The Taming of Lord Scrooge

by Renee Ann Miller

  “You really want more?”

  “I do.” He handed her his bowl.

  Maybe being dragged by his horse had done more than bruise him. She ladled stew into his bowl and handed it to him. “I was half-tempted to let you believe it was my housekeeper, Mrs. Campbell, who made it, but my conscience wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Poor Evie. You have a conscience. They can be troublesome.”

  She frowned. “But they help guide us. You should revive yours if you have buried it.” She heard the waspish tone in her voice.

  “Scolding me again, Evie?” He gave a lopsided smile, resurrecting his boyish dimple.

  He was not supposed to smile at her when she chastised him. He was supposed to be put off. She wished he had been. She wanted to create distance between them, but every time that damnable dimple returned, her insides turned to mush. Not for you, Mama’s voice echoed in her head. Not for you.

  * * * *

  Julien watched Evie slip a piece of potato into her mouth. She’d avoided his gaze for the last several minutes.

  What are you thinking, Evie?

  As a young girl, she’d been as transparent as the glass in the Crystal Palace. Now, besides scolding him, she seemed to guard her thoughts. He should be agitated that she felt free to chastise him. He was an earl who caused some grown men to quake, but Evie had always spoken her mind to him. Instead of finding it irksome, he found it refreshing. Only his mother and sisters, along with his closest friends, talked to him that way. Most people acted as if he could turn them to stone or wart-faced frogs, or dispose of them, as some believed he had done to his last two secretaries.

  He picked up his glass of wine to wash down the stew. It was rather wretched, but he’d thought of the work she’d put into it and hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings. As he gulped several mouthfuls, he peered at her over the rim of his glass.

  She glanced up and gave a weak smile. “I have a room upstairs that I use as an office. It has a daybed that is more comfortable than lying on the sofa. Though the room is a bit crowded with books. Perhaps crowded is an understatement. There are stacks of them.”

  “You still like to read?”

  She cocked her head to the side and blinked. “I do.”

  He’d obviously startled her again. Did she think he’d forgotten? A similar expression had flashed across Evie’s face when he’d mentioned her father. I remember everything, Evie. The joy I took from our long conversations and even the taste of your mouth. Well, perhaps not the exact taste, but the pleasure her kisses had given him.

  He pulled himself out of his thoughts. “What do you favor reading these days?”

  “Lately, George Elliot and Herman Melville. However, most of the books in the room are not mine. Well, they are now, but they were my uncle’s books on reptiles and amphibians. He was a herpetologist. The others are books that I am using for research.”

  “For?”

  Two bright spots of pink colored her cheeks. “A book I’m considering writing.”

  The blush had him thoroughly intrigued. What was the book about? Perhaps she wished to write stories like John Cleland. He laughed to himself; he couldn’t envision Evie writing an erotic book like Fanny Hill. Though his wicked mind could envision doing several of the acts illustrated in Cleland’s work to Evie’s soft, floral-scented body.

  “Is it a fictional piece of work?”

  “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “Of course not.”

  She looked a bit flustered. “You see”—she picked up her napkin and wiped at the corners of her mouth—“my husband was an editor for Bond Street Publishing. In fact, his family owns the company. I sometimes helped him edit, and when he passed away, his family kept me on. They have asked me to write a book on household management.”

  There was nothing scandalous about that, so why had she blushed so profusely?

  “Something comparable to Mrs. Edward’s books.”

  “I’m not familiar with her works.” He lifted his glass of wine to his mouth, feeling a bit disappointed that it wasn’t something naughty.

  “Her books included recipes.”

  He almost sputtered the wine out of his mouth. “You’re going to give cooking advice?” He covered his mouth and coughed.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You said you wouldn’t laugh.”

  “Good Lord, woman, I’m not laughing. I’m choking.”

  “So, you really didn’t like my stew.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Oh, you didn’t have to. Your look of utter terror conveys more than words.” She grinned. “For that, I will make you my guinea pig while you remain here.”

