The Taming of Lord Scrooge

by Renee Ann Miller

  “Trying to look at his tongue. I wanted to see if it looks like Mr. Shingles.”

  Goodness. She hoped Mary hadn’t repeated any of the conversation Eve and Penny had had a few weeks ago about the way the man kissed with his tongue. Probably not, since Julien looked utterly confused.

  “Mary, will you go and see how Mrs. Campbell is doing with mixing the gingerbread batter for our Christmas cookies?”

  “After they are baked may I eat one? Please.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  Licking her lips in anticipation, her daughter handed over the magnifying glass and skipped out of the room.

  Eve narrowed her eyes at Julien. “While in my house, my lord, I would appreciate it if you would not expand Mary’s vocabulary with any blasphemies.”

  “Are you going to punish me, Evie?”

  Punish him? He was too big to put over her knee, and she feared a wicked man like him would enjoy it. She ignored the question.

  One side of Julien’s mouth kicked up in a smile that caused a dimple. It was the only thing boyish about him. The shy young man she’d known was gone—replaced by a seasoned cad. He exuded a primitive masculinity that should be outlawed. She’d heard tales that the Naughty Earl was a womanizer, and that women fell at his feet. Looking at him, she understood. Though he’d been handsome and tall when younger, he now had the lean, yet broad-shouldered body of a man.

  “I was going to ask how you are feeling, but it appears you have recovered.”

  He touched the back of his head. “I feel like I’ve been kicked by a mule, but I’ll survive. By chance did my horse show up here?”

  “No. Were you unseated from your mount?”

  “A man doesn’t like to admit when a horse gets the better of him, but indeed, I was not only thrown but dragged. The animal was spooked by an owl.” He glanced down at the pile of blankets covering him. “Forgive me for not standing, but it appears someone removed my riding pantaloons.”

  The warmth coursing through her body traveled to her cheeks. “I did. They were wet, and I was concerned about your body temperature going too low. You probably do not recall but my father was a physician, and I am aware of the ill effects that can be sustained from one getting too chilled.”

  “I have not forgotten. Your father was a good man. I was saddened when I heard of his passing. I remember the long conversations the three of us used to engage in.”

  With everything that had happened in Julien’s life, she was surprised he recalled their discussions. They’d talked about everything from Galileo to Plato. Astronomy, philosophy, art—they’d discussed them all. She’d believed he’d forgotten their conversations. He was an earl, after all. He’d most likely conversed with great scholars since then.

  He stared at her. Did he expect her to respond? She wasn’t sure what to say—that she’d not forgotten them either, or the kisses they’d shared.

  He drew in an audible breath. “Evie, unless you wish me to walk about in my drawers, I suggest you return my clothing to me.”

  The cut-up garments were folded neatly in the mending basket in her bedchamber. She wasn’t sure why she’d put them there. They could not be salvaged. She drew in a bracing breath. “They are ruined. I had to cut them off you.”

  His eyes widened. “You what?”

  His response was not asked in a loud voice, but a low tone that held more censure than if raised. Eve presumed he used such a tone when he wished to put fear into others. Well, he was about to learn that in this house such intimidation would not work. “You should be thanking me. Not growling.”

  “I don’t growl.”

  “Yes. You do, and you are quite good at it. If I hadn’t removed your pantaloons you might have frozen to death.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Yes, you’re probably too stubborn to die.” She walked over to where she’d put Mrs. Campbell’s husband’s regimental uniform. “You may wear this.”

  He blinked at the tartan garment at the top of the pile. A nerve visibly twitched as he clenched his jaw. “Good Lord, woman, is that a kilt?”

  “It is.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  “Completely. Either you wear that or my pink robe, for they are the only garments in this house that will fit you.”

  He mumbled something too low for her to hear, most likely a word that should have sent him to the red chair—if he wasn’t so big.

  “Did you say something?”

  “I have a feeling you’re enjoying this.”

