“I can see you out,” he said.
She shook her head decisively, making her hair tumble around her face. He didn’t think he had ever met such a decided woman. “I know the way, thank you.”
“Would you want to come by tomorrow morning? For breakfast?” he asked before he realized he was even speaking.
She froze, giving him a bemused stare. No wonder, given that he’d been gruff and awkward. “Well, yes. That is very generous of you, my lord.”
“Owen,” he replied. Even though he knew that a young English lady would be horrified to call such a recent acquaintance by his given name. But this was a completely unusual circumstance, and he couldn’t see “my lord” and “my ladying” one another when they were together alone. That would make it even more awkward.
She smiled. Not horrified then. “Owen. And I am Pearl. I will see you tomorrow morning then.”
She slipped out of the room, leaving him wondering what the hell he had just done.
Owen. Pearl slid the name around in her mind, then couldn’t help but utter it aloud. “Owen.” She walked into her house, wishing for the first time it wasn’t quite so large.
And cold.
And solitary.
She hadn’t thought this whole alone thing through, had she? Being alone meant not only that there was no food, but also that there was no one to stoke the fires. For goodness’ sake, she didn’t even know what “stoke” meant.
There was no one to even ask what “stoke” meant in the first place.
Perhaps she did want her mother to collect her soon after all. But that would mean not getting to talk to Owen. And pet Mr. Shorty.
So, no. She did not want her mother to come soon. Which meant she had to figure all this out on her own.
“Wood. I need wood,” she muttered as she walked into the drawing room. It didn’t make sense, as she thought about it, to try to sleep in her own bedroom—she’d need to keep herself centrally located so as to preserve her resources. “And something warm.” She already felt chilled, and she hadn’t yet taken off her cloak. But she could do this. She could. It just meant gathering blankets and building a fire and making sure she didn’t burn the house down.
Far easier than, say, walking into a ballroom where everyone knew of you but didn’t know you. They just knew about your family’s scandal, your talkative mother, your laconic father, and that you were “the other one” in relation to any of your sisters.
Burning the house down might be a relief from all that, honestly. At least she’d be warm.
Within an hour, Pearl had gotten the fire sufficiently stoked and was lying in front of it wrapped in the comforters she had dragged from the beds.
It was . . . cozy. She was alone, but she was warm, she had done something for herself, and she had met the large, exceedingly attractive earl.
Not to mention Mr. Shorty, who had licked her hand. Which, she had to say, the exceedingly attractive earl had not.
Which brought to mind all sorts of intriguing scenarios, ones she had never seriously thought about before.
Of course she had noticed attractive men before, but they had usually already been involved with one or another of her sisters. The men she’d met out in Society were interchangeable, always glancing over her head to see who else was at the party, or asking pointed questions about her father’s fortune and what her own dowry might be.
The Welsh earl didn’t know anything about her or her family. He hadn’t met any of her sisters or her parents.
He just knew her. That felt as remarkable as being left alone in the town house or managing to start a fire.
Owen wished he had specified a time for the young lady—Pearl—to come over. As it was, he kept glancing out the window to see if she was on his steps yet. He wasn’t attending to his business, nor was he performing his exercises as his doctor had instructed.
Mr. Shorty seemed equally on edge, raising his head from his pillow to whimper every so often.
He’d slept wonderfully the night before, something that hadn’t happened since his injury—usually he ended up rolling over in his sleep, which made his leg or shoulder hurt, and then he woke up cursing.
Not last night. Last night, he’d slept all the night through, Mr. Shorty curled up in a warm bundle against his back.
Was it because he was finally alone in London? Or was it something—or someone—else?
He did not want to answer his own question.
Likely it was the cheese. That was it, he told himself firmly.
He leapt up when he heard the knock at the door, then grimaced as the pain shot up his leg.
Mr. Shorty rose too, trotting ahead of Owen as Owen limped his way to the door.
“Good morning, Owen,” she said in a cheery voice as she stepped inside. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, which he felt as the wind gusted. Owen shut the door hastily, then turned to greet her.
“Good morning, Pearl.”
He didn’t feel the cold as she turned her bright smile on him. He wondered what it would be like to be in a good mood most of the time. Or was she? Perhaps she wasn’t accorded the opportunity to show her grumpiness, like he was.
The benefit of being the head of one’s household—they could, and would, complain about his gruffness, but they didn’t punish him for it.
He’d need to ask about her family at some point. Given that none of them seemed to be in London right now. And so close to Christmas. As she’d pointed out. Did that mean she would be alone too?
But first he had to feed her. “We have some bread and eggs, if you want to come to the kitchen.”
“Eggs?” she said in a pleased tone. “Is your cook here? I do love eggs.” He marveled at her ability to demonstrate enthusiasm for the most basic things, like cheese and eggs.
Owen chuckled as he led the way back down to the kitchen. “No, I am going to cook them myself.”
