When Good Earls Go Bad

by Megan Frampton

  “Yes,” he said in a groan, reaching for her, claiming her mouth in a ruthless, savage kiss.

  She held onto his shoulders and pushed him back onto the bed so she lay on top of him, his cock nestled between her thighs, her breasts pressing into his chest.

  It was too much, and yet it wasn’t enough.

  He ran his hands down her back and onto the soft curves of her arse, then back up again, loving how she was touching him as well, her hands caressing his neck, his shoulders, sliding down his arms and then grasping his arse, squeezing it. She was moving her body slightly atop his, her breasts rubbing against his chest, her mound against his erection.

  He wanted to devour her, he wanted to know what it felt like to be inside her, to bring her to climax as she’d done him the previous night.

  Suddenly she sat up, still straddling him, a frown on her face.

  No. What? Had he done something wrong?

  “I need to get something,” she said, hopping off the bed. She gestured to him. “You can keep all that going, I’ll be right back.”

  It didn’t seem as though he’d done anything wrong, judging by her face. And she had given him a direction he was more than pleased to comply with, so he grasped himself in his right hand and began to stroke the shaft, closing his eyes, imagining it was her hand on him.

  Within about a minute she’d returned, holding something, which she held out to him. “This is for you. So that when we . . . when . . . ” she said, her eyes alight with desire and want and perhaps something else?

  “Ah.” He knew what it was, of course. He just hadn’t used one before, and wasn’t entirely sure what to do. It appeared simple enough, however, so he took it and began to roll it down over his cock.

  “Let me help,” she said, getting back onto the bed and guiding the material down over him until it was at the very bottom.

  Then she lay down next to him on her side and her hand began to stroke and play with the hair on his chest, her palms pressed flat against the muscles, her leg flung over his.

  And then she reached lower and tugged on him. “I want you inside me,” she said in a soft voice so low it was hard to hear.

  “We agree then,” he said in return, liking how she chuckled, even as she grabbed his arse and pulled, to indicate he should lay on top of her.

  He got onto his knees and gazed down at her, at her body, her face, which had an intense expression as she met his eyes. “Now, Matthew,” she said, taking his penis in her hand and guiding him toward her body.

  He entered her, just a bit, and it felt so incredible already he had a brief moment of worry he would spend right there. Or die of excitement before getting completely inside.

  But she hooked her legs around him and pushed him in farther and farther, until he was buried inside her, his face against her neck, her breathing rough and ragged against his ear.

  “You can move, if you want,” she said, an amused tone in her voice.

  He wasn’t certain he could.

  She shifted her hips and pulled him against her, then let go so he was released just a bit, at which point he realized that if he didn’t move, he would die.

  And he did not wish to die, not right now, not until he’d finished.

  So he raised himself up on his arms and hovered above her, his eyes focused on her face, moving slowly, the sound of their breathing the only sound in the room.

  “Faster,” she said, grabbing his hips and guiding him in and out.

  It had felt incredible before, but now it felt even more incredible. Matthew didn’t think there was even a word for how good it felt to have his cock sliding in and out of her, her hands on his body, her breasts jiggling as their bodies moved together.

  It went on for a lifetime, or at least five minutes, and then he felt a gathering pressure, an intensity, and he then he exploded, the orgasm overwhelming his entire body as he pushed, hard, into her, collapsing on top of her as the ripples of pleasure rushed through him.

  When he could speak, perhaps a lifetime (or five minutes) later, he lifted his head and met her gaze. “That was incredible.”

  She returned his smile. “It was, wasn’t it?”

  “But you didn’t—” he began, not quite sure how to broach the subject.

  She shook her head. “No, but I did enjoy myself. It is much rarer for ladies to achieve all that during, hasn’t that been your experience?”

  “This is my first time,” he replied.

  Her eyes widened and she tried to sit up, only he was still lying on top of her, so instead she merely squirmed.

  “Your first? That is, me?” Her words came out in a startled squeak.

  “Mm-hm.”

  “But you’re a man!” she exclaimed.

  He laughed and said, “It’s good you noticed that, otherwise I would have to think I was terrible. Being a man doesn’t guarantee anything.”

  “And an earl!” she added, still not seeming to comprehend what he’d told her.

  “A Scottish earl, don’t forget,” he said with a chuckle. “And now that we’ve established who I am, let us move on to you.” He slid out of her and returned to his knees, taking the condom off and leaning down to grab his cravat from the floor. He wrapped it up in the fabric and dropped it to the ground.

  “You are lovely,” he spoke in a low voice, putting his fingers on her shins and sliding them up her legs. He bent his head down and kissed first one foot, then the other. Then moved to her ankles. “And absolutely intriguing,” he continued, moving up to her knees, kissing both in turn, “and curious,” at which point he ran his hands up to her breasts and grasped them, rubbing his fingers over her erect nipples, “and delicious,” he said, before lowering his mouth to her sex and licking and kissing her there as he had her mouth.

