The Earl's Christmas Pearl

by Megan Frampton

  She would give him the benefit of the doubt. If she ever saw him again, that is. She rather hoped she would, if only so she could appraise his overabundance of masculine beauty.

  Damn that whooshing stomach of hers.

  Or perhaps she was just hungry?

  She stepped inside the house, removing her cloak and spreading it out on the floor so it could dry.

  No one was there, either to move the cloak to a more suitable place or to chide her about leaving it on the floor.

  “Stay,” she commanded the garment, laughing as she spoke. She glanced down at her sodden feet. She could just take her shoes off, couldn’t she? Nobody was here to be scandalized.

  Determined, she plopped down on the floor to remove them. Her wet stockings slid a little bit on the parquet floor when she stood up, and she stuck her hands out for balance.

  It was nearly like skating, only without as much danger of breaking a bone. Hm. She tested her balance, then pushed off on one stockinged foot, trying to glide across the floor, laughing as she stumbled.

  A bit of practice, and soon she was sliding with ease, her arms held out parallel to the floor. She hummed a tune as she went, almost as though she were on stage.

  Her mother would be scandalized. Which was precisely the point of doing it.

  She already felt better, the hot chocolate incident merely a hiccup in her adventure. Now to find some food, she decided. It had to be similar to finding her cloak. She walked toward the kitchen and descended the stairs, wishing she had a candle or something to light the way.

  It was awfully dark.

  After a half hour of searching, stumbling over pots and stools and all sorts of things she couldn’t see, Pearl had to acknowledge defeat.

  She was cold and she was hungry, and she had no idea how to solve either problem.

  The servants had done an excellent job of closing up the house for Christmas—not a scrap of food anywhere, except for big bags of flour and sugar.

  She didn’t think she could subsist on that. Especially since she had never cooked anything in her life before. There were servants for that.

  Unless there were not.

  Drat. Unless the duchess suddenly rolled up in her carriage holding a roast beef in her lap, she would have to figure something out. And then also figure out how to keep herself warm.

  She felt her mouth twist and her stomach whoosh as she realized what she was going to have to do. He had offered his help earlier, out on the sidewalk. She hadn’t needed it then, but she’d have to take him up on it now.

  Owen scowled even more than usual when he heard the knock on the door. Mrs. Hopkins had left right after serving his dinner, and he and Mr. Shorty were sitting in front of the fireplace in the library, Owen with a brandy and Mr. Shorty with a bone. The room was cozy, and Owen felt relief that it wouldn’t be possible for him to offend any of the present company.

  He was tempted to ignore the knock, and nearly did, but then the person knocked again.

  Likely they could see the light of the candle from the front step.

  “Hold on,” Owen called out, getting up from his chair. His leg ached from his walk earlier, and he had to steady himself to reach a full standing position.

  The knock came again, more impatiently, if it were possible for a knock to be impatient.

  Which, Owen decided as he limped down the hallway, it was.

  “What do you want?” he barked as he opened the door.

  The lady blinked at him, her mouth open in surprise. Why was she surprised when she had been the one knocking?

  “Uh . . .” she began, pulling the hood of her cloak down, “I know Lady Robinson is not in residence, unless she has returned—?” Her tone was hopeful.

  “I regret she has not.”

  She twisted her mouth in disappointment. “Is it possible for me to come in anyway? I have a pressing issue.”

  It was the lady from next door. He couldn’t very well deny her pressing issue. He was a budding misanthrope, but he wasn’t that miserable.

  Besides, something about her intrigued him. Perhaps because she was clearly a young lady who didn’t have any of the usual accoutrements young ladies usually did? Things like a chaperone, a lady’s maid, or an annoying giggle?

  “Come in then,” he said, holding the door open wider. She slipped inside, and he shut the door, suddenly keenly aware that she was a young lady. And he, purportedly, was a gentleman.

  And they were alone in an empty house.

  This was entirely inappropriate.

  He’d have to let her know; it was the right thing to do.

  “I cannot allow you to stay,” he said, watching as her face fell. “I am here alone, and you are a young lady. I would not wish for anything—for anybody to think things.” He frowned. “You don’t have a chaperone or lady’s maid or anything?”

  “If I did, don’t you think I would have brought her?”

  She had a point.

  “In which case, I have to repeat my previous statement. It is inappropriate for us to be alone in this house.”

  She bit her lip as she regarded him for a long moment. “I appreciate your concern. But nobody would know it was inappropriate if they didn’t know in the first place, would they?”

  He considered her words and the possible consequences.

  “I don’t wish to marry you,” she added hastily. “I can promise you that I will take all the blame if anyone finds out.”

  She was determined, and he needed to find out what was so pressing so he could help her. If he didn’t help, he would be tormented by the knowledge that he hadn’t done everything he possibly could—the unfortunate by-product of being the only gentleman in a family of females. His height, his wealth, and his business acumen were in equal demand when he was home in Wales.

  He acknowledged her words with a brief dip of his head. “I assure you that I am a gentleman and will behave . . . appropriately.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So what is so pressing you must flout convention and knock on my door?” he asked.