He heard a startled noise behind him and shook his head in mock disapproval. “Do you mean to tell me, Lady Pearl, that you have never cooked an egg?”
She snorted, at which he suppressed a laugh. He didn’t know if ladies liked to be caught snorting.
“Of course not.” They entered the kitchen, and she took the stool she’d sat on the night before while he went to take the eggs out of the larder. “I can dance, I can embroider, I can speak passable French, provided you want to know how I take my tea, and I can paint, if you want pictures of bunnies.” She spoke in a dejected tone. “Rabbits, I mean,” she corrected.
Owen blinked. “Bunnies?” he said, walking over to the stove with the eggs.
She looked embarrassed. “I haven’t really mastered anything else. So I decided to concentrate on the things that made me happy. Like bunnies.”
The things that made her happy.
Had Owen ever thought about the things that made him happy before?
He’d certainly spent a fair amount of time considering what made him unhappy—his sisters and mother pestering him to marry, his wool not fetching the price at market he knew it was worth.
Being in London nursing an injury.
Although now that didn’t seem quite so bad. The London part, not the injury part. That was still bad.
“How do you like your eggs?” he asked. He did not want to think about his unhappiness list anymore.
She came to stand beside him, peering over his shoulder. “Fried, I suppose. Can you teach me how to do it? How to cook eggs?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Because a young lady of privilege will ever have call to make eggs?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose I won’t. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t learn.” She folded her arms over her chest. “So teach me.”
Owen couldn’t help but smile in response to her demanding tone, then frowned as her expression changed to one of shock.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” she replied, shaking her head. “Go ahead, I am listening.”
That smile. My goo
dness, his smile ought to be illegal. He was merely extremely attractive before his mouth widened into a smile; when he smiled, his whole face changed, making his eyes glint with humor and one corner of his mouth curl up higher than the other.
She caught herself before she said something about why she’d reacted so strongly; after all, it wasn’t usually proper to blurt something out about how gorgeous another person was, especially if that person was a grumpy Welsh earl who wasn’t nearly as grumpy as he seemed at first.
Which made him entirely more dangerous.
“I lit the stove earlier, but usually you’d make certain the stove was on.” He held his hand over the top, spreading his fingers. “It feels hot enough. You try.”
Pearl extended her hand over the surface, imitating his action. “How hot does it have to be?” she asked.
“You’ll see when we put the butter in the pan.” He turned to slice a thick pat of butter and dropped it into a skillet on the stove. It immediately began to sizzle, and he grabbed a fork to poke at the butter, which was fast becoming a brown puddle.
“That’s a little too hot. You don’t want it to melt the butter immediately.”
“Ah,” Pearl said, even though she had no idea how she would regulate the temperature of the stove. But she didn’t want to ask and reveal her entire ignorance of the kitchen. Even though of course he knew she would have no idea of what happened here, being a lady and all.
Still, she didn’t want to admit it.
“But it’s fine as long as we put the eggs in quickly.” He picked an egg up and cracked it with one hand into the skillet.
Pearl’s eyes widened. “You have to show me how to do that!” she demanded.
“What, crack an egg?” His smile was wry, as though he was amused that she was so impressed.
Because you’re an earl, and a man, for goodness’ sake, and yet you can do domestic things like crack eggs!
She didn’t think even her handsome brothers-in-law could do that.
“Here, you try.” He placed an egg in her hand, then wrapped his hand around hers.
She tried not to make an indication that this was the first time she had touched a gentleman’s hand without gloves on. Nor did she want to indicate what the sight of their hands—one over the other—did to her insides.
“So as a beginner you should use two hands.” He reached across her and took her other hand, then drew both hands over to a bowl. “We won’t cook this one, this is just for practice.” His hand was still on hers. “Now tap the egg gently on the edge of the bowl.”
She did, feeling the egg crack.
“Now what?” she said in panic, looking up at him.
Oops. Mistake. All that handsomeness right in her vision made her forget entirely about what she was doing.
His eyes stared into hers, and it seemed as though he too had forgotten.
“Uh,” he began. She saw his cheeks redden. She looked away, back at the egg, which was starting to seep from the inside.
“You separate the shell and drop the egg into the bowl.” His voice sounded strained.
She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nodded and did as he’d said. A few pieces of shell landed in the bowl, and she leaned forward to pick them out.
But she had done it.
“Can I crack the next one into the skillet?” she asked excitedly, looking back up at him again. This time she was more prepared.
Even though her stomach still whooshed. Hunger, yes, but also—hunger of a different sort.
Mistake, mistake, mistake a voice clamored in her head.
Or is it an adventure? another voice asked in a sly tone.
Who needed sisters around when you had a whole Greek chorus in residence in your head?
“Go ahead,” he said, placing another egg in her palm.
She tapped it on the edge of the bowl, then swiftly moved it above the skillet, dropping it into the pan. It sizzled, and she grinned.
