When Good Earls Go Bad

by Megan Frampton

  Matthew thought of Miss Delaney. She was perfectly pleasant, lowering her eyes in shyness or politeness, he wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered. He’d found himself comparing her with his housekeeper, and Miss Delaney, to his surprise, had been found wanting. And it wasn’t for lack of opportunity; he’d deliberately taken his dinners at his uncle’s house, and Miss Delaney was staying there, so he had gotten to know her, somewhat. But he doubted whether she could ever compare.

  He shrugged. “She was very pleasant. She finds the weather tolerable and likes to visit the National Gallery, and she plays the pianoforte. Oh, thank you,” Matthew said to the barmaid who brought two pints of ale. “I’ll have the beef pie, and the lady will have—?”

  Miss Tyne smiled up at the barmaid so brightly it nearly hurt Matthew’s eyes. “The beef pie sounds wonderful. Is it good? Do you recommend it?”

  Here she was, again asking questions as though she really wished to hear the answer. The barmaid’s expression blossomed like an opening flower.

  “It is, miss, it is the cook’s special recipe. And the pies were just made today. Sometimes Cook doesn’t get a chance to make them, so we’ve got the day before’s, only they aren’t quite as good. These are lovely.”

  Was it possible for Miss Tyne to smile even more broadly? Apparently so.

  “That is what I will have, then. Thank you so much.”

  The barmaid nodded, still smiling, then walked away from their table.

  Matthew leaned forward to her. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?” she said, glancing around as though she’d done something.

  “Make everyone you’re speaking to feel as though they’re the only person in the world you wish to speak to.”

  She blinked in surprise. “But it is the truth. I don’t try to be anything I’m not,” at which point she colored up, “and I do like to speak to people. All sorts of people. Barmaids and hackney drivers and even, on occasion, gruff earls from Scotland who surprise me when I’m sleeping.” She grinned and took a sip of her ale.

  Matthew felt himself start to blush also, remembering the moment—was it just a week or so before?—that he’d gotten into that bed with her. It had seemed shocking at the time, of course, but now that he’d seen her and spent time in her company, it also seemed as though it were something he wished would happen again.

  Even though that thought was entirely unlike him. He was not spontaneous, he was not particularly lustful, and he seldom entertained inappropriate thoughts.

  And yet here he was, doing all three. And while he could have blamed it on being in London, a city he’d never been in before, he had to acknowledge that it was most likely Annabelle who was making him feeling this way.

  And he wasn’t sure how he felt. About any of it, and that uncertainty was perhaps the most unlike him thing he’d ever felt.

  Thankfully, their food arrived before he could ponder his own anomalies any further.

  “What is Scotland like? I’ve never been, at least not that I know of.” Miss Tyne rested her elbows on the wooden table, her eyes the brightest spark in the dimly lit pub.

  Conversation had stopped when the food arrived. Both he and Miss Tyne were apparently starving, since they spent the first fifteen minutes of their meal together in complete silence, both just concentrating on eating.

  He’d glanced at her a few times, of course, just to ensure they weren’t in some sort of awkward silence of which he wasn’t aware, but she seemed just as happy as he was not to talk. That was unexpected, given how much she seemed to like to talk. Unexpected, but not one of those unpleasant unexpected surprises; instead, it felt as though he might not know all about her yet. That was unusual as well; normally he could assess a person within a few minutes of making their acquaintance.

  “It’s like here, I suppose.”

  “Here like a pub, filled with laborers and solicitors and men who seem as though they are very important? Possibly a few women who appreciate the company of important men?” Her smirk told him she was joking. That she saw fit to do so was another unexpected item to add to the list of things he now knew about her. Few people joked with him, and of those, he liked very few of their jokes.

  What made her so different from most people?

  “No, Miss Literal, not like here.” He allowed himself to roll his eyes at her. Something he normally chided his sisters for doing. Of course, they were usually rolling their eyes at him. “Where I live, in town, Edinburgh that is, is a busy city much like London. Different accents, of course, but most things are the same.”

  Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. “Honestly, the same? I should think not, and I’ve never even been there! The people, the language, the food, the habits, the celebrations, the clothes—all of those things are different in different areas. The west side of London is different from the docks, correct? You wouldn’t say all of London is all the same; how can you say Edinburgh is?”

  She waved her hand around the pub. “Even here, where things are the same, the people are different. You, for example, are clearly of the nobility; your linen is fresh, your clothing is well-kept and well-made, and you are well-groomed.” She picked his hand up from the table and examined his fingers. “Your nails are cut, and you don’t even have any dirt underneath your fingernails.”

  He drew his hand back and looked at it. She was correct, and he hadn’t even thought about it.

  “Now look at my hand,” she said, stretching it out to him. He took it, the warmth of her skin reminding him of before when his naked body had been close to hers, however briefly.

  He could not get distracted by that, however. It wasn’t practical.

  Her hand was small and its shape was delicate, but the skin was rough and her fingernails were ragged, although clean. He looked at the back of her hand, then turned her hand over and looked at her palm, which had a few red spots where calluses were beginning to form.

