Geek Girl and the Scandalous Earl

by Gina Lamm

  “Are you well, miss?”

  “Uh, yeah. Fine and dandy. Just frickin’ incredible.”

  The pot seemed to mock Jamie as it sat there. Smug porcelain bastard. You know what? I am not going to let it beat me. I am tough. I was strong enough to survive being dumped, being alone, and then being sucked into a time I know nothing about, so I can conquer my fear of, well, going.

  “Hey, Muriel?”

  “Yes, miss?”

  Jamie poked her head around the screen to find the maid. “I’m not used to doing things this way. Any tips?”

  A confused look crossed the thin face. “To relieve yourself?”

  Jamie nodded, feeling like a complete dumbass.

  Without any comment, Muriel rounded the screen, showed Jamie the neatly folded pile of cloths beside the pot, and mimed the proper technique. Jamie was deeply grateful that the maid didn’t treat her like she was stupid, even though she was acting like a clueless idiot.

  After quite possibly the most embarrassing two minutes of Jamie’s life, Muriel left her alone to take care of business. Jamie was successful in her efforts and left the hideous pot to mock her behind the screen some more.

  After the toileting issue, it seemed stupid to feel self-conscious about getting help bathing, but Jamie couldn’t help asking Muriel to turn around while she undressed. Hey, she used to be one of those girls that changed in the stall during high school gym class.

  Muriel shook her head but turned her back anyway.

  The bath, while not Jamie’s preferred method of getting clean, was okay once she got used to it. The water was nice and warm, and the tub’s position in front of the fire kept it from cooling too quickly. The bottles that Muriel sat beside the tub were filled with soaps, oils, and other scented goodies. Washing her hair was sort of harrowing, since she had to slip down beneath the water to get her hair wet, and it didn’t really feel rinsed even after Muriel dumped two whole buckets of water on her head, but it was better than feeling gritty all night.

  Muriel handed Jamie a towel, and while she dried, the maid opened a trunk at the foot of the bed.

  “Here, miss. Mrs. Knightsbridge said for you to use the late countess’s clothing. This night rail is quite soft.”

  Jamie swallowed. She didn’t love the idea of wearing some dead woman’s clothes, but what choice did she have? The only things she had with her were filthy, skimpy, and completely inappropriate for both the weather and the company. She remembered enough about history to know that exposing that much skin was a no-no.

  “Okay.”

  The maid helped Jamie pull the gown on over her head. The swaths of fabric billowed around Jamie, choking her. She hadn’t worn this much clothing since they’d gotten that freak snowstorm two years ago. She thanked the maid anyway, though. A dead person’s too-voluminous nightgown was better than being naked in Mike’s house. Although seeing Mr. Firth’s twin naked would certainly make this trip much more interesting. If, that is, Mrs. K was right and he wasn’t a murderer.

  “Shall I fetch you a supper tray, miss?”

  “Shouldn’t I go get it myself?”

  Muriel’s eyes went wide and Jamie could swear she saw horror written on the maid’s features. “Oh, no, miss! You are his lordship’s guest. It would not be at all proper. Besides, you are not attired!”

  Jamie looked down at seventy billion yards of white cotton that seemed to indicate otherwise.

  “I will only be a moment, miss. Stay here.” Muriel held her hand out almost like you would a dog that you’ve asked to sit and you’re not exactly sure if they understood you or not. Jamie sighed and watched her back out of the room.

  Jamie spied a hairbrush on a side table and sat on the rug in front of the fire to brush out her hair. It was going to look like crap, but at least it was cleaner than it had been.

  As the fire crackled at her back and the smooth strokes of the bristles massaged her scalp, she couldn’t help but feel bewildered. She’d spent the last few hours in a time and place very far from home. After Logan had left her, she’d thought that she could never be happy again. She’d been convinced that her life was over. The brush caught on a knot, and she pulled the length of her hair over her shoulder to work it out. Short, firm strokes of the brush pulled at the strands, causing tiny pains along her scalp. But with perseverance, the stubborn tangle disappeared.

