When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella (10 page)

She nestled a little closer to him, curling her foot between his legs and caressing his shoulder. He was naked and covered in his own spend, with his housekeeper lying naked next to him.

And he’d never been happier or more comfortable. Wasn’t that the most surprising thought of all?

“We can do other things later,” she said, a throaty note in her voice. As though she were at that very minute thinking of what he would do to her and relishing the anticipation.

“Good,” Matthew said, feeling a warm languor stealing over him. He closed his eyes and just felt, just was, just for the moment. No responsibilities, no one asking him for anything, nothing but her and warmth and the softness of the bed and the softness of her.

W
hen he woke up, he was cold and alone. And it was morning, judging by the light that was streaming through the still-open windows. Matthew sat up, blinking, shaking his head as he tried to remember just—

Oh my. Well, that had happened, hadn’t it?
And now she wasn’t here. He felt an unexpected stab of something in his chest, a tightening that wasn’t hunger or anything else he was familiar with. Was she all right? Did she regret what had happened?

He got out of bed and extricated his trousers and shirt from the pile on the floor. He put them on quickly, anxious to make certain she wasn’t upset or anything.

It was just to maintain the peace in the household, he assured himself, not because he wanted to see her. Not because he wished to do it all again, and more.

Because, more’s the pity, he was still a virgin.

He went downstairs and heard her before he saw her; she was singing something, he couldn’t tell what, and she didn’t sound upset. He followed the sound and descended the small staircase to the kitchen.

She turned as she heard him enter the kitchen. The sun was behind her, so he couldn’t see her face.

“Oh, well, good morning, Miss Ty . . . that is, Annabelle.” And how awkward did he feel now, seeing her, but not certain how she felt? Should he ask her? And how did one ask a lady how she felt the morning after having a shared naked experience with her?

He wanted to attack the problem with his usual logic, but none of this was logical, so he didn’t have the first clue.

“Good morning, Matthew,” she said, a nuanced something in her voice. She walked up to him and lifted her face up to kiss him.

Well. That answered some questions.

She moved away before he could take her in his arms and kiss her as well, leaving him disappointed and wanting.

“Tea?” she asked, but was already pouring from the teapot into a cup. She set it down on the kitchen table and made a “sit down” gesture. “I’ll have the toast ready in a minute.”

“Burned in a minute, I think you meant to say,” Matthew replied as he sat, feeling that chest-tightening feeling ease. He accompanied his words with a grin, to show he didn’t really care about the burnt toast, just in case she thought he was truly upset about it.

Although if she were to be upset about anything, it was what they had done the night before, not the overcooking of bread.

He should say something about it.
Shouldn’t he?

“Uh, and how did you sleep?”
And why weren’t you still in my bed when I woke up this morning?

She smiled and gave him what he thought might be a flirtatious look. “Well enough. Considering someone kept muttering in his sleep.”

“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

“S
o 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.

“H
ello?” 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?”