Of course she wouldn’t take advantage of him, and then had to remind herself not to smirk at the thought. He would think she was laughing at him, when really she was just amused by the thought that she could possibly be in power over an earl, even if he was Scottish.
“Shall we walk?” she said instead, pushing herself off the wall and onto her own two, admittedly unsteady, feet.
He nodded and held his arm out for her, as stiffly as he’d spoken earlier, and she wanted to roll her eyes and stick her tongue out at him for being so pokerish, but she didn’t think he would appreciate her levity. Not, she thought, when he was so obviously perturbed by the whole thing.
“I need to ask your opinion on something,” he said. His voice was low and rumbly and made Annabelle’s stomach do an unexpected leap. Even though she already knew he wasn’t going to ask her opinion on kissing, or anything of the sort.
More’s the pity.
“Of course, my lord,” she said, grasping his arm a little tighter. Goodness, he was strong. Maybe he did do his own housework; bringing in firewood, beating rugs, moving furniture around, and other tasks would certainly build up his muscles. Perhaps there were different requirements for earls of the Scottish persuasion, so it was necessary for them to be all muscular as well as handsome.
Or maybe it was only this one. In which case she was quite pleased she had not ended up with, say, the gouty earl with the high-pitched cackle and a penchant for eating smelly fish.
Not that she knew if this one ate smelly fish, but she knew about the rest of it.
“My uncle has asked me to town to consult on an investment he is considering, ah, investing in.” He sounded irked at having to repeat a word, and Annabelle hoped it was because she had loosened his brain with her kiss. Or something like that.
“And it is something about which I know very little, and I would like your thoughts about it.”
Was it a manual on how to remain cheerful despite all of life’s problems? Or maybe he was the one teaching the How to Speak to Annabelle class, and he thought he’d come to the source. It couldn’t be her toast or oatmeal skills, those were minimal, and he’d only had her tea thus far. It couldn’t be How to Make Tea, unless he was a complete idiot.
Which he wasn’t. He’d kissed her, hadn’t he? Right when she might have almost secretly been thinking about that very thing? Was he a mind reader?
No, because then they’d still be back there, his mouth on hers, since that was precisely what was on her mind.
“If it’s not how to pretend to be a housekeeper, I’m not sure I can help you,” she said, hoping he would laugh rather than glower at her.
He did both, which was better than merely glowering, but not as good as just laughing. And his face looked so funny, all screwed up in disapproval even as he was chuckling, that she had to laugh, too, at which point he forgot all about the laughing part and just glowered.
Reminder to herself: Don’t laugh at him.
“It is for a fabric importer, and I know nothing about fabrics.”
“And I do?” she said, drawing back to regard him with a puzzled look.
He sighed, as though exasperated, a response Annabelle was quite accustomed to. Maybe he had taken the class on How to Speak to Annabelle, or its companion class, How to Respond to Annabelle in a Way that Conveyed Disappointment and Frustration.
Many, many people seemed to have taken that particular course.
And look at her, getting all mopey. She shouldn’t be, not when she’d just been kissed and was walking on the arm of the most handsome man she’d ever seen, much less kissed.
Although the thought occurred to her that this man was so much more than his looks, and she wasn’t certain she would ever find his equal again. That was mope-inducing, to be sure. Because no matter how Scottish earls were different from their British counterparts, she knew neither type would ever get involved more permanently with a not-housekeeper who was also a not-aristocrat.
“You know what ladies appreciate in clothing, I presume. At least,” he amended, throwing a quick glance at her nearly second-best gown, “you know more than I do. I need to gather data on the subject, and I cannot just walk around to ask random ladies how important it is to have certain types of fabrics.”
“Ah, of course not,” Annabelle replied, trying to keep the humor out of her voice. Because she did not want that glower again, but honestly, the thought of him out on the London streets, perhaps carrying a notebook of some sort, and accosting women as they emerged from dressmakers to ask his very detailed, very somber questions, was enough to make her at least want to smirk.
She did not. She was very proud of her self-restraint.
“I will be very pleased to assist you, my lord.” A pause, and then she couldn’t resist saying, “Even though that task runs far outside the normal duties of a housekeeper, even one who isn’t really.”
They arrived at his rented house before he could do much more than let out a sharp huff of breath. She’d been hoping for another eye roll, at least, maybe even a tongue sticking out.
A Belle’s Guide to Household Management
Cleaning out the house is not the same as being cleaned out, even though by the end of the former your enthusiasm for the task might be the latter.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Oh, and this one! This one is gorgeous; I can just see a young woman, maybe with dark hair, wearing this at her first ball.” Miss Tyne leaned back in her chair, the swatch of fabric in her hand, her expression distant. “And he would ask her to dance, and she’d say she wasn’t very good at it.”
Like making toast, Matthew thought.
“And he’d say, ‘All I want is to dance with you in my arms. I don’t care if you’re good or not.’ And he would hold his arms out for her, and she’d step into them, and then they’d dance. All because she was pretty and kind and wore a lovely gown.” She shook her head, as though to clear a memory away, then her cheeks flushed a lovely pink color.