  Maybe this forced vacation from reality was exactly what she needed to get un-stuck. She wasn’t on board with Mrs. Knightsbridge’s plan to hitch her up with the earl, and she’d still like to hang Wilhelmina up by her pointy-toed shoes, but maybe she could enjoy herself just a little bit while she was here. But for that to happen, she should probably go thank her host for letting her stay and try to get on his good side a little bit. Maybe once he got over the grumpies, he would be okay. And he was freaking gorgeous, which never hurts. She and Mike might enjoy spending time together once he was certain that Jamie wasn’t a witch and she’d convinced herself that he wasn’t an axe murderer.

  Five

  According to the deep bonging sound coming from somewhere downstairs, it was nine o’clock. Jamie hoped Mike was still at home. He might have gone to a party or out to dinner or something. They do have restaurants now, don’t they? Then again, they didn’t have toilets, so maybe restaurants were too much to assume.

  She poked her head through his bedroom door, but it was empty. The other doors along the hallway revealed similarly empty rooms. What does a single guy need six bedrooms for, anyway? she wondered. From what Mrs. K had said, Jamie didn’t think his many lady friends had lived here.

  The gloomy corridor and the forbidding portraits made her nervous, so she hurried down the stairs as quick as she could. She didn’t really believe in ghosts, but something about the place gave her the heebie-jeebies.

  A white-haired old guy that she assumed was the butler passed by the front door. Jamie smiled at him, but he looked too stunned to return the expression. Weird. I guess maybe Mrs. Knightsbridge hasn’t told everyone they have company. He gave Jamie a tight nod as she passed.

  A parlor type room was located off the main entryway. It was dark and empty. It appeared to be done in a deep rose color, but the flickering candlelight from the hallway made it tough to judge.

  The next door was locked.

  The next was a dining room, in which several maids were clearing dishes from the long table. They took them to a doorway in the back of the room which Jamie assumed led to the kitchen.

  She rounded another corner, and irritation chafed her. This was a huge house, and she didn’t know where she was going. It was uncomfortably cold, and despite the yards of fabric in her nightgown, it still wasn’t a pair of long johns. Drafts from the chilly house swirled around her legs beneath the gown. She’d almost decided to abandon her Mike search and head back upstairs to her warm and toasty bedroom when she saw it.

  The door stood open. A piano stood alone in the center of the room, dark wood glinting in the bluish moonlight that poured through the large window. The music room.

  She let the door click shut behind her and crossed over to the piano. It was beautiful, a square grand pianoforte, the likes of which she’d only seen in Pawpaw Milton’s shop. The wood glowed from deep within, genuine ivory keys stark in the dim light. This piano would probably cost a bundle in her time, but for now, it was only a showpiece in a rich man’s house. Her fingers trailed lightly over the keys, the perfectly tuned high notes dancing through the chilly darkness of the room.

  Feeling like a thief, Jamie couldn’t deny herself the familiar pleasure of sinking down on the bench. She indulged the itch in her fingertips by placing them lightly on the keys. “You shouldn’t do this,” she whispered, but then she got lost in the music.

  She played like she hadn’t played since before Logan left her. The music poured from deep within her, through her suddenly strong fingers and across the keys. It must have been the unfamiliar surroundings, the forbidden feeling of playing an instrument
that didn’t belong to her. For months, she’d been unable to play. But now, in this strange room, on this strange instrument, she lost herself in the comfortable sensation of song. The bewilderment she’d felt, the depression that had ruled her life, all of it stained the music that she created. The only constant in this new world she’d been thrust into was music, and she clung to it as desperately as a kid with a favorite toy.

  The final notes hung in the air, shimmering softly before disappearing forever. She opened her eyes and a smile spread across her face.

  “That was incredible,” a masculine voice said from behind her.

  Jamie started and turned quickly. It was Mike, a dark curl of hair falling over his forehead now, and he had the oddest expression on his face. His brows were lifted, his eyes bright, and the corners of his mouth had turned upward the slightest bit.

  “Thanks,” Jamie replied. “I’m sorry, I should have asked before I played, but the room was empty. I hope you don’t mind.” She stood, and Mike—wait, was that a blush beginning around his high collar?

