When Good Earls Go Bad

by Megan Frampton

  “Oh.” Now he was embarrassed. And when had he ever been embarrassed before? Until now, he would have put the number at zero. Now it was one.

  At this rate, his new experience tally might even use all the fingers on an entire hand. With losing his virginity hopefully being one of them.

  “Here.” She placed the tea in front of him, then frowned as she sniffed the air. “The toast!” she exclaimed, rushing to the oven. She withdrew something from it, and the scent of burning was stronger.

  She was consistent in one thing, at least.

  “Drat, it’s burnt.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, an amused expression on her face. “Not only am I not a housekeeper, I am also not a cook.”

  “I believe we had already established that.” Matthew took a sip of his tea. Again, made perfectly for his taste.

  That shouldn’t have made him feel warm all over—maybe it was just the tea—but it did.

  “Are you going to your uncle’s office? Are there more of those fabric things for me to look at?”

  “Swatches,” Matthew corrected. “No, I think I have gotten enough from you.”

  He winced as soon as the words left his mouth. That wasn’t precisely what he meant to say, but it seemed she didn’t take offense or misinterpret his meaning.

  “Good, because I am going to the market today. I am going to make you something for dinner. And not burnt toast,” she added when he opened his mouth to speak.

  “We can go out again, if you prefer,” he said, relieved it wasn’t even a question that they would dine together.

  She planted her fists on her hips and regarded him with mock severity. “My lord, if I had wanted to go out again, don’t you think I would have said so?” She didn’t attempt his accent again, thank goodness.

  He smiled, somehow liking it when she teased him. Number three on the list of new experiences.

  “I want to make you dinner. Please,” she said in a softer voice. She walked to stand next to him and put her fingers in his hair, stroking his head.

  It felt wonderful.

  “Of course. Thank you. I should be home by five o’clock.” He drank the rest of the tea and rose, then slid his arm around her waist and pulled her tight against his body. “Have a good day,” he said, lowering his head to kiss her.

  She uttered a little noise of surprise, then held onto his shoulders and kissed him back, making him wish he didn’t have to go to his uncle’s after all, just stay here with her and engage in more explorations.

  But if he hadn’t come to London on his uncle’s business, he would never be here in the first place and never would have met her.

  And all too soon he would be leaving, once his business was transacted. Leaving London and her and her mouth and her ability to entrance and confound him all at the same time. Going back to Edinburgh, where his plan was to find a suitable wife, one who was docile and quiet and accepted his logic.

  And yet somehow that didn’t seem as appealing and as much of a good plan as it had before. Somehow it seemed that he would be losing something when he left here and left her—another new experience for the list.

  A Belle’s Guide to Household Management

  Drawing a bath means bringing water to a bathtub so the master or mistress of the household may bathe. You may, in your own leisure time, draw a bath using pencil and paper, but that will not get anyone in your household clean.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “So you think it’s a good investment?” Uncle Jonas’s face was screwed up in concentration as he looked at the preliminary report Matthew had done that morning.

  After, of course, seeing his not-housekeeper out of the house to purchase items for their meal tonight.

  He really hoped it wasn’t toast.

  Although honestly, he wouldn’t care what it was. Because it would mean they would be spending more time together. Maybe sit together and read, with her only interrupting every minute or so to tell him something.

  He imagined that even reading, a usually solitary pursuit, would be companionable with her.

  But his uncle was waiting for his answer, not hoping he would muse more about his not-housekeeper. “I do, Uncle.” Matthew took a deep breath. “Normally, I base my assessment strictly on the numbers. And these numbers aren’t quite as positive as other investments I’ve recommended. But I’ve done research”—research involving a very opinionated, very charming woman who isn’t logical in the least—“and I feel that the intangibles of the investment outweigh the actual numbers as they are on the paper.”

  “Interesting.” His uncle squinted at the paper some more, then waved his hand in dismissal. “Whatever you advise is fine for me. I will have to ask, however, because of the outlay, if you would present your findings to our board. They meet on Valentine’s Day. February fourteenth,” as though Matthew couldn’t figure out the date for himself.

  “That is fine, I will prepare something for them.”

  “And perhaps after that you will dine with us again. We’d grown accustomed to having you here. Miss Delaney was most disappointed that you didn’t come to dinner last evening. You did enjoy meeting her, didn’t you?”

  How was he to answer that? If he said no, he didn’t, he would be rude, as well as lying. If he said yes, he had enjoyed meeting her, that would convey a level of interest he simply didn’t have.

  “I have some things to take care of this evening, Uncle. Thank you for the invitation.” There. It wasn’t precisely the truth, but it wasn’t not precisely. He did have one very important thing to take care of this evening—her.

  If he were Annabelle he could explain all of that nuance in perhaps an hour or so. But he wasn’t, and he didn’t have an hour to spare; he had a meal to return home to and another new experience to, well, experience.

  And he had never looked forward to something so much in his entire life.

  “Hello?” Annabelle called as she stepped into the agency, noting that the kettle was on. Had she left it going? No, of course not, it had been over a week since she left.