  She was, more than she should admit. “You will be pleased to know that though this is not a grand residence in comparison to Dartmore House, because my uncle was a man of science, he fashioned a pump that brings water to the bathing room. It is up the stairs and to your right. I’ve left several drying cloths in there for you.” She strode to the double doors.

  “Evie?” he called out in his deliciously deep voice.

  She wished he would stop calling her that. No one else in her life besides him had ever called her Evie. They’d always addressed her as Evangeline or Eve. When younger she’d thought it lovely; now, it felt too intimate. She turned. “Yes.”

  “Your daughter called me Scrooge. Might I ask why?”

  Several answers swirled in her head. The truth foremost. But it appeared he did not realize she was the Mrs. Breckenridge who had sent him the letter. Or perhaps he’d not cared even to read it, or his newest secretary attended to all his correspondence. Perhaps it was best not to answer at all while he was snowed in at her house. This was an uncomfortable situation at best.

  “Scrooge? How interesting.” She strode out of the room.

  * * * *

  In the dining room, Eve helped the housekeeper set the table for dinner. A while ago, the water pump’s gears had echoed throughout the lower floor, clanking and thumping, as the pump filled the copper tub upstairs.

  “Just think, lass, the Earl of Dartmore is bathing in your tub.” Mrs. Campbell said.

  Eve didn’t want to think about it. Yet, unbidden, an image popped into her head of one of Julien’s large hands lathering soap over his impressive chest and broad shoulders. Thankfully, in her vision the soapy water was cloudy, hindering her from seeing what lay beneath its surface.

  “Maybe we should place a copper plaque on the door saying the Earl of Dartmore bathed here.” The housekeeper’s words drew Eve from her thoughts.

  She frowned at the woman.

  Mrs. Campbell gave another uncharacteristic grin.

  A few minutes later, Eve peered at the ceiling. The bathing room lay directly above the dining room, and she could hear Julien grumbling. “Mrs. Campbell, do you think the kilt is too small? His lordship sounds irritable.”

  “The kilt might be a wee bit too short on him. Me Angus was a tall man, but mayhap not as tall.”

  “A wee bit?” Eve echoed.

  The woman held up her hands showing a span of at least three inches.

  Oh Goodness. Bad enough she’d already seen his muscled thighs once; she didn’t wish to have to stare at them for the remainder of the time he stayed in her house.

  “I’ll go get the hodgepodge stew.” The housekeeper moved to the door, then turned around. “Don’t seem right to be feeding an earl such simple fare.”

  Eve knew what the woman really meant. It didn’t seem right that they fed him stew that Eve had prepared. “The stew will help warm him. Besides, if we serve seven courses at every meal, we might run out of food before he leaves.”

  “You got a point, lass, but your cooking might send him to his grave, and after that letter you sent, they might claim you killed him on purpose.”

  “My cooking isn’t that terrible.”

  The elderly woman cocked a gray brow.

  “It wouldn’t kill him. It isn’t poisonous.”

  As she st
rode from the dining room, the housekeeper made a noise that clearly stated she didn’t agree.

  * * * *

  Julien peered down at his legs.

  Damnation. The bloody kilt was short. Good thing Evie hadn’t cut off his drawers or bending over would have exposed his arse. As he tugged on the argyle knee-high socks, he recalled the young girl he’d known. Ten years had hardly changed Evie. She was still lovely, with her corn silk hair and blue eyes—the same startling color of the stormy looking sky in John Constable’s painting of Weymouth Bay.

  So she’d returned to Dartmore? Where the hell was her husband? If Evie was his, he’d not want her undressing other men. He opened the door and headed down the stairs. He’d heard Evie talking with someone a short time ago. Perhaps her husband. He stopped at the threshold of a comfortable dining room with an oak table and six chairs, along with a hutch filled with blue pottery and dishes. A landscape with sheep grazing in a pasture hung on the wall.