They were sitting in the sitting room, the one where Matthew had slept the first night, candles lighting the room up as though it were daylight. He’d only felt a twinge at seeing just how many candles she thought were necessary for them to see by, and he was proud of himself for not snuffing out the ones that were on the desk, rather than at the table at which they were seated. Because he wasn’t certain at that point if he wanted to be economical or if he just wanted to be in the dark with her.
“Is this what you were expecting? Me just talking?” she asked, her tone changing to one that held a note of concern. As though he could find her wanting. Maybe he’d find her overabundant in her enthusiasm and joy and beauty and honesty, but not wanting. Never wanting.
Matthew took another swatch from the pile. Unlike Mr. Andrews, he’d parsed them out so he wouldn’t overwhelm her eyes. He doubted he could overwhelm her opinion. Thus far, she’d offered comments on no fewer than half a dozen swatches, and there were at least twice that many to go. He’d offered to finish another day, but she’d just shaken her head and kept on going.
“What about this one?” Matthew said, holding the swatch out to her. She took it, but not before touching his fingers with hers, a sly smile on her mouth as though she knew precisely what she was doing.
And she did, didn’t she? She’d returned his kiss, she’d told him to hush when he’d tried to offer some sort of honorable excuse. She’d said she wanted it, too, and he couldn’t even imagine her lying, especially not about something like that.
He really, really wanted to kiss her again. And perhaps explore other things with his mouth, like the curve where her neck slid into her shoulders or her delicate collarbones or the inside of her wrist.
And more, besides. He wanted to know, rather than just to suspect, what her body might look like, lit by as many candles as she wanted as he just got to look at her. And touch. And be touched by her, her not-a-housekeeper hands trailing all over his skin.
He could imagine she would be just as inq
uisitive in her lovemaking as she was in her questions about tea and Edinburgh and what he wanted in his life.
And right now, he was perturbed to admit that he knew the answer: her. In fact, he wanted to know all about her, understand how a female came to own any kind of business and what first got her interested in reading and if she’d always spoken so much and been so direct and literal.
He couldn’t imagine being able to find any other woman who could possibly fascinate him to such a degree as she had, in such a short amount of time. The thought should have terrified him more than it did, only now he just wanted to discover more of what fascinations she held.
“So what do you think now?” she asked, her eyes still bright with curiosity, even though they had been looking at swatches and discussing what ladies did and did not wish to buy for well over two hours.
Matthew honestly wished ladies would walk around naked, not so much so they’d be on display for him, but because then they wouldn’t have this need for fabric, and he could have gone to bed an hour ago.
“I think I don’t know what to think,” he replied. And wasn’t that odd, since it was unusual for him not to know at least how he was leaning in his opinion after so much research.
But it wasn’t the fabric or the multitude of papers Mr. Andrews had blessed him with that left him unthinking. Or thinking too hard.
It was her, and damned if he couldn’t get her off his mind, as well as other parts of his body. Maybe he’d be happy if she did walk around naked. Although then he would miss the opportunity to watch as she disrobed.
Just now, for example, she was leaning forward, causing the most intriguing gap in her bodice. He could see the shadow between her breasts, the curve of her skin, just enough to make his imagination strip her slowly, each reveal causing more and more of her skin to be exposed to his view.
He needed to think of something else before she realized where his thoughts had turned.
“My lord?” She had reached her hand across the table to clasp his fingers. Perhaps it was too late. Perhaps she knew.
And perhaps that was wonderful.
“Miss Tyne? That is, Annabelle,” he said, lifting his hand up to capture her hand, then drawing both their hands back to his chest. He placed her palm flat against his heart, the one that was beating so hard it threatened to pop out of his chest, or at least that was what it felt like.
“Yes, my—” She wrinkled her nose in annoyance. Adorable annoyance, to be sure, but annoyance nonetheless. “I don’t know your first name. It seems to me that if someone has kissed someone else, and that someone else is currently holding someone’s hand up to a body part, that someone should at least know the other someone’s name, and—”
“Matthew,” Matthew said, before she could go into any more about names, or their use, or what they meant, or someone kissing someone when all he wanted to do was find out what she would say.
“Matthew.” She tilted her head and looked at him, her usual look of curiosity even curiouser, if possible. “Are you named for anyone in particular, or is that just what your parents like? What were your parents like? You mentioned sisters, is your mother alive? Is she in Edinburgh?”
Matthew squeezed her hand. “I was going to ask you a question, Annabelle.”
“Of course you were, only I realized I didn’t know your name, and then I had to.” And then she caught his eye, and her mouth widened into a delicious, intoxicating grin, and she was laughing, her hand still pressed against his chest, the other hand up to her mouth as though to stifle her giggles.
He did not wish to stifle her.
“I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Well, fine then,” she said, straightening in her chair and donning a very serious expression, belied only by the fact that her eyes were dancing and her mouth kept twitching as she suppressed a smile.
“What do you wish to ask?”
Now that he had her attention, and he honestly wasn’t sure how long she could remain silent, he wasn’t sure what to say. At this rate, the amount of things that had never happened to him before might overbalance the things he’d come to expect. And he didn’t know how he felt about that.