  “I’m in here,” Caroline called from the office. “How is your Scottish earl?” A pause, then she spoke again. “That is, from your note it sounded as though it was a Scottish earl who had hired you, but I wasn’t altogether certain it wasn’t a sootyish pearl. But that made much less sense,” she finished with a laugh.

  Annabelle walked into the office and removed her hat, then flung herself into the chair opposite her friend. “He is . . . ” She paused, then tilted her head.

  Caroline’s eyes widened and she leaned forward. “Don’t tell me. I mean, do tell me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Caroline made a hmphing sound, then poked Annabelle on the knee. “I have never known you to be at a loss for words. So if you can’t think of what to say, then what you have to say must be quite intriguing. What is he like?”

  “He’s very sensible,” Annabelle replied in a repressed tone. “And he is quite smart and interested in what I have to say, and he likes to read Mr. Dickens, and he is quite . . . pleasant to look at, and he is, oh, well, he is . . . the thing is . . . ” she continued, hitching her chair a little closer to Caroline, “is that I need one of those things that Lily bought for the ladies.”

  Caroline’s eyes widened more. “A condom? My goodness, how long have you known him?”

  I know him. I know he is secretly humorous and altogether handsome and definitely Scottish and obviously stubborn and logical—and I think I am falling in love with him.

  I am in love with him.

  Only she didn’t say any of that. “More than a week,” she said defensively.

  “More than a week,” Caroline repeated dryly. “Are you certain about this? I am glad you are ensuring there will be no accident, if you do plan on doing this, but after a week—”

  Caroline’s face had a concerned expression, so Annabelle didn’t remind her it was more than a week. Just barely, but still. Annabelle knew her friend loved her and didn’
t want her to fall again. They’d had enough trouble righting her after Charles broke her heart.

  “I am certain. I think,” and now she could say it out loud, since she’d thought it at least five seconds ago, and that was a lifetime in Annabelle’s usual brain-to-mouth speed. “I think I love him.”

  Caroline peered intently at her, then her face cleared as she saw something, apparently, that satisfied her. Sometimes it was a good thing that everything Annabelle thought went directly to her face. “I think you do, too.”

  She got up and went to the cupboard and pulled out a paper sack.

  “Here you go,” she said, handing it to Annabelle. “I hope it is everything you have hoped for.”

  Annabelle thought of how he’d looked at her the night before and how he’d groaned as he spent and how his mouth kissed her—as though she was the only woman in the world he’d ever kissed or ever wanted to kiss—and how she wanted him to claim her, to bring her pleasure in his bed.

  “It will be,” she replied, a wicked grin on her face.

  A few hours later, she wasn’t quite as confident. Because she didn’t think he would want to do anything with her if he were hungry—for food, not for her—and right now, regarding the pork chops she’d bought, it didn’t seem as though she would be able to feed him properly. Not without resorting to burnt toast.

  She heard the door open and her panic increased; he was home, she’d promised him food, and right now she had two quite uncooked pork chops, along with some vegetables, also uncooked, and some wine.

  She didn’t know if wine was cooked or not, but somehow she doubted it was.

  So. An entirely uncooked meal when she’d promised cooking.

  “Annabelle?” he said, his voice holding a tone of eagerness she hadn’t heard from him before. That made her stomach jump in a lovely way, not in the “I have no dinner for the man I’m planning to seduce” way.

  But again, he wouldn’t be so eager if he weren’t fed.

  “I’m in the kitchen,” she said, approaching the stove with a purposeful stride. She could do this. She could.

  “How is dinner going?” Matthew said as he entered the kitchen. “Are we having toast with oatmeal? Or oatmeal with toast?”

  She spun on her heel and looked at him. Goodness, he was so handsome. And he would be hers for a few more days. If he didn’t starve to death in the meantime.

  “Pork chops. I think,” she added, just in case he was going to get his hopes up too high.

  “You think?” he asked, approaching the stove. “Do you need me to light this?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and made a harrumphing noise.

  “You know how to? Are all Scottish earls so competent, or is that something you’ve taken on as some sort of personal challenge?”

  He laughed, and that sound, so rare in their acquaintance, made her heart beat a little faster and made her want to hear it some more.

  Hopefully, however, he wouldn’t laugh when he ate dinner, because then it would likely be in a bad way, and she was hoping to feed him enough so he’d have energy for later on.

  For later on when she loved him. Literally, as well as figuratively.

  “I just know how to,” he said with a shrug. He took the matches from beside the stove and lit it, just as he’d said he could.

  “And the pan? Did you find one?” He glanced at the wall, where a few pans hung from hooks.

  “A pan! Of course!” Annabelle scrambled onto the counter, then lifted one of the pans off the wall and hopped down, holding it out to him.

  “So, if I’m not mistaken, we put the chops into the pan, put them over the heat, and cooking occurs.” His voice was amused, and she was relieved he wasn’t irritated at her inability to cook.