  Evie appeared deep in thought as she set a utensil next to a white ironstone plate.

  He cleared his throat.

  She glanced up. Her hand froze in midair as her gaze drifted over his body, lingering on his legs. Her already pink cheeks darkened. He’d seen the look of appreciation in a woman’s eyes before, but he couldn’t recall it giving him as much pleasure as Evie’s appraisal did.

  Don’t be an idiot. Remember the woman is married. He might be a libertine, but he didn’t cuckold other men. Marriage was a sacred vow that should be honored. Not ignored as his father had his vow to his mother.

  Julien stepped fully into the room. Whoever had been talking with Evie wasn’t in the dining room now. He needed to leave before he turned himself inside out thinking of what might have been if he hadn’t listened to his father ten years ago and agreed to the man’s bargain. Besides, he didn’t want to see Evie and her husband interacting. He’d spent too many restless nights during his life thinking about them. At least they moved in different social circles, and he’d not had to see Evie and her husband together.

  He strode to the window and parted the sheer undercurtains. The light from the moon highlighted the snow falling, covering the ground with a thick white shroud as if the god of the north winds flew above, releasing his fury on the inhabitants of Dartmore.

  Julien didn’t care. He wanted to leave even if it meant freezing his bollocks off. “If you will give me my boots, I will be on my way.”

  “On your way?” She looked at him like he was a bedlamite. “My lord, the snow has not stopped since you arrived this morning. It is over a foot high, and Dartmore House is over seven miles from here, and my closest neighbor is miles away.” Her gaze drifted to his legs. “You will become overchilled again, especially since your boots are not yet dry.”

  Turning away from the window, he rubbed at the muscles tightening the back of his neck.

  “Do you have a mount I could borrow?”

  “I do not.”

  He frowned. “Your husband doesn’t own a horse?”

  “My husband passed away four years ago.”

  For a long moment, he just stared at her, absorbing her words. Evie was a widow. Though she was now unattached, he felt no pleasure in it. It meant she had suffered, and of all the things he could wish for in his life, of all the things his money could not buy, the one thing he had always wanted, more than anything, was Evie’s happiness.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  A plump, gray-haired woman, wearing a white apron tied at her waist, walked into the room. She glanced down at the ironstone soup tureen she held in her hand, then back at his face. Looking unsure, she bobbed a curtsey.

  “Madam,” he said.

  Evie opened her mouth as if about to introduce the woman to him, but before she could speak, the woman set the tureen down on the table and darted out of the room.

  “That is Mrs. Campbell, my housekeeper. It is her husband’s regimental uniform you wear.”

  “Hmm. I’m not sure if I should scowl at her or thank her.”

  “Definitely thank her, for if she had not lent it to you, you would now be wearing my pink robe with ruffles around the collar and hem.”

  He grinned. “Is that what you wear to bed, Evie? Pink garments with ruffles?”

  The color on her cheeks deepened. He had to remember she was not like the women he usually flirted with.

  She mumbled something he could have sworn was wouldn’t you like to know.

  In truth, he would. The blue dress she wore highlighted the color of her eyes, but with its high collar and long sleeves, it hid nearly every inch of her skin. He recalled kissing her. Her soft lips, the inside of her wrists, and that place behind her ear that had made her laugh. If he closed his eyes, he could almost recall her taste on his tongue.

  He laughed to himself. Fanciful notions for a man who had not forgotten his first love. His only love. He’d hoped his desire for Evie would pass, yet he’d regretted allowing his Father to tell him to wait before professing his love. Men of eighteen do not know what true love is. You are destined to be an earl. You will meet many beautiful women during your life. Wait two years, son, then see if you feel the same. If you do, I will give you my blessing. But you must promise me no contact during that time.

  “You must be famished,” she said, pulling him from his thoughts. She motioned to one of the chairs.

  “I must admit, I am.” He strode to where she stood and pulled out her chair. As she sat, he couldn’t resist whispering in her ear, “Thank you for taking care of me, Evie.”