  “Miss Marten…”

  She smiled at him. “Jamie. Call me Jamie.”

  The softness she’d seen around his edges disappeared as if it had never been there. His brows lowered.

  “That is a man’s name, and you should not be walking through the house in such dishabille.”

  Her smile melted quickly at his curt tone. “Such what? English, for cripe’s sake.”

  “Undressed in such a fashion. It is not at all seemly. And mind your tongue. You sound like a trollop.” He glowered down at her, his entire body screaming disapproval.

  She looked down at herself. She wasn’t exactly the most buxom of women, and the nightgown was plenty thick. There was no way anyone could see anything. I sound like a trollop?

  “Listen, I’m sorry for playing your piano without permission. I’m sorry if the way I’m dressed offends you. I’m sorry you don’t like the way I talk. I didn’t ask to be dumped here, two hundred years in the past. I’ve had sort of a crap day, and you just pissed on the only five minutes that I’ve been happy. So thanks for that, Mike. I really, really appreciate it.” Tears stung her tired eyes and she swiped at them, furious at the emotional betrayal of their appearance. “I wanted to find you before I went to bed to thank you for letting me stay here. So thanks. And good night.” She withheld the “asshole” she wanted to tag at the end of that sentence, but it was a very near thing.

  She tried to move past him, but he grabbed her arm before she could leave. She turned to him, ready to give him another taste of her trollopy tongue, but a flash of something in his eyes stopped her.

  “Wait,” he said, then took a deep breath and released her arm as if it were aflame.

  She didn’t give him much slack. “What is it? Any other insults you want to throw at me before I hit the hay? Maybe something about my loose morals or lack of respect for your lofty station?”

  “No,” he said, and she might have actually seen a genuine tinge of regret cross his all-too-masculine face. “I only wonder, is it so different where you come from? Are the ladies not conscious of their state of undress? Are sensibilities a relic of the past?”

  She sighed and shoved a hank of hair from her forehead. “It’s just not really a big deal. I mean, women do run around wearing a whole lot less than I am.” She fluffed out the sides of her nightgown to illustrate that Mrs. Knightsbridge could fit in this garment with her if she wanted to. “The way you saw me dressed earlier, when I first got here? That’s a lot more like women dress where I’m from. As long as you’ve got the chest and the bum covered, people don’t so much care about anything else.”

  “The sight of a woman’s stockinged ankle as she enters a carriage is enough to make a callow boy salivate. To think that men are so jaded elsewhere…” He shook his head incredulously.

  “It’s not just a geography thing. From my calculations, it’s been about two hundred years since ankles were a big deal.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”

  His throat worked for a moment before he spoke again. “Miss Marten, it is I who should apologize. You are a guest in my home, and I have behaved abominably. I should not have expected you to be familiar with the courtesies of my time. Can you extend your forgiveness to me?”

  He took her hand, and his palm was hot in hers. She looked up at him and could find nothing more than sincerity written in his features. His appeal was undeniable, despite the high-handed way he’d treated her. Without thinking, she stepped closer to him, wanting to be nearer to the person she saw in those eyes. She tilted her chin up to him, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

  Mike’s eyes grew darker, and his nostrils flared slightly. He hadn’t let go of her hand. A shadow lined his jaw now, the whisper of a beard appearing. A tingle started in her belly, one she hadn’t felt in quite a while. It streamed into her through his contact on her hand, swirling through her blood, heating it as it flowed through her body. The delicate lace of his neck-cloth contrasted so much with his purely male features that it was hard to look away. He was so gorgeous. She took advantage of their continued physical contact and leaned closer to him. Her gaze traveled back up to his face, and she let herself drown in his eyes. Drawn as if magnetized, she reached up on her toes to be nearer.

  I want him to kiss me. Mike, or Micah, or his lordship the earl, or whatever he was called. Somewhere deep underneath that bossy exterior was a person that she wanted to get to know much, much better.

  A heartbeat passed, then two. He was still standing there, still staring at her, still holding her hand gently. But he didn’t bend down to kiss her. His strong jaw was tight; his eyes were intense, almost anguished. The realization that he had no intention of doing so doused her like a bucket of icy liquid. The delicious tingle in her belly died a quick, cold death.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. Backing away from him slowly, she watched as he gave a sharp bow and left the room. She followed, turning the opposite direction and carrying the tattered shards of her pride with her.

