When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella (5 page)

“Good evening, Miss Tyne.” This close, he could smell the faint fragrance of lemon, perhaps the cleaning solution she’d been using. And there was something else, too, something rather feminine and warm and soft.

Or that was just her.

“I’m home just to change my clothes. I am going to my uncle’s for dinner.”
Where I will meet an entirely suitable young lady, one who probably doesn’t have freckles and smells of something floral and delicate, not warmth and lemons and softness.

And wasn’t that a fanciful thought for him to have?
What would softness smell like, anyway?
Before he knew it, he found himself sniffing.

“Do you have a cold? I will just go make you some tea; you need something in case you are coming down with something,” she said, a concerned look on her face. “I took the liberty of putting your clothing away, and it appears you need a fresh cravat. I will just iron it while you have tea.”

Matthew normally did not allow anyone to order him about, but soon he found himself seated in the kitchen, a cup of tea and a piece of burnt toast at his elbow, Miss Tyne busily ironing his cravat in front of the stove.

“And how were your meetings, my lord?” she asked, her tone sounding as though she were actually interested. She didn’t wait for his reply before continuing. “My day was spent in meetings with dust and grime. I am surprised the rental agent allowed the house to be let like this. I cleaned your bedroom, so it is all ready for you this evening. I hope it is to your liking; the sheets and room are clean, at least.”

Matthew took a sip of the tea. Made just how he liked it, and he’d only told her once how he took it. That warmed him as much as the tea did.

“If it is a bed, it will suit me fine,” he said, feeling for the first time how his travel and uncomfortable sleeping position last night had affected him. He wished he didn’t have to go out to his uncle’s tonight; he wanted to stay here. Specifically, stay here with her and her charming manner, and how she asked questions she really wanted to know the answers to but didn’t wait for a reply, since it seemed her mind was traveling so quickly.

He hadn’t met many ladies who weren’t entirely circumspect in their speech before. He found it oddly refreshing.

“And your meetings?” she asked again, her head still bent to her task.

“Fine.” There was so much to research; he knew it could be done within a few weeks, but so much was riding on his decision: not only his uncle’s money, but the livelihood of the people he employed, not to mention Mr. Andrews’s employees and the people who manufactured the fabric Mr. Andrews wished to sell.

He felt an unfamiliar exhaustion creeping over him, not just from his general fatigue but with always having to be responsible for so many people. His mother and his sisters, his workers, his tenants, more distant family like his uncle and others, and all the people who knew him to be responsible and thoughtful, so would come asking for his advice.

Nobody but her had ever asked, with any sincerity, how he was feeling.

T
he earl let out one of those long-suffering sighs with which Annabelle was familiar; normally it was when people had spoken with her for more than ten minutes or so, but his expression was distant, not as though he were thinking of her at all. Which piqued her, but was also satisfying; she didn’t want him to be another person who was annoyed or irritated at having to speak with her.

She knew full well that she could be both annoying and irritating. She’d tried to be circumspect, to behave as all those polite young ladies did. But whenever she tried, she felt as though something were being smothered inside of herself, and then she blurted out something worse than she would have if she had just been being herself.

Maybe she should teach the How to Speak to Annabelle class, because then she could just say, “I am who I am, and I am fine being that way, thank you.”

It would be a very short class, and likely not worth anyone’s time or money.

“What is it?” she asked, setting the iron up on the surface she’d been ironing on and casting a critical gaze on the cravat. It was fine, but she wanted to prolong their time together, so she laid it out as though she had spotted a wrinkle and began to work again.

A pause, and she wondered if he was going to reply or just sit there and sigh, not deeming his mere housekeeper worthy of a reply.

“There’s a lady I am going to meet this evening.”

Why did that make her stomach tighten? Oh, of course, because he was an attractive man, and she’d just met him, not to mention they’d very briefly shared a bed. But he was an earl, even if it was a Scottish title, whereas she, she was just Annabelle, partner in the Quality Employment Agency and a surrogate housekeeper.

“I know my uncle means well. I’m just . . . I hadn’t planned on it.” He sounded genuinely perturbed, and she had the sense that surprises were generally not allowed to happen to him. No wonder he’d been so startled at finding her in the house when he hadn’t expected her until the following day. “I know I will wed, it is my right and my duty, but I came here with one purpose, not two.”

“What about love?” She couldn’t help the words that spilled out of her, any more than she could help how her stomach tightened even more at the thought of marrying just for right and duty. “Love is the reason”—
sometimes the only reason
, she thought—“so many of us do things. They may not always be the right things, but they are the things that matter. Love matters.” She felt the burn of unshed tears and chided herself for being so emotional, especially in front of this man to whom emotion seemed like another annoyance.

“I wish I felt as you do, Miss Tyne,” he answered. His tone wasn’t condemning, but wistful. As though he really did wish he felt that way.

It had been a while since anybody had taken her seriously. And she didn’t think a man ever had. Long ago, before she’d known people could be deceptive, she’d thought a man had. And she’d fallen for him, fallen in love, and become a fallen woman.

And he’d let her lie there rather than help her up. Other women might have turned their back on love permanently, but not Annabelle; she’d known men like Charles were out there and might try to take advantage of her again, but she wouldn’t forswear love just because of a few deceptive men. She’d try to be wise in whom she admired, would try to remember, since she was incapable of lying herself, that others would lie in pursuit of their goals.

And she had to admit that even though she had fallen, as she had so thoroughly after Charles, at least it had brought her the agency and her friends.

Besides which, all the books she read seemed to indicate that having some sort of horrible thing happen to someone then resulted in a wonderful thing happening. She was hoping it wasn’t just fiction.

“You can feel as I do, my lord,” she said softly. He shook his head “no” almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

“You have to open your heart to the possibilities.” She began to fold the cravat. “Perhaps this lady you will meet tonight, perhaps she is the one you are destined to love.”