“It seems that there is a . . . an attraction between us, Miss T—that is, Annabelle.”
“Mm-hm,” she agreed, as though it was entirely understood and it was entirely normal for them to be discussing it. Was it normal? Did these conversations occur all the time between men and women?
He couldn’t worry about that now. Because he had enough to worry about with what was actually happening to be concerned about something he might have missed before.
“And . . . and it seems as though it would be logical, given our proximity to one another and since I am in London for the next month and that you are, that we did, that . . . ”
“That we kissed?” she supplied helpfully.
“Yes, that, and you can tell, can’t you, how your presence is making me feel?”
She pressed her palm harder against his chest, her fingers sliding over the fabric of his waistcoat. Her gaze was locked with his, except for a brief moment when he could have sworn her gaze dipped below the table to . . . to there.
“I can tell. And I feel the same, Matthew.” This time, there was no hint of humor in her voice, for which he was grateful, because if it had seemed as though she were laughing at him, or in any way mocking him, he knew he would have retreated forever, to always be capable, responsible Matthew, not the Matthew who could spontaneously kiss women—or this woman, in particular—against a building in a busy London street.
And he wanted to explore who that other Matthew might be. The spontaneous one, the passionate one, the one who might choose to do something irresponsible, like kiss a woman whom he’d just met, who had, in fact, made his (admittedly burnt) toast that morning.
“So what I would like to know, Miss, Annabelle, is if you’d be interested in continuing to explore our attraction to one another.”
A Belle’s Guide to Household Management
Also (see “cleaned out”), cleaning up does not, sadly, usually mean you have come into a great fortune. Unless your fortune is measured in dirt, soot, and dust. In which case, you are wealthy beyond measure.
CHAPTER NINE
She couldn’t laugh. Even though she really, really wanted to, just for the sheer ridiculousness of it—him sitting over there, all confused and gorgeous and proper, asking her to “explore an attraction,” as though it were an exhibit at a museum.
But she knew if she did laugh, even for the right reasons, his lovely mouth would thin out into a hard line and he would close off and be buttoned up for the rest of the month, and she didn’t want that to happen, not at all.
What she wanted was for him to stand up, grab her, and pull her to him, putting his mouth to hers in a ferocious, claiming kiss.
But he was far too polite to do that. At least not until she’d told him she wanted it. That. Him. And she hadn’t told him anything, not yet, even though his question hung in the air like the recently banished dust she’d raised while cleaning the house.
And like the dust, she needed to address it. Only she wouldn’t be using her feather duster in this case.
Unless . . . ?
“I would, my lord. Matthew,” she amended, smiling as she glimpsed the quick spark of desire that lit his eyes before he glanced away. Was her Scottish earl shy, then?
He hadn’t seemed so, but then again, he’d seemed altogether too brusque and remote when she’d first met him. Maybe he was hiding shyness under all that. Maybe he differed from the British aristocracy in his . . . well, in other things, as well. Because she hadn’t noticed him looking at all the women as they’d walked down the street or been in the tavern. He’d just looked at her.
And didn’t that give her a delicious feeling!
A feeling she’d never had, not even when she’d thought she was in love, long before she’d fallen. It all had to do with him.
“Yes,” she said, to clarify. “I abs
olutely would.”
“Good,” he said.
“Matthew,” she said as she flattened her palm against his chest, feeling the hard planes of his skin underneath his clothes. Goodness. What did Scottish earls do to get so fit? She’d have to ask him. Only not now, not when he was clearly so . . . so shy about all of this. He might just bolt, and then she’d never get to touch that bare chest for herself.
And she had every intention of doing so, all in the name of exploration, of course.
“Yes, er, Annabelle?” His eyes had darkened, so dark they were nearly black, and suddenly it didn’t feel as though she were the one in control. His eyes, the dark passion she saw there, made her mouth dry and a slow, sensual shiver run through her body.
Oh, this was going to be wonderful. Even though it might mean that it ruined her for the rest of her life. Because she could already tell that this man, whether he was Scottish, an earl, a burnt-toast lover, and so much more, was someone she could fall in love with. Even though there would only be that afterward, no promise of anything more. Not that she needed anything more.
She just needed him. Right now.
“Shall we go upstairs?” Her voice sounded lower, softer, and she could have sworn he shook as she spoke.
“Yes, we should.” He rose, her hand dropping to the table, but before she could stand as well he had picked her up out of the chair and held her, high against his chest, his wonderful, hard, gorgeous chest, those dark eyes seeming to burn right through her.
She squeaked in surprise as he strode to the staircase, his steps as sure and strong as though she weighed as little as a piece of paper. Or a speck of dust.
“Wait one moment.” Annabelle—he should think of her as Annabelle now—waved her hand toward her room, the room where he’d first encountered her, all warm soft female of her. “I need something. Put me down, please.”
Matthew lowered her down, his hands sliding down her back, longing to caress her just a bit more, now that he knew that she wanted this, too. That this, whatever this was, was going to happen.
When Good Earls Go Bad Page 6