  She headed up the stairs as quickly as she could. Halfway to the second floor, she caught up to Mrs. Knightsbridge, who held a tray full of delicious smelling food. When the housekeeper reached the landing, she turned to see who was following her.

  “Oh dear! Whatever are you doing about in a night rail? Oh, come with me, back to your room. Ladies do not wander about in their nightclothes, you must realize.”

  “I’m beginning to get the picture,” Jamie said wryly as she followed the housekeeper back into the Lemon Room.

  Mrs. K set the tray down on the table and gestured to the chair. Jamie sank down into it with a sigh, stretching her bare feet toward the fire. She didn’t say anything, watching the flicker of the fire’s light against the white nightgown.

  Mrs. Knightsbridge stepped behind the chair and began to braid Jamie’s hair. Though the motion startled Jamie at first, the smooth motions calmed her, and she let the housekeeper maneuver the parts into a tail halfway down her back.

  Mrs. K tied the end with a ribbon she pulled from her apron pocket. “There. Now, eat, dearie. You will need your strength for the morrow.”

  Jamie looked over her shoulder. “What’s tomorrow?”

  “More lessons on becoming a countess, of course.”

  Jamie wanted to slap her forehead with her palm. She wanted to scream, “Oh HELL no!” and run out of there. She wanted to tell the nice old lady that she was ape-shit, monkey-nuts crazy, and that she was not going to be a part of her schemes.

  What did she do?

  She grabbed a fork and shoved a bite of chicken into her mouth. She had to play along just enough to convince Mrs. K and Wilhelmina to send her home. Once they saw how not into her Mike was, she’d be on the express train back to the future. Or the present. Whatever. Just, home. She wanted to go home.

  ***

  After a surprisingly tasty supper that Jamie washed down with wine—and boy, did she need that alcohol—Mrs. Knights
bridge left her to sleep.

  Jamie blew out the candle by the bedside and watched the light from the fireplace make odd shadows in the room. What a weird day. What a handsome, incredibly arrogant, and sort of an asshole guy. What a nice, if really meddling, housekeeper. A gigantic yawn escaped her, and she turned onto her side, ready to go to sleep.

  Scritch scritch scritch, whiiiiiiiiine.

  Jamie rolled her eyes and stuffed a pillow over her ears.

  Scritch, scritch, scritch, scritch, whiiiiiiiiiiine. Whiiiiiiiiine. Whiiiiiiii…

  “Oh shut up and get in here already.” As soon as she opened the door, Baron bolted into the room, tail wagging and tongue lolling. He jumped up on the bed and curled up on the pillow she’d been using.

  She climbed into bed behind him and was oddly grateful for the bony dog’s comforting presence. He licked her hand, and together they went to sleep.

  ***

  Firelight reflected through his glass of brandy, making the amber-gold liquor glow as if alive. Micah took a large swallow, grimacing at the sweet burn in his throat. Too close. That had been much too close. Draining the rest of his drink, he crossed to the sideboard to pour another. His estate room, usually a place of peace and solitude, held none of its usual tranquility tonight.

  His hand trembled as he lifted the decanter. In disgust, he set it down and crossed to the window. Looking out into the blackness of night, he gripped his knuckles behind his back.

  His peace had disappeared when she had entered his home. Miss Marten. Her speech was immoderate, her appearance disconcerting, and her manner altogether quarrelsome. She should be repugnant to him. All striped hair and foul mouth and wide eyes and soft lips…How close he’d come to kissing her.

  He paced from the window, agitation bubbling in his gut. Despite his title of earl, his position in society was precarious at best. The ton, while capricious and flighty, had long, vindictive memories. No one had forgotten poor Louisa’s death, Micah least of all. While the thought of pandering to society’s matrons galled him, he could ill afford a scandal the likes of which Miss Marten could cause. Not if he wished to wed Miss Lyons. And he did, he told himself. He did wish to wed the delicate beauty. She would make an excellent countess.