said, when she had stopped in front of him. He rose up from the sofa, his fingers going to the back of her gown. There were several tiny buttons studding the back.

  “How did you do this last night?”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “It was not comfortable, which is why I don’t wish to repeat it.” She made a noise indicating frustration. “These few days are showing me, in painful clarity, why I wouldn’t be nearly as brave as my sister Della.” She twisted her head to look at him. “She’s the one who ran away. We thought she’d eloped, but she hadn’t.”

  “Your sisters are far more adventurous than mine,” he observed. His fingers were about midway down her back undoing the buttons. The two halves of the gown began to fall to their respective sides, revealing her corset and chemise. “You’re done,” he said hastily, not wanting to tempt himself even more. “How is your sister braver than you?” he asked, as much to distract himself from the sight of her skin as to hear her answer. “Does she undo her own buttons by some miraculously flexible trick?”

  She laughed as she returned to her sofa, sitting down and bringing her blanket up over her. He could see her body squirming underneath, and knew she was taking her gown off.

  “Della knows how to do things. Not just undoing her own gown, but paying her bills, making friends, and taking charge of her life.” She paused. “Though it took her some time to figure it all out.”

  He saw her draw her gown up over the blanket, then she laid it on the opposite sofa arm.

  He lay back down, bringing his own blanket up. “What would you do if you knew all these things? What kind of life would you have?”

  He heard her shifting on the sofa, then glanced over to see she too was lying down, her blanket tucked in around her.

  Mr. Shorty was in the middle, glancing between them as though trying to figure out which person to go lie on.

  Eventually he trotted over to Pearl’s sofa and jumped up, somewhat awkwardly, settling himself on her chest.

  “Traitor,” Owen said, but in an amused tone.

  “I’ve been so focused on what I don’t want to do that I haven’t thought about what I would do,” Pearl replied in a thoughtful voice. She pulled her arm out from underneath the blankets and began to pet Mr. Shorty.

  “We have time. Unless you’re sleepy?” he asked quickly. He didn’t want her to stay up and talk to him just because he wasn’t tired.

  “I’m not.” She spoke with the definitiveness he was coming to admire more and more. “I need to think about that for a minute.”

  He heard her shifting again, then he heard Mr. Shorty make a noise of protest. “When I first realized I was alone, truly alone, I could only think about small things. Like skating in the hallways or jumping on the beds. I went out to a café and bought a hot chocolate. All by myself.” A pause. “Pathetic, really.”

  “Not pathetic at all,” Owen shot back. “The things that immediately came to your mind can reveal a lot about yourself, if you analyze it.”

  “Hm,” she said, sounding skeptical.

  “Let me explain. You mentioned playing cricket earlier, and two of the three things you wanted to do involved physical activity. So obviously you feel constricted in your current life, and you wish you had the freedom to run around and be yourself. Am I right?”

  “You are.” She sounded shocked, and he resisted th
e urge to preen. Mostly because supine preening wasn’t a skill he’d yet mastered.

  “And the hot chocolate?” she asked.

  “Obviously you enjoy the simple pleasures of life—hot chocolate, the many varieties of Cheddar cheese, the warmth of a very good dog. Am I right?” he asked again.

  He heard her chuckle. “You are. Only I was so disappointed in the hot chocolate, it had lumps.” She sounded sleepily outraged, which made him smile.

  “We should do something to rectify that. You should at least have a reasonable hot chocolate before you return to your usual life.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” she murmured, and he could tell she was falling asleep.

  He waited, listening to the crackling of the fire, to his own heartbeat, to Mr. Shorty’s occasional gurgles and snorts, before drifting off to sleep himself.

  Chapter Nine

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

  Nine offers of perfectly made tea

  Pearl tossed the blanket off, hearing a yelp as it apparently landed on Mr. Shorty. She glanced across to the other sofa, where she could see his limbs stirring. “Good morning!” she called.

  “Umph,” he groaned, rolling over so his back was to her.

  “It’s Christmas Eve! Owen, we have to go out and do things.” What things, she wasn’t certain. Just that it was very likely today would be the last day of this crazy dreamtime, and she wanted to make the most of it.

  “What things?” he growled. Had he read her mind?

  She flung her arms up. “Things! Christmas things! And you promised me hot chocolate, didn’t you?”

  He rolled back around to glare at her. His stubble was even darker, and his hair was all messed up, making him look even more dangerously rakish than before. And also unkempt.

  She liked unkempt.

  “You are unnaturally sprightly in the morning,” he said in a disgusted voice.

  She grinned at how drolly grumpy he sounded.

  “You sound just like my twin. Olivia,” she clarified.

  “Is your twin this annoying in the morning?” He was trying to sound grumpy, but she could hear his amusement.

  She grinned even more. Had she—Pearl Howlett, of the infamous duke’s daughters—ever gotten anyone so irked before? Besides her twin, of course.

  She had not. She was the not sister, after all, so her impression on anybody was likely to be a negative—as in, she hadn’t run off and caused scandal, she wasn’t loudly declaiming her intelligence, nor was she arguing with everyone in sight.

  But here she was actually affecting someone. Annoying them, to be sure, but affecting them nonetheless.

  “Can you let Mr. Shorty out?”

  “Of course.” Her breath caught at how naturally he’d asked her to do something—him, who didn’t ask people for things ever.

  “We’ll head to the kitchen, and I’ll make us some breakfast.”

  “Not eggs,” he groaned. “Please, no more eggs.”

  “Well, I don’t know what else is in there,” she pointed out. “Unless Lady Robinson’s cook somehow left some meals? Which I highly doubt. Although we don’t have that many eggs left. But it’s either more eggs or we starve, I think.”

  “Unggh” was his only response as he drew his blanket up over his face.