“I don’t believe in destiny,” he said, his voice scornful. “Destiny is what people blame when their own foolishness caused a mishap in their lives. Destiny, fate, what God intended; it’s all an excuse for people who aren’t strong enough to control their own lives.”

Her heart hurt at how harsh and bitter he sounded. “Some people do that, yes. But I didn’t meant destiny as though you can’t do anything to control it yourself. I mean it as something you have to be open to. Not something you control, or don’t control. Just . . . your future. Whatever it might be, you have to be open to making choices.”

“Risk-taking is for fools who can’t predict the future, Miss Tyne.” He lifted his gaze to regard her face, his expression looking almost chagrined. “Although I don’t suppose you are a fool, I apologize if it seems as though I called you one.”

Annabelle shook her head ruefully. “You are not the first person to have called me a fool, even if you didn’t mean it, and you will not be the last. I learned a long time ago that what is right for me is not right for others. I do so hope that happiness is right for you, my lord.”

L
ong after he’d changed his clothing and put on his freshly ironed cravat, long after he’d exchanged pleasantries with the very pleasant young lady his uncle had introduced him to, even after he’d made his final good-byes and was making his way back home in a creaky carriage, her words echoed in his head: “I do so hope that happiness is right for you.”

He leaned back against the carriage seat and gazed out the window. It was night, but there were a few lamps lit against the bleak darkness, and here and there Matthew saw movement in the shadows. Did those people have happiness in their future? What made him so deserving?

The only thing that seemed to matter was his ability to decide things for other people. And that he had been born to his particular father in a particular region, and thus had inherited particular holdings.

Could that bring him happiness? Suddenly, the thought of what happiness could be rushed in on him so quickly he started. A woman, a woman with a quick laugh, a ready wit, and an ability to laugh at herself and at him, waiting for him when he returned home. A woman who would, perhaps, upset his orderly way of life, but not for the worst, as he’d always imagined. Maybe for the better, even though he’d never thought of that possibility before.

The carriage pulled up in front of the house and he descended, pressing a few coins into the hackney driver’s hand. By now he was accustomed to the man’s making a comment about his country of origin, and he waved his hand in dismissal as he ascended the stairs.

Long after he had washed and changed, long after he’d found his now-clean bedroom and crawled into bed, long after he’d watched the clock move from twelve o’clock to one o’clock to two o’clock, he heard her voice.

“I do so hope that happiness is right for you.”

A Belle’s Guide to Household Management

We wish to encourage everyone, not just housekeepers, to refrain from biting the dust. Either you will expire, or you will have a mouthful of unpleasantness. Either way, it is not to be desired.

CHAPTER SIX

T
he week passed about the same way each day; Annabelle made tea for the earl, who spoke very little but looked at her frequently, and then he’d head off to do his work and she’d be left on her own. She’d had enough free time to work at the agency for a few hours here and there, but she was beginning to realize she needed to start the How to Speak to Annabelle class if only to hear another voice that wasn’t her own speaking.

He took most meals at his uncle’s house where, she presumed—but didn’t want to imagine—he met many ladies who were ladies, whereas not only was she not a lady, she was also not a housekeeper. Although she had to admit she was keeping the house perfectly well, at least as much as he allowed her to.

He returned late at night, holding various amounts of paperwork and speaking just as little as he had in the morning. And yet, she got the feeling he was acutely aware of her, just as she was acutely aware of him.

There was a substantial amount of acuity in the house.

O
n the eighth day, she heard the key turn in the door earlier than was his custom. She’d still spent the past five hours completely on her own, and she’d been reduced to speaking with the mice she assumed were present but couldn’t see.

Heaven help her if she did see them, since she was terrified of mice. And don’t even speak about rats.

She’d read some of her book, but it was so oddly distracting to be alone in this big house, so quiet, where she was accustomed to the noise of the other tenants in her building, the comings and goings of all the other workers who lived there. She didn’t know if she’d ever get accustomed to the quiet, especially after only a week.

He’d been very late the night before; she hadn’t heard him come in, but then again she’d been completely exhausted from her day of cleaning and had eaten a quick dinner (oatmeal, no toast) and then taken herself off to bed, alone, long before she even expected him to arrive.

That morning, as usual, she’d caught him staring at her a few times, as though he wished to ask something, but wasn’t certain.

Hopefully it wasn’t anything about why the toast was always burnt, because she simply did not have an answer. It just was. Was that the toast’s destiny? She wished she could point out the joke to him, but she was thinking he might not find it nearly as amusing as she did.

“Good evening, my lord,” she said, shutting the book and placing it on the table beside her. She rose and walked to where the earl stood, smoothing her not-quite-worst dress. “I trust you had a pleasant day? Let me have that,” she said, taking the large case he was carrying without waiting for him to reply. Or even to hand it over, judging by how his grip had tightened as she drew it away.

“Good evening, Miss Tyne,” the earl replied, his eyes on where she held the case.

“You look tired. Are you tired? That is, I know it is rude to comment on how someone looks, at least unless the someone has a piece of food in their teeth, in which case it would be rude not to point it out, for fear that the person might be embarrassed later on. What if the Queen should happen to stop by?”

The earl gaped at her as though she were speaking a foreign language, an impossibility since she didn’t know any.

“The Queen is not likely to stop by, as you say, Miss Tyne.” The earl sounded tired as well. It appeared she would have to supply his end of the conversation as well that evening. “Miss Tyne,” he continued, before she could announce her plans for monologuing, “I am hungry, and I would like it if you would accompany me for some dinner. I presume you have not eaten? I do not recall you buying either bread or oatmeal,” he said in a nearly humorous tone.

Was he actually making a joke? The Earl of Dour?