  “You’re not a housekeeper,” he said, sliding the pad of his finger along one of those new calluses. “If you were accustomed to this sort of work, your hands would be rougher. You obviously work with your hands in some capacity, but not doing what you did today.”

  “Oh!” she said, snatching her hand back and stuffing them into her pockets. “You are very observant, even if you think two completely different cities are similar to one another.” She stuck her tongue out at him quickly, then clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. “I am so sorry, I should not have done that.”

  Matthew tried to keep himself from smiling, but couldn’t, not in the face of such . . . joy. She was practically overflowing with it, and he wished he could figure out a way to capture some of that joy for himself. “I am not offended at all; in fact my sisters would be applauding you right now.” He spoke in a lower tone. “I am very glad they are not here for that very reason.” Not to mention he was definitely liking being alone with her, and wasn’t that another surprise?

  “Shall we go?” Matthew said, signaling to the man behind the bar. He made the “final bill” gesture, then drew out a few coins from his pocket and laid them on the table.

  The barkeep came bustling over, an obsequious smile on his face. “Four shillings, my lord.”

  Matthew counted out the four shillings, then rose from his seat.

  The barkeep picked up the coins, scowling. “You’re Scottish, aren’t you?” he said in an accusing tone.

  Why did that keep coming up?

  Matthew didn’t bother to reply, just strode around to Miss Tyne’s side of the table and took her cloak, holding it up so she could put it on.

  As she wriggled into it, her arm brushed his side, and Matthew felt something very unexpected indeed.

  Something he wished to expect more of, and hopefully in the near future.

  A Belle’s Guide to Household Management

  When asked to put Holland covers on the furniture to protect it while the members of the household are away, do not assume that you may only use covers made
in Holland or that the covers are meant to cover the country in question.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Annabelle preceded him from the pub, the happy warmth of the food they’d eaten warring with the uneasy feeling that he was about to ask her why she was his housekeeper if she wasn’t a housekeeper at all.

  “Are you going to tell me?” he asked in a conspiratorial tone as he drew alongside her.

  “Tell you what?” she replied, even though she knew perfectly well what it was, and she was just stalling.

  He chuckled, and she realized she hadn’t heard him laugh yet. Not that they’d been acquainted all that long, but generally, if the people she met were friendly and relatively conversational, she was able to make them at least laugh a little bit. Him, not a whit. He had smiled, and had almost smiled a few times more than that, and he had definitely made a witty remark, but he hadn’t laughed.

  She liked the sound of it. A lot. She wanted him to laugh more. For her.

  “Tell me what you are if you are not a housekeeper.”

  Annabelle tilted her head up to look at him. “I am also not a lion tamer. Despite how ferocious you might seem.” That surprised a quick smile from him. And encouraged her to continue. “I am also not a princess, a haberdasher, a scullery maid, a cook.”

  “Obviously,” he interjected.

  “A butcher, a carriage driver, a . . . let me see, what else am I not?”

  She hadn’t noticed, but somehow she’d taken his arm, and was leaning on it as they walked. It felt so comfortable and yet also caused a tingling sensation throughout her entire body.

  “Perhaps you are the Queen?” He drew away and gave her an appraising look. “No, you are far too frivolous. Although if you had food in your teeth it wouldn’t matter because it would be you who would possibly be bothered by it.” He frowned, as though in confusion. “Now I am using your logic.” He shook his head. “Only a few hours in your presence, Miss Tyne, and I am overwhelmed.”

  Was that a compliment?

  “The only thing I do know, Miss Tyne, is that you are not a housekeeper. Tell me. Are you also not a Miss? Is there a Mr. Tyne somewhere, perhaps a brood of small Tynes running about?” There was a sharp edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. Interesting.

  Annabelle wasn’t naive; she knew the earl found her attractive, perhaps even intriguing, overwhelming, and she felt a surge of satisfaction at the confirmation. And since he was only here for a few weeks more and he was from Scotland of all places, never mind he was an earl as well, it didn’t matter. Except to her sense of vanity, which was quite pleased.

  “No, I am just me. Miss Tyne, nonhousekeeper. Partial owner of the Quality Employment Agency, and your representative demanded someone immediately.”

  “Ah, I was wondering what had happened. My uncle promised to find someone quickly.” He thought for a moment. “So you are part owner of the agency, the one that hired you out?” He shook his head, feeling entirely confused. Or what it must be like to be inside her head. “How does that work? Do you pay a percentage of your fee to yourself?”

  She nudged him and laughed. “You’re funny, do you know that?”

  Actually, he didn’t. No one had ever accused him of being funny before. Unless it was funny odd, like when his business contacts invited him to a brothel and he’d said no, he’d prefer to go home and read.

  Now he’d have to say he’d prefer to go home and read with her. Sitting in chairs next to a fireplace, tea made just as they each liked it at their elbows, perhaps a stray feline wandering through, although that thought was even more funny, given that he had never given much of a thought to cats or where they might like to wander.

  She shrugged before he could respond. Because of course he hadn’t responded, his mind had just wandered off, cat-like, into a world where they were equals, enjoying each other’s company and where it didn’t matter whether or not she was a housekeeper—not that she was—or that he was an earl.