  Then again, she’d told him she wasn’t a cook, so he couldn’t have been expecting much. She knew it was likely to be a disaster, but she’d wanted to do something for him, something that was here in the house they were sharing—albeit for only a short period of time—something that was lovely and companionable and very domestic.

  While the chops sputtered in the pan, he chopped the vegetables and directed her as to how to open the wine bottle and set the table. And every so often they’d bump into one another and she’d glance at him, and something in his gaze would make her breath catch and think about later, after dinner, and what she had gotten from Caroline.

  “Dinner’s ready,” he said after about fifteen minutes of pan-sputtering and glance-sharing and wine-opening.

  The chops were good and the wine was better, and soon Annabelle didn’t feel foolish about any of it, especially when he looked so satisfied, but also hungry, and this time for her.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” she said in a low voice.

  “Like what?” he took a sip of wine and then licked his lips, and Annabelle knew the exact same look of desire was on her face.

  “Like I am dessert.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “I hadn’t thought of that, but now that you mention it, perhaps we could move straight to dessert?” And he stood and held his hand out to her, and she rose and took it, then let him guide her up the stairs, through the hallway, up the stairs again, and down the hallway to his room.

  To his bed.

  A Belle’s Guide to Household Management

  Mopping the floor with someone is quite different from just mopping the floor.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Now that it was finally about to happen, Matthew felt nervous. Nervous he wouldn’t please her, nervous it wouldn’t live up to his expectations.

  Nervous that he’d never want to do this with anyone but her, ever again.

  “It feels odd, having come up here just for this purpose,” she said as she faced him, beginning to untie his cravat. Her eyes were focused on what she was doing. Until she paused and looked up at him, her expression so direct it made him shiver.

  “That is, I suppose I should be coy and pretend I don’t want this, but I don’t pretend—I can’t; and we only have a little more time before you return to Scotland, and I want to do this as often as we can, and I already miss you.” She looked back down and finished the cravat removal, tossing it onto the floor.

  He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I suppose I miss you already, too,” he said stiffly, wishing he could be as guileless as she was. Not that he lied, but he had difficulty expressing emotions.

  Likely because usually he didn’t have any, beyond annoyance that he had to explain something that seemed perfectly clear.

  But with her, he had many more emotions: he felt joy and happiness and warmth and desire and satisfaction.

  He felt what it was like to be human.

  Is this what it all felt like? That thing he’d never expected to have?

  It seemed she understood what he meant, because she didn’t pull away or react as though he hadn’t just opened his heart to her. Because he had, oh he had, as much as he was able to.

  That was item number six, wasn’t it?

  “Then I suppose we should agree that this is what we are here to do, and you should kiss me. Now,” she added, as though either one of them would delay it.

  He had never followed orders before—item number seven; at this rate he might have to move on to count numbers on his toes—but he did now, lowering his head to hers as he slid his hands around her waist, pulling her to him so their bodies pressed together.

  His cock was already erect, and when it made contact with her stomach she made a soft moan in her throat that told him she liked what she felt.

  And he did as well. Except there were far too many layers of clothing between them.

  His fingers moved to the back of her gown and began to undo the buttons, still kissing her deeply, sliding his tongue inside her mouth, sucking on her tongue, coaxing more of those low growls from her throat.

  Meanwhile, he’d gotten enough of the buttons done so he could slide his hand onto her back, now covered in one less layer of fabric. He sli
d his fingers lower, onto her arse, and squeezed, which pressed more of him into her.

  She broke the kiss, gasping, a look of impatience on her face. “We need to remove our clothing because I will expire if I cannot feel you, all of you, on all of me.”

  He very much appreciated how direct and honest she was at this moment.

  Both of them began to undo buttons and slide fabric off shoulders and hips, and flung clothing onto the floor as though nothing else mattered but the speed of the task.

  Which, judging by how he felt, and how he presumed she felt, was the truth.

  She took longer than he did, of course, so he got onto the bed and watched her.

  She glanced at him from under her lashes, a knowing, sensual smile on her mouth. “Touch yourself,” she said, her motions slowing as she slid her undergarment off her shoulder, revealing one breast.

  “Touch my—”

  She licked her lips. “Yes, touch your cock. Stroke it how you want me to stroke it.”

  His breath caught at hearing her say the word, a word he’d never heard anyone say before, much less a woman. A lady, even, despite her not having a title. She was elegant and kind and funny and lovely and generous and honest. That was a lady.

  Matthew reached around himself and began to stroke up and down his shaft, still watching her. And she was watching him, still undressing, but slower, as though putting on a show.

  She was bared to the waist now, and as he kept sliding his hand up and down himself, she pushed the fabric down her legs and onto the floor, leaving her entirely naked.

  And not on the bed with him.

  “Get up here.” He barely recognized his voice, it was so low and raspy.

  She crawled onto the bed on her hands and knees, her gorgeous, full breasts swaying, her gaze locked on his face.

  “Now what do you want?” she asked in a whisper. “Do you want me to touch you? Do you want me to lick you? Or maybe I could find my feather duster and show you how very much not a housekeeper I am?”