  “The thing is,” she began, clutching her cloak more tightly around her, “I find that I am hungry, and it appears there is no food in our kitchen.”

  Owen squinted at her, confused. “But you have a cook, certainly?”

  She looked embarrassed, which made Owen even more confused. Could she not afford one? His godmother had told him the neighbors were well-heeled; perhaps this was a poor relation?

  But why was she in the house in the first place?

  He had more questions about her than he’d literally had about anyone else he had met.

  “Look, you’d better come sit down,” he said, turning on his heel and walking back toward the library.

  He heard her follow, and Mr. Shorty trotted out of the room uttering a few yips of welcome.

  “Good dog,” she murmured.

  His dog could offer a proper reception to a guest, at least.

  “Have a seat.” He gestured toward the sofa. He dragged his chair from behind the desk and set it far enough to be respectable and yet close enough so he could hear her.

  “Can you explain, Miss . . . ?” he said.

  “Lady Pearl Howlett,” she replied. “And you are?”

  “Owen Dwyfor, Earl of Llanover. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  She gave a wry smile. “Is it?”

  “Uh—” he began, only to stop speaking when she waved her hand. It was unnerving to encounter someone so blunt. He liked it, to be honest.

  “Never mind,” she replied. “To answer your question, there is no cook in the house. No housekeeper, no butler, not even a scullery maid. I am completely and entirely alone.” Instead of sounding anxious, as one would expect from a gently born lady in the situation, she sounded nearly gleeful.

  A lady after his own heart, perhaps? But a lady who was also hungry.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen,” Owen said, getting up as he spoke. He grabbed one of the candles from
the table and strode ahead. “Come along, Mr. Shorty,” he added.

  The lady hopped up from her seat and followed him, Mr. Shorty trotting after.

  An earl. And a Welsh earl, if she wasn’t mistaken. She’d finally placed his accent, plus his name was Owen. And he owned a Welsh corgi.

  How much more Welsh could he be?

  “Why are you in Lady Robinson’s town house, by the way?” she asked as he guided her to the kitchen.

  “She’s my godmother,” he said abruptly. As it seemed he said most things.

  “Ah. But why are you here and she is not?” Pearl continued.

  She smothered a chuckle as she heard him growl. She’d think he really was a grump if she hadn’t heard how his voice softened when he called his dog. Or how concerned he’d looked when she’d said she needed help.

  “My godmother is visiting family.”

  That was not an answer.

  She was opening her mouth to speak again when he continued. “I am in London to consult with doctors.” He gestured to his leg. “I’ve got an injury the doctor at home believed would be better cared for here.”

  Ah, she hadn’t taken notice before, but now he’d said it, she saw he did have a definite limp. She’d been too busy cataloging how attractive he was to notice.

  “How did it happen?”

  She heard him utter a noise of frustration.

  “You know,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “it is a good thing it wasn’t my sister Olivia who got stranded here. Olivia is my twin, and she is the most inquisitive person. Olivia would be demanding all the particulars of your injury, your provenance, and why you are so determined not to share anything. I am merely making conversation.”

  “I guess I should be grateful,” he said in a voice that nearly sounded amused.

  Perhaps she would be able to befriend him after all?

  Because being alone was wonderful, she assured herself. But it wasn’t nearly as much fun as teasing a handsome grumpy Welsh gentleman.

  “The kitchen is through here,” he said, leading them through a narrow hallway. His body appeared to take up all the available space, and she felt that whooshing feeling again.

  It’s just hunger, she told herself firmly.

  They entered the kitchen. After he’d set his candle down and lit some of the lamps, she could see it was spotlessly tidy, with pots and pans hanging up on hooks from the ceiling. A large cupboard stood on the right-hand side, bowls and other dishware visible through the glass of the doors. Her gaze lit on a half-eaten round of cheese and some bread on a wooden board.

  She knew she made some sort of sound, but she couldn’t help herself. Food! That she didn’t need to know how to cook!

  “Help yourself,” the earl said, gesturing to the board. “I can hear you’re famished.”

  She’d be embarrassed if she weren’t starving.

  Pearl cut off a big hunk of cheese and tore a bit of bread from the loaf. And then froze. She wasn’t sure what protocol she should follow, this situation not having been covered by any etiquette guide: How to Fend Off Hunger While Also Maintaining Proper Deportment. And Did We Mention You Would Be Alone with a Large Welsh Earl? Did she stay and gobble everything up here? Should she wrap it in something and take it back to her house?

  “If you want to eat it here, that’s fine,” he said gruffly, as though reading her mind. Or her nonexistent etiquette guide. “Or you could take it back to your house.”

  Suddenly she didn’t want to return to her house. Even though it meant spending more time with the taciturn earl. Or because it meant spending more time with him?

  Pearl knew she liked to solve puzzles, but she hadn’t anticipated wanting to solve a puzzle like him. And yet here she was, intensely curious.

  Of course, the one thing she and all her sisters had in common was an abiding curiosity. So at least she was being consistent.

  Perhaps that was their family’s charter. Constant curiosity.

  “Would you mind sitting with me?” she said as she hoisted herself up onto a wooden stool.