  Lord help me. One of Evie’s meals he could feign enjoying. But several? He tried not to grumble.

  * * * *

  After dinner, he followed Evie up the stairs, his gaze on the slight sway of her hips.

  They stepped into a room with a desk and a daybed. As she’d said, stacks of books were everywhere, except for on the top of the desk, which was neat and organized, with an ink pot and pen holder.

  He frowned. It wasn’t the books that made him do so, it was the artwork of reptiles and amphibians on the white walls—enough to cause one to have nightmares. Especially the massive painting of a lizard with scaly green skin and bulging eyes.

  As if noticing his utter distaste in the artwork, Evie gave an apologetic look. “I presume earls don’t usually sleep in rooms with paintings of reptiles and amphibians.”

  “Not if they can help it.”

  “You could sleep on the sofa downstairs if you prefer.”

  He thought of Evie’s daughter. The little imp would probably batter him with a litany of questions before the crack of dawn. “No, this will be fine. Thank you.”

  “I’m sure there is something in here you might enjoy reading. I shall leave you then. Goodnight, my lord.” She walked out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her.

  Julien felt like a child being sent to his bedroom for misbehaving. Did everyone tuck in so early, or was she just trying to avoid him? With a heavy sigh, he plopped onto the daybed and folded his arms behind his head. The lizard in the painting looked down at him.

  Damnation. The thing was ugly.

  Restless, Julien strode to the window and parted the heavy damask curtains. Outside, the snow continued to fall. He hoped his mother wasn’t in a tizzy. Perhaps she thought he’d gone back to London to avoid her Christmas gathering and the house full of debutantes and was doing nothing more than cursing him. The thought of his horse being out in this blustery weather worried him. With any luck, the animal had ridden closer to town or back to Julien’s property and been taken in by one of his tenants. If the horse had returned home without him, Mother would be beside herself.

  He glanced at the books and picked up the top one from the closest stack. The Life Cycle of Amphibians. He opened it up to an illustration of tadpoles. Not the most stimulating reading. He set it down and pulled his shirt over his head, removed the kilt, socks, and drawers, and then climbed into the bed.

  He turned the gas lamp off.

  Through the wall, he heard a door close in the adjacent room. Evie? Most likely. He could almost envision her unfastening the buttons that lined the front of her dress and stepping out of the garment.

  An hour later, he still lay awake. He wanted to blame it on the daybed’s lumpy mattress, but in truth, he knew why. He was thinking of Evie in the next room wearing the pink robe she’d mentioned and nothing underneath it. Uttering a curse, he rolled over and punched his pillow.

  * * * *

  “Mr. Earl.” A child’s voice seeped into Julien’s groggy head, interrupting his sleep.

  He didn’t know any children, did he? What was a child doing at Dartmore House? “Go away,” he grumbled.

  “I brought someone he
re for you to meet. I’ll just put him on the bed next to your legs.”

  Julien knew that voice.

  Mary. Evie’s daughter. He suddenly remembered where he was.

  Without opening his eyes, he reached down to make sure the blankets covered his naked arse. He rolled over and cracked open his heavy-lidded eyes, silently cursing the morning light seeping around the edges of the curtains. His gaze went from the pint-sized child to the green scaly-skinned creature on his bed. It looked like the hideous lizard in the massive painting. He was having a nightmare, induced by the wretched artwork.

  The creature’s bulging eyes flickered in its sockets, as it sidestepped with its claw-like feet onto the bedding above his legs.

  Julien bolted upward and nearly toppled off the mattress.

  Mary giggled.

  “Bloody hell, what is that?”

  The child frowned. “You said another bad word, Mr. Earl.” The child’s mouth pinched into a straight line, causing her to look like a miniature version of her mother when Evie chastised him. As though he was a hopeless cause, she released a heavy breath. “This is Mr. Shingles. He’s our lizard.” She picked up the odd creature and held it out to him. “Take him.”