  “Come along, Mr. Shorty. Your master needs to degrumpify.”

  She beckoned to the dog, who followed her down to the kitchen, where she looked around for not eggs while Mr. Shorty did his business.

  Could they have cheese for breakfast? And what about Mr. Shorty? The dog trotted back in just as she was pondering his food. She filled the teakettle, then frowned at the unlit stove. Drat. And here she’d been feeling as though she could take care of herself and of him too.

  Well. She’d just have to figure out how to light the stove. It had to be similar to a fire, right?

  “Do you need help?”

  She whirled around at the sound of his voice. “I do, only I didn’t want to ask for it. But now that you’re here, and you’re less grumpy—you are less grumpy, right?”

  He nodded, a wry grin lifting up one corner of his mouth. “I am, and I find I am hungry.” He walked forward, and her stomach whooshed as he approached her, his eyes locked on hers. “But not for eggs.”

  She felt her breath catch as she realized she was just wearing her shift. And that his shirt was untucked and unbuttoned so she could see his neck and the top of his chest.

  Dark hair curled out of his shirt, and she had the sudden urge to twine her fingers in it, see how it felt.

  “What—what do you want?” Her voice sounded breathy. No wonder, given what his intense gaze was doing to her breath.

  “A kiss, Pearl.” He stood in front of her, close but not touching her. As though he was waiting for her response.

  Was his consideration because he knew he was so imposing? Or was it because he was still unsure of her reaction?

  No matter what it was, it was lovely.

  “I can oblige you then,” she replied, stepping forward so her breasts pressed against his chest. She tilted her face up and put her hands on his shoulders, raising herself up on tiptoe. He lowered his mouth to hers, gripping her waist.

  Rough stubble rubbed against her skin as his warm mouth opened, his tongue licking at the seam of her lips. She gasped, opening for him, feeling her breasts against his solid chest, her nipples tightening from the friction.

  His hand moved to her hip, caressing the curve there, then slid slowly down until his palm was on her arse. He squeezed it in his hand, and she shuddered in response.

  “Is this all right?” he murmured against her mouth.

  Still being considerate, even as she was close to forgetting her own name.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said. She put her hands against his waist, then slid her fingers underneath his shirt, feeling his warm skin.

  He put his other hand on her arse and raised her up, one big palm picking up her leg and wrapping it around his body, then doing the same to the other leg so she was pressed up against him, his hands holding her up.

  It was intoxicating feeling how strong he was. As though he could support her no matter what.

  The position meant that her female parts were pressed up against him also, and the sensation was wickedly pleasurable. She couldn’t resist shifting so she could rub herself on his body.

  “God, Pearl,” he groaned, then swung her around to lay her gently down on the kitchen table. Thankfully there was nothing on it. “You look good enough to eat,” he said, his gaze raking her from head to toe. She forgot to be self-conscious under his scrutiny because his expression was so . . . hungry.

  “This table isn’t big enough for both of us,” she said, sitting up. “Let’s go back to where we slept. Our breakfast can wait.”

  She hopped off the table and held her hand out. He took it, and she began to walk back to their room, slowing her pace because of his injury.

  She was conscious that he could likely see the shape of her body through her shift, but she didn’t mind. She just wished he was wearing something just as flimsy as she was—she wanted to see him as much as she believed he wanted to see her.

  “Are you certain, Pearl?”

  His voice was ragged, and she smiled, a wicked smile that he could not see.

  “I am.” She turned around to face him, stepping forward to gaze up into his eyes. She felt the focus of his attention as though it were a physical caress, and she shivered in response.

  “Are you cold?” he said, his eyebrows furrowing in apparent concern.

  She shook her head, never dropping her gaze. “I feel as if I am burning up,” she replied, turning back around. “Perhaps that is because it is you stoking my fire.” She said the last bit in an exaggerated tone, and she heard him snort in response.

  Not quite what you want to hear during a romantic moment, but then again, it was she who had said the words in the first place. And if she could make him laugh,
the most grumpy of grumpy earls?

  It was too rare an opportunity to pass up.

  “You’ll pardon me if I bellows too much,” he replied, emphasizing “bellows” to ensure she got the joke.

  “You are lighting me up with your humor,” she shot back, relishing his quick laugh.

  They had reached the room, and she felt her stomach wobble a bit. Did she want to continue this? Was it part of her adventure or a foolhardy escapade?

  And was there truly a difference?

  “Are you all right?” he asked in a concerned tone. He reached up to cup her face in his warm hands. “I would ask if the flames of your desire have ebbed, but I don’t want to make light of the situation.”

  “You do realize you made two puns in that last bit, don’t you?” she asked, feeling her discomfort ease. Even though they’d only known each other for a few days—even though it felt like forever—she trusted him. This was the natural and perfect consequence of their being together like this.

  “Let me make you groan in a different way,” he said, his words soft, but the sexual impact hitting her hard.

  “Only if you promise not to stop until we’re both well and truly heated,” she said. His eyes lit up as though she had started a fire within him. Which, she supposed, she had.

  “God, yes,” he said before crashing his mouth down on hers, his hands seeming as if they were on every part of her body.

  He kissed her so intensely it was as though she could hear it, a rhythmic hammering that might have been her heart, or his, or—

  “The door!” she exclaimed, leaping back, her eyes wide.

  “Ignore it, they’ll go away,” he replied, pulling her back into his arms and lowering his mouth to her neck, making her arch in response.

  The knocking continued.

  And then they heard voices.

  “Owen! Open the door, we know you’re in there.”

  Chapter Ten

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

  Ten unwelcome people wanting to see (me)

  His mother.

  “Owen, we’re outside, and Nesta is in need of the facilities.”