  He paused, and she wondered if he was going to just say no and walk out, when he surprised her by sitting down, reaching for the cheese, and slicing a piece off.

  “I don’t like to eat alone,” Pearl said before taking a bite of the cheese. It was some type of cheddar, but it could have been sawdust cheese for all she cared. “Not that I’ve ever eaten alone, but when I thought about it, I just knew it wouldn’t be nearly as nice as eating with someone else.” She turned and looked at him. His gaze was intense, and that whole whooshing feeling returned. “You are going to eat something, aren’t you? Because otherwise I’m just here eating your food and you’re just sitting here watching me.”

  “I’m not watching you,” he replied, popping his bite of cheese into his mouth. As he watched her.

  Pearl rolled her eyes. Discreetly, but she rolled them nonetheless. Likely he was regarding her so intently because he was counting down the minutes until she appeared ready to leave.

  That thought made her chew more slowly. And keep her gaze on him.

  Chapter Three

  On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

  Three pieces of cheddar cheese

  His unexpected guest was unexpected in other ways also, Owen thought. For one thing, she was not at all what he’d expected a young well-born English lady to be like; she was curious and confident and appeared to have her own opinions about things.

  For another thing, she was pretty in such an intriguing way he found it nearly impossible to look away from her. Especially her mouth; it was wide and seemed always on the verge of breaking into a big smile. As though she were planning mischief, and she wanted someone to join her.

  Her eyes were a soft brown, nearly the color of his Balwen sheep. Her hair was lighter than her eyes, the color of sheep’s wool when it hadn’t been washed for some time.

  Not that he thought she hadn’t washed her hair.

  Damn it, now even his talking to himself was resulting in offense.

  “How did you injure yourself?” she asked before he’d have to resort to calling himself out for his own infraction. Which would be awkward, since he was already injured.

  “Uh—” he began, the sting of embarrassment slowing his reply.

  “It’s just us here, and I’m eating, so you have to do the talking,” she pointed out before taking another big bite of cheese. He liked that she wasn’t taking dainty lady bites. But that did mean she was going to be a long time chewing.

  The alternative to not talking was sitting in silence while she ate, which seemed as though it was the less preferable option.

  Even though that remained to be seen, depending on what he ended up saying.

  “I am a sheep farmer in Wales,” he began, waiting for her expression to change to one of disdain. Instead, she only looked more curious, making a hand motion for him to continue.

  “And I was shearing sheep when I stepped in a hole. Likely made by a groundhog.” Owen loathed groundhogs. At least now. “I fell, and I didn’t want to fall on the sheep, so I twisted and hit my shoulder and did something to my leg. I didn’t break it, but it is difficult to walk.”

  “You probably strained a muscle,” she replied. “I did that once when I was playing cricket.”

  Owen’s eyes widened. This lady played cricket? She was most definitely not like any lady he’d met before.

  Not that he’d met that many, something his sisters and mother frequently pointed out.

  “Go on,” she urged.

  “There’s not much more to say,” Owen said, feeling sheepish. So to speak.

  “What did the doctor say? Are you being treated? I didn’t see you with a cane this morning. Are you supposed to be using one?”

  Ah. So there was more to say.

  “I’m being treated, yes, for a few more weeks. Until after Christmas, I believe.” She immediately looked upset, and he hastened to reassure her.

  Not
something he’d ever done before.

  “Christmas isn’t that important to me,” he said. Too much family, too many people, too much importance placed on the right thing to say, do, or give.

  “Not important?” she sputtered. “But it’s Christmas!” As though that was the answer, even though he had just acknowledged that it was, indeed, Christmas.

  “We agree on that,” he replied, chuckling at her outraged expression. “Why are you here by yourself anyway? No family, no servants, no food! After all, it’s nearly Christmas!” he exclaimed, widening his eyes and waggling his brows in mock horror.

  She grinned as she poked him in the shoulder. And then her expression changed to one of panic. “I didn’t just touch your injury, did I? Oh my goodness, I am so sorry.”

  “It’s the other shoulder. It’s fine,” he said in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

  “Thank goodness,” she said, relieved. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for exacerbating your injury while taking advantage of your hospitality.”

  “As to your questions,” he replied, surprised that he actually wanted to answer them, “I do have a cane, and I am supposed to walk slowly for at least an hour a day. I see the doctor again after Christmas, and then if he is satisfied with my progress, I can return home.”

  She nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I think that is what I did after my injury. It must hurt a great deal.”

  “Uh—yes.” He realized he didn’t quite know how to respond to her sincerity. “I mean, it’s getting better. It does get sore after I walk.” His family had expressed sympathy, but had quickly followed up their words with concern for what he wouldn’t be able to do for them until after he’d fully recovered. She made no such caveat. Her sympathy was without any strings of commitment.

  “Well, I am glad you are improving.”

  There was a moment of silence, during which his mind scrambled to find something to say. Thankfully, she began speaking before he could blurt anything else out.

  “I am full, thank you,” she said, putting her hand on her belly. “I should go. I know you didn’t anticipate having a guest.” She hopped off the stool and he hastened to stand also.