  “I do promise, my lord, that even though I am not what you hired me as, I will do all the work necessary to fulfill my function as your housekeeper as you’ve laid the work out for me . . . ”—she still had hold of his arm, but she held her palm up and ticked off the tasks with her free hand—“answering the door, keeping things tidy, making the tea, not to mention doing all—”

  But her words were lost when he suddenly turned, walked her against the wall of a building they were passing, and pressed his lips to hers.

  And he knew that right then, right at this moment, it didn’t matter who they were. They were man and woman, male and female, gentleman and lady. And it felt absolutely, perfectly right.

  Annabelle had been kissed before—and more, she wasn’t a fallen woman just because she’d lost her footing—but never so suddenly, so solidly, or so unexpectedly.

  Her back was against the cold stone of the building, and her front—well, her front was pressed against the warm hardness of him, as solid as the stone at her back but much more welcome.

  And then, just when she was exclaiming delightedly in her head about this turn of events, it was over.

  He drew back, his eyes searching hers, his hands holding her elbows as though to steady her, even though she was not in danger of falling. Not literally falling, at least.

  “I am so sorry, Miss Tyne. I did not, I do not, know what came over . . . ” he began, his gorgeous mouth forming words she didn’t want to hear.

  “Hush,” she said, sliding her palms over his forearms, up his biceps, then curling her fingers in his hair and drawing his mouth . . . yes, that same gorgeous mouth . . . back to hers. “Kiss me.”

  Matthew could count on one hand the number of times he’d acted impulsively. One finger would suffice, and that was only because he had begun to kiss her just now. Previously, his count would have taken no hands.

  And it would have been just a kiss, one simple pressing of mouths together in a brief moment of impulsiveness if she hadn’t wanted more, if she hadn’t pulled him back to her and twined her hands in his hair so he couldn’t escape, even if he wanted to.

  He did not want to. He leaned into her, slanted his mouth over hers, put his hands at her waist and held her, then opened his mouth just a bit so as to coax hers to open as well. Her lips were warm and moist, and their bodies touched just at the most delicious places—her breasts, his cock, their mouths. A perfect triumvirate of passion that was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. And he had indulged before, just not to completion, so he did have some perspective on the matter.

  She did take the hint, and she opened to him, sliding her tongue into his mouth and uttering a soft moan low, deep in her throat, that sent an answering shiver through him.

  And they were both still entirely clothed, out on the street, where anyone—

  “We have to stop,” he said, pulling away from her mouth but not yet strong enough to lift his hands from her waist. Her expression was dazed, and he felt a brief moment of triumph that he, as little experienced in such things as he was, could reduce her to that state with just a simple kiss.

  But it wasn’t simple, not at all, not when you thought of the touching of bodies and mouths, the tangling of tongues, the soft sigh that had escaped her, the way his cock had reacted to the feel of her body against his.

  Not simple at all.

  “I apologize,” Matthew said stiffly as he drew away from her mouth and her warm, luscious form.

  “Oh hush, my lord,” she replied, as though it was customary for her to be kissed on London streets. And perhaps it was; what did he know about her, except that she was not a housekeeper? But he also knew there wasn’t a deceptive bone in her body, just a joyful frankness that was unlike anything he’d ever encountered before. So the fact that it seemed as though she was not upset or prudish about what had happened was as natural to her as it would have been for another lady to slap his face for his familiarity. Even if the latter lady had secretly enjoyed it.

  He far preferred her respo
nse.

  “If I hadn’t wanted you to kiss me, I wouldn’t have engaged you in a kiss. Isn’t that your logic? ‘If I had wanted a cook, I would have hired one,’ ” she said, lowering her voice and trying for a Scottish accent, which she mangled very badly.

  He felt his lips curl up into a tight grimace, as though discussing the aftereffects of an impetuous kiss on a London street was something he could smile about. It was not, not at all, and a part of him, the part of him that was making its presence quite well-known in his trousers, wished he would just push her up against the building again and ravage her mouth, taste her sweet lips, and run his palms all over her curves. Better yet, take her home where there was a place where they might get horizontal with one another and not have to risk being seen.

  Home. Hell, that was where they were both going, wasn’t it? Not that the London house was his home, per se, but it was acting in place of his home for the duration. The month he was in town sorting out his uncle’s business, being seen off and welcomed home every day . . . and night . . . by this woman whom he already found intoxicating.

  He would have to maintain his renowned attributes of propriety and sense in keeping himself away from her.

  He already hated that far, far more than either being early, being late, or wasting money.

  It seemed she made him lose his speech, and perhaps part of his brain, judging by the expression on his face. Annabelle shouldn’t have been so delighted by this turn of events—the kiss and his reaction to it—as much as she was, but the truth was, she was, and she was curious, so curious, about how she could get under his skin, not to mention onto his mouth.

  Being a fallen woman had its benefits; she knew precisely what she could do to keep herself from being permanently fallen, and she also wasn’t scared, as so many other young unmarried ladies were, of what men wanted and what they frequently wanted to do with young unmarried ladies.