She had successfully cracked an egg.
And was currently alone with a gentleman who was not only not incredibly grumpy, but who was willing to teach her things.
Hm . . . that second voice said.
Oh dear.
Chapter Four
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Four eggs because we were so hungry
Owen had never had so much fun cooking eggs before.
He could almost say he had never had so much fun before, but that would be to deny the moments with his sisters that had brought him happiness—playing hide-and-seek when they were all small and finding one of his sisters, Gwyneth, asleep in a hedge; competing in charades with his most educated sister, Bryn; singing Christmas carols with his entire family except his father, who was most often to be found in his office.
And now it was Owen who was usually in his office. No time for singing or cooking eggs or sharing a smile with a stranger.
He finished cooking his portion, then slid the eggs onto a plate and joined her at the table.
“Mm, these are excellent,” she said. She had already eaten one of them. They were small, so he’d made four for each of them. He figured they were both hungry after all. “Thank you,” she continued, nodding at him.
“You are welcome. Thank you for the excellent cracking skills. Cracking good, I’d say.”
And then he froze, because had he just made a terrible pun? Out loud to someone he’d just met?
She grinned, then put her hand over her mouth and began to laugh.
He had.
But at least it seemed she appreciated it? He’d stopped sharing puns aloud with his sisters when all he got in return was groaning and eye rolls.
“You’re really getting me to come out of my shell,” she said with a wink.
He felt his eyes widen and something inside his chest—was it his heart?—lurch in an odd way.
“Are you yolking with me?” he replied in a mock serious tone.
She rolled her eyes and groaned, only not the aggravated way his sisters did; more as though she very much appreciated his wit and was complimenting him with the most appropriate response.
“I might have to go lay down, your jokes are so hen-witted,” she said at last. It was clear she was racking her brain to think of more puns. He felt that thing in his chest respond to that as well.
“No need to crow about it,” he shot back.
She shook her head. “I acknowledge defeat.” Her eyes sparkled. “But instead of being cooped up here, how about we go out and ruffle some feathers?”
“Go out?” he said in surprise.
Her face fell, and he wished he could take his words back. Of course I want to go outside with you. I’m just surprised you suggested it.
“If you don’t wish to, that is fine,” she said in a stiff tone of voice. “I just thought that since your dog needs walking, and you mentioned you needed to walk, and I am feeling restless that you might—”
He nodded before she had finished speaking. “Of course. Mr. Shorty does need a walk. A perfect suggestion. I was just startled.”
Startled by how he felt right now. How she was making him feel.
Her expression eased, and that constricted feeling in his chest loosened.
“We should purchase some decorations for Christmas,” she said in a decided tone. “Since you’ll be here.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask—will you be here too?—only he didn’t want to make her nervous about his presence. And besides, she was still speaking.
“I presume you have a feather to fly with for some purchases?” she added in a sly tone.
“Plucked from the labors of my sheep, thank you very much,” he said, feeling how he was actually grinning back at her.
She laughed and poked him in the arm.
“I’ll return in a few moments, I just have to gather my things,” she said as she left the kitchen. “I’ll meet you and Mr. Shorty outside in five minutes?”
“I’ll be walk
ing on eggshells until you arrive,” he replied.
Pearl couldn’t stop smiling as she went from his house to hers. The very grumpy earl was much less grumpy when he allowed himself to interact with someone.
And she liked that he had allowed himself to interact with her.
She didn’t feel lonely any longer; instead, she felt a heightened sense of excitement, of anticipation. As though this was a wonderful Christmas dream that she would have to wake from eventually, but was lovely while she was sleeping.
She bit her lip as she entered the house, glancing around in case her mother had tracked her down. And wondered at how relieved she was when the house remained empty—she called out, but her voice just echoed in the hallway.
In a few minutes, she was back outside, her money put safely in her pocket, her cloak wrapped around her against the cold.
The sky looked dark, even though it was only midmorning, and it seemed as though she could smell the weather about to change. It was crisply cold, and she exhaled, watching her breath hang in the air.
But she was warm, not just from her cloak, but from the filling breakfast, the comradery, and the feeling that she’d discovered a secret, hidden part of him that he didn’t allow people to see—the part that made puns, and eggs, with an equal bashful pride.
It was ridiculously charming in a gentleman as ruggedly and thoroughly handsome as he.
She watched as he exited his house, closing the door carefully behind him, allowing Mr. Shorty to go ahead down the stairs as he made his way behind him, grimacing from the pain every so often.
“Here, let me help.” She ran up the stairs and took his arm without waiting for his reply. She felt him stiffen, but then he gave a brief nod, and they descended the rest of the way in silence, her feeling his much greater weight against her.
“I hope you have an idea of where we should go,” he said gruffly as he let go of her arm. She immediately took it again, looking up at him with an “I dare you” expression on her face.
He frowned, but didn’t shake her off.
The Earl's Christmas Pearl Page 3