  “Mary!” Evie stood in the doorway. “What are you doing in here?”

  “I thought Mr. Earl would want to meet Mr. Shingles. I hoped it would make him less grumpy.”

  “I’m not grumpy, and I assure you that creature will not help my disposition.”

  Evie walked into the room. “Mary, go return Mr. Shingles to his aquarium.”

  “But, Mama…”

  “Mary, please do it now.”

  The child stroked the top of the creature’s head. “But if Mr. Earl is going to live with us shouldn’t he become friends with Mr. Shingles?”

  Evie blinked at the child. “His lordship is not going to live with us. He is only staying until the snow stops. Now, darling, go put the lizard away.”

  Shoulders drooping, the child walked toward the door. When she got closer to her mother, she crooked her finger for Evie to bend closer. “Mama, why doesn’t Mr. Earl have any clothes on?”

  Evie’s gaze shifted from his bare chest to where the blanket bunched at his waist. “He’s, um…he doesn’t have a nightshirt here. I’m sure if he did, he would have put it on.”

  The child nodded and strode from the room.

  Evie glanced at him, then averted her gaze by picking off a speck of lint on her sky-blue dress. “I apologize, my lord. Mary shouldn’t have woken you.”

  “Whose green creature is that?” he grumbled.

  “That is Mr. Shingles. Along with the house, we inherited the lizard.”

  Ah, yes. The uncle was a herpetologist. Julien wasn’t sure how he could have forgotten, with the books and the god-awful paintings on the wall.

  “If you will excuse me, I have breakfast to prepare. I’m trying my own original recipe for crumpets.” She offered a sly smile. “I hope you’ll like them better than my stew.”

  He groaned.

  “What was that? You’re looking forward to them?” She grinned and turned to leave.

  Oh, he’d wipe that cheeky grin off her face. “Evie,” he called out as she reached the door.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “You are wrong.”

  Her shapely brows pinched together. “About?”

  “Even if I had a nightshirt, I wouldn’t wear it. I never do. I always sleep in the nude.”

  Red blossomed on Evie’s cheeks. She shot him another reprimanding look, then pulled the door closed.

  Julien silently scolded himself. That had been beyond wicked, but he’d enjoyed her blush immensely.

  And the unmistakable interest in her eyes.

  Chapter Six

  I always sleep in the nude. Julien’s words, along with the image of his broad shoulders and chest as he sat in bed, replayed in Eve’s mind. “Wicked man,” she mumbled as she combined the ingredients for her crumpet batter.

  The fact that Julien slept naked shouldn’t have shocked her. That knowledge fit with everything she’d heard about him over the last several years. At one time, the gossip columns had labeled him the Naughty Lord, but after his father’s death they’d renamed him the Naughty Earl. He mingled with the demimonde, hosted scandalous parties, and engaged in high-stakes gambling. Though lately, she hadn’t read as much about his debauched ways.

  “Naughty Earl, indeed,” she mumbled.

  “What’s that, lass?” Mrs. Campbell asked as she walked into the kitchen.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking out loud.” Eve glanced down at the large ironstone bowl and blinked. Preoccupied with her thoughts, she’d lost count of how many cups of flour she’d added to the crumpet batter.

  Blast it. Julien was a distraction she didn’t need. She peered out the kitchen window. Small snowflakes blew sideways in the wind. “It looks like the snow has lessened, Mrs. Campbell.”

  “For the time being, lass.”

  Maybe she could send her distracting houseguest on his way.

  No, he couldn’t trek through the snowdrifts wearing a kilt. He’d freeze before he reached the edge of his property.

  An hour later, in the morning room, Mary chewed on her crumpet. “Mama, this tastes very good.”

  Eve blinked. “Really?”

  Hesitantly, Julien took a bite, then a larger one. “It does.”

  She should be agitated that they both sounded shocked, but she couldn’t blame them. The words very good rarely went hand in hand with her cooking. She nibbled on a crumpet.