  She glanced up at him.

  Her mouth was only inches from his. That same tension he remembered from when they were younger sparked between them. Did she feel it? He straightened and sat.

  “I know a man of your standing is used to elaborate meals, but I fear I cannot offer you the same extravagance.” She lifted the lid off the tureen. “We are having hodgepodge stew.”

  Julien wasn’t sure what hodgepodge stew was, but he was so hungry he didn’t care, and the aroma made his stomach growl.

  Since there were only two place settings, he realized the imp would not be dining with them. “Your daughter is not joining us.”

  “Mrs. Campbell gave Mary free rein of the kitchen. She ate too many gingerbread men and has a sore stomach.”

  “So, we are dining alone?”

  She held his gaze. “We are.”

  Chapter Five

  Eve wished Mary sat at the table with them. She didn’t like being alone with Julien. Too many memories flooded her head. Memories that should be forgotten.

  Shoving her distracting thoughts aside, she peered across the table at him. When Julien had stepped into the dining room, she’d been unable to stop her gaze from drifting over him. His damp hair curled at the ends and appeared darker when wet. With his white shirt billowing over the waist of the green kilt and a day’s worth of stubble darkening his jaw, he looked every inch a rugged Highland warrior from days gone by.

  “The stew smells good.” Julien forked a piece of beef and lifted it to his mouth.

  She held her breath and waited for his reaction.

  He said nothing, but his brows drew together as he chewed as if the taste was off.

  Had she added too many spices? Not enough? She ate a piece of meat.

  Drat! Bland and tough. She should have added more of something, but what? She would figure it out. She had to if she was going to accept her brother-in-law’s offer to publish a book on household management that would include recipes. Her cook had proposed she use her recipes, but Eve was determined to create her own; otherwise, she would feel like a fraud.

  She sunk the tines of her fork into a carrot and ate it, recalling the time Julien had helped her pull root vegetables out of Mama’s garden. Her mother’s words about having grand expectations about Julien echoed i
n Eve’s head. He’s not for you, dear. Don’t get your hopes up. A sentiment easily spoken, but harder to follow when one is a naive seventeen-year-old. And don’t be foolish enough to allow him any liberties.

  Yet, she had. Secret kisses in the woods, especially the day they’d removed their stockings and shoes and laughingly splashed water on each other in the lake. The memories caused her insides to grow warm. She needed to remember that Julien was different now. He’d closed the lake to skaters. What had happened to change him? Maybe he hadn’t changed and had always been this uncaring. He’d never written to her after he’d gone away to university, proving Mama had been right, and she’d acted beyond foolish to hope he might offer for her.

  She glanced up and realized that while she’d been lost in her thoughts, he’d finished his bowl of stew. He must have been starving to eat what she’d prepared so fast. “Do you wish for more?”

  He looked at the tureen then back at her. “I don’t want to eat you out of house and home.”

  A laugh bubbled up her throat. “I’m not sure if it is concern for my larder or your stomach that prompts you to say that? This stew is not very tasty.”

  Slowly, the corners of his lips turned upward, reminding her of the bashful smiles he used to give her. Smiles that seemed a little unsure at times. Surely, not worldly smiles. “It’s…tasty.”

  She laughed even harder.

  “Really, you may pass my compliments onto your cook.”

  “She didn’t make it, I did.”

  “You?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I allow my cook and her husband, who is my jack-of-all-trades, to visit their family up north for the holidays. So we will be feasting on sandwiches and leftovers, along with my pitiful cooking, until after the holidays. I’ll be attempting to cook a traditional Christmas dinner. My friend Penny will be joining us, but hopefully, you will be gone by then.”

  “Hopefully?” He cocked a brow at her.

  “For the sake of your stomach.”

  She slid the basket of bread over to him. “I didn’t make the bread. Cook did before she left yesterday.”

  “I’ll take more of the stew.”