  She let out a gasp and buried her fingers in his hair, holding him to her, her soft cries letting him know what she liked. He licked her, burrowed his tongue inside her, reveled in the taste of her, how her moans were coming faster and faster, nearly in time with his licking.

  He drew the little button at the apex of her sex into his mouth and sucked on it, causing her to cry out, then released it to lick her thoroughly, keeping the rhythm consistent as she had with her hand on his cock.

  It seemed that was working, because she began to utter one long, continuous moan until she spasmed and screamed his name, her legs twisting all around him, his mouth on her until her body subsided.

  “Oh my goodness,” she said at last in one breathy sigh. “That was incredible.”

  He grinned, feeling quite proud of himself, then raised up and returned to lie next to her, gathering her in his arms and kissing her forehead, her head, touching her body with light, idle strokes.

  “If you . . . if this was your first time, then how did you know?” her hand twirled in the air to fill in her missing words.

  “Study. You wouldn’t cook a recipe without consulting a book, would you?” He paused. “Then again, you would.”

  She swatted him on the arm. “That must have been some studying you did.”

  “I’m very glad you enjoyed the results of my long and arduous dedication to the subject,” he said, kissing her mouth again.

  “Mm-hm,” she replied. “But you have to let me up.”

  “Fine, I will,” he said, moving off her, but tucking her in close to his body, “but this time don’t leave me,” he said before he fell asleep.

  A Belle’s Guide to Household Management

  Despite what you might have heard, a whistle is not particularly clean. Do not use it to gauge the state of your home.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  She didn’t leave. Even though she was absolutely startled and wanted to wake him up to ask him questions about why not and why her and why now, but she knew that he wouldn’t be able to answer her satisfactorily, plus it didn’t really matter, except it did, because it was him and her, and she hadn’t even thought it was a possibility.

  Plus there was how he’d brought her
pleasure, even though it was his first time, and she wondered just how good he’d be at it in ten more tries, or fifty, and then got melancholy that the fiftieth time wasn’t likely to be with her.

  She didn’t think she’d ever do it again now that she had done it with him. Not that he’d ruined her for anybody else, precisely; it was just that being with him had shown her how good it could be when you loved someone. And it wouldn’t be fair or honest to do all this with anybody else.

  But what was she doing, anyway? She was lying in bed with her employer, a man who was going to be leaving soon, and taking her heart with him.

  And even though she had so many other questions, on this fact she was absolutely certain: that she loved him, and now he’d ruined her for anyone else.

  Damn it.

  But this was all part of life, wasn’t it? And she couldn’t get all mopey and ruin the short amount of time they had together.

  And the day after tomorrow was Valentine’s Day, and even if he had no clue about the holiday or, what was more likely, thought it was a foolish holiday, she had a Valentine for once, one who made her feel special and desired, even if just for a little while.

  “Wake up, Annabelle.” The words were accompanied by some sort of soft touch on her breasts. She opened her eyes to see him holding her feather duster, the feathers lightly stroking her nipples. It felt absolutely luxurious, but also funny because it was him—a very naked him—holding something so odd for him to hold, a look of intense concentration on his face.

  “Good morning,” she said, reaching up to caress his cheek. “I’m still here, as you asked.”

  His eyes traveled down her body, then back up to meet her gaze. “I see that. And I am very pleased.” He trailed the duster down over her belly, then onto her thighs.

  It tickled, but not in an agonizing way; more of a prolonging-the-delightful-pleasure way. He continued working the duster over her body, trailing the feathers across her lightly, his cock stiffening against her hip.

  “Maybe you are the real housekeeper here,” she said with a grin, then pulled him onto her and kissed him until he dropped the duster and used his fingers and his mouth on her instead.

  “Don’t you have meetings today?” It was about an hour later, and Annabelle was completely and totally sated; he’d seen to that. It seemed he was making up for lost time.

  “No, I have a meeting tomorrow.” He frowned, as though thinking, then looked at her. “I am wondering—would you be able to attend the meeting with me? I have to speak with the potential investors of the silk company, and I’m not certain . . . actually, never mind, I know . . . I cannot speak with the same enthusiasm and authority you can.”

  “Really? You want me to attend a business meeting?” Somehow that trust made it feel as though her heart were going to burst through her chest. He knew she wasn’t a housekeeper, he definitely knew she wasn’t a cook, and yet he wanted her to come speak to a group of business men about something she did know about.

  She loved him even more then.

  “Yes, if I didn’t want you to attend, I wouldn’t have asked you.” He spoke in his usual entirely practical way. “Naturally.” He paused, and when he spoke again, it was much more hesitantly. “So, will you come with me?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Only what are we going to do today?” Because tomorrow was tomorrow, and it sounded as though she had one entire day to spend with him, and she knew once his business was concluded he would likely return to Edinburgh and she would never see him.

  And she couldn’t think about that right now or she’d cry and ruin their day together.

  Of course he could have spent the day much more practically: going over his presentation, or working on his other business affairs, things that didn’t require he be in London, or even write some delayed letters to his sisters and his mother. But he didn’t want to. Another first.