  It was tasty. She took another bite, then frowned. All along she’d been adding too little flour. But how much extra had she added?

  Dash it all. She didn’t know. She pinched her lips together.

  “You’re not pleased with the taste?” Julien asked. A line creased the smooth skin of his brow.

  “I am. They are the best ones I’ve made so far. It’s just that I lost count of how much flour I added.”

  Julien leaned close to her daughter and whispered something in her ear.

  Mary nodded.

  He released a loud sigh.

  Eve glared at him. “Whispering in front of others is rude, my lord.”

  “He just didn’t want to hurt your feelings, Mama,” her daughter said.

  She arched a brow at him, then looked back at Mary. “Darling, tell Mama what he said.”

  The child bit her lip. “He said he hopes you will be able to make them the same tomorrow or we’ll be in trouble.”

  “Did he now?” She tried to frown but couldn’t help her grin as one side of Julien’s mouth turned up, revealing his damnable dimple.

  * * * *

  After dinner, which thankfully was leftover roast beef that Evie’s cook had made before leaving for holiday, Julien sat in the parlor with Evie and her daughter.

  “Just try.” Mary, cradling her gray cat in her arms, stepped up to where he sat in one of the fireside chairs.

  The little blonde-haired imp wanted him to hold the furry beast. Though more appealing than the green-skinned lizard she tried to get him to handle this morning, he still didn’t wish to hold the cat, who’d hissed at him several times today.

  Evie, darning a sock, dipped her head to hide a smile.

  She seemed to be enjoying how the child was tormenting him.

  “He’s really soft,” Mary continued. “Mama bathed him three days ago.”

  Julien frowned. “Earls do not hold cats.”

  “Why not?” The child lifted her blonde eyebrows.

  “Because they prefer dogs. Big ones that can eat children.”

  Mary’s eyes grew round, and her mouth gaped. She turned to her mother. “Mama, is he fibbing?”

  “Yes, dear. His lordship is
joking.” Evie shot him a reprimanding look.

  “Why do you like dogs more, Mr. Earl?”

  “Mary,” Evie said. “I told you the proper way to address an earl is ‘my lord.’”

  “I think I like being called Mr. Earl,” Julien said. “It has a certain je ne sais quoi to it.”

  The child scrunched up her face. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you can keep calling me Mr. Earl.”

  Mary set the cat down. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question was that? I think you’ve asked me two dozen in the last hour.”

  “You didn’t tell me why you like dogs better.”

  “Because I just do.”

  “Because isn’t a real answer, right, Mama?” the child said.

  Evie glanced at him again. “No, it isn’t. His lordship must do better than that when answering a question.”

  “I am an earl. Whatever I say is correct.”

  Mary’s mouth twisted. “Is that right, Mama?”

  “No, dear. But we will not rebuke his lordship’s delusions.” Evie grinned.

  He couldn’t help his own smile. She’d always been a bit cheeky. Probably what he liked about her. That and the softness of her skin. Or was it the scent of it? Damnation. There were too many things to list. The woman had always made him feel challenged. And lustful.

  “I like Pumpernickel better than any dog,” the child said, pulling his attention back to her.

  “Pumpernickel? Good Lord, is that the cat’s name?”

  “It is.” Evie nodded.

  “Cats,” Julien said, “should be called Fluffy, Fleabag, or simply Mouser.”

  The child folded her arms in front of herself. “You’re grumpy. That’s probably why your horse tossed you off him.”

  “Mary,” Eve scolded. “Lord Dartmore is a guest in our house. We do not insult guests. Even if they are grumpy.”

  There Evie went again, scolding him. If she meant to distance herself from him, it wasn’t working. In fact, it made him want to bed her and see how long it would take him to wipe that reprimanding expression off her face. He’d been thinking of bedding her since the moment he’d seen her again. That wasn’t entirely true. He’d spent ten long years thinking of what it would have been like to have Evie in his life and bed.