  He wanted to spend the day with Annabelle, hear her laugh, feel her almost palpable joy, perhaps steal a kiss when they were out walking.

  So they decided to walk to the National Gallery and look at art, something he would have rolled his eyes at if someone had told him he would do and actually enjoy. On the way there they stopped at a bookstore and spent an hour browsing, discovering they both liked stories with lots of dialogue, nothing too sad, and filled with colorful characters. He bought her a few books, wishing he would be able to sit in a room with her somewhere and read with her, only knowing they couldn’t.

  The National Gallery was relatively empty, and they could stroll together, arm in arm, Matthew feeling a contentment he didn’t think he’d ever had.

  She paused in front of a painting and pointed to it with one hand while squeezing his arm with the other. “This one is lovely, don’t you think? The way the colors of the sky all sort of blend together, and how the cows look so peaceful.”

  His enjoyment of the art was due in no small part to her enthusiasm over the works. And she was enthusiastic, spending a good half hour looking at a picture that appeared, to Matthew’s view, to be a few hills and a farmhouse.

  But when she spoke about it, he could see its beauty, could almost feel the waving grass and see the puffy clouds, with all the tiny people working in the fields, and achieve a bit, he thought, of her emotions seeing the painting.

  How wonderful must it be to see everything through that joyful lens? Although he was starting to, wasn’t he, beginning with seeing her as the epitome of joy? And now that he’d seen her like this, he didn’t want to stop looking.

  What was he going to do about that?

  His practical mind was screaming at him to stop speculating about the future, that nothing could continue between them. But his practical mind, heretofore the only mind he’d thought he had, was being drowned out by his newly discovered romantic mind.

  He didn’t want to let her go. Ever. He wanted her and her joy in his life, not to mention his bed, forever.

  “And these flowers! My goodness, they are lovely.” They had walked to stand in front of a painting depicting a vase of flowers. Apparently lovely flowers, according to her.

  Matthew glanced around but saw no one nearby, so he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, lowering his mouth to kiss her. Not a long, passionate kiss, that would be foolish, but just something to try to express how he was feeling without saying anything.

  Given that he was accustomed to saying precisely what was on his mind, it was hard not to just tell her, but—for the first time, number eight—he was unsure of what exactly he wanted to say beyond “I love . . . ”

  The realization hit him like he’d been struck by lightning. Of course. Of course he loved her. That explained all the unexplainable emotions and feelings he’d been having since he met her. That explained why he didn’t want to leave her, ever, and why just spending the day with her felt like the most fun he’d had in his life.

  And the nights . . . well, those were pleasurable as well.

  “Matthew, are you all right?” she said, gazing up at him as he still held her against his body.

  No, I’m not. I’m in love with you.

  “I am fine. Tell me, what are your favorite flowers?” he said, turning them back so they were once again looking at the painting.

  “Definitely roses. Or no, maybe daffodils. Or peonies. I do like irises, even though they seem so gawky, standing so straight and tall.” She laughed, and met his gaze. “It is so typically me, isn’t it, that I just love all flowers.”

  “It is,” he replied, tightening his grip on her waist.

  And I love you for it.

  A Belle’s Guide to Household Management

  The housekeeper is the mistress of her domain, but she is not the mistress of her master, even though he pays her for her services, is able to tell her what, when, and how to do them, and requires her to dress appropriately.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I will not be making dinner tonight.” Annabelle clutched Matthew’s arm as they strode home. Th
ey’d gotten tea at a restaurant near the museum, and Annabelle felt so proud to be in the company of such a good-looking man. She’d caught a few of the ladies nearby looking at him, and she wanted to get up and stick her tongue out at each of them, taunting them with the knowledge that she was the only woman ever to lie with him.

  But that would be entirely inappropriate. So she just smiled knowingly as the ladies accidentally caught her eye, and that seemed to convey just about the same thing.

  “I don’t want you to make dinner either,” he said in a sly tone. “Mostly because I don’t want you to cook. Nor do I want to cook.”

  She swatted him on the arm and laughed. “Fine, I am a terrible cook. Shall we eat at the same place as before, or do you want to wander to find someplace new?”

  He looked down at her and smiled, a smile that made her heart do a few flips inside her chest. “I’d like to wander.”

  She grinned and made a sweeping gesture with her other hand. “We will wander, then.”

  They walked together in silence, but it was a lovely, companionable silence. Annabelle kept wanting to say something about how she felt, but she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, not on their day together. So while she opened her mouth frequently, she didn’t speak, because how would she say anything without saying it entirely? “I’ve fallen in love with you over the course of a week, and I want to be with you and your strong, handsome chest and your very sly wit for the rest of my life.” What could he possibly say to that?

  Even though not saying something usually ended up in her saying something worse. She’d have to try to prevent—

  “Oh, look!” She stopped in front of a shop window, one with an array of Valentine’s Day cards, each more fulsome and ridiculously gaudy than the rest.

  Of course she loved all of them.

  “They have a lot of cards in the window.” Matthew spoke as though he were reporting on facts, not marveling at the beauty and splendor of them. Of course.

  “Yes, Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.”