When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella (6 page)

“I would love to, my lord,” she said, responding without even thinking about the impropriety of her employer, a member of the aristocracy, taking his employee, a fallen woman who was attempting to right herself, out for a meal.

Well, or not thinking about it very much. Or about the fact that he wasn’t at his uncle’s, for once, but was home with apparently no plans but to take her out somewhere. And since she was hungry and he seemed to want company, and if all he needed was for her to be present and answer the door and tidy his things, it didn’t seem like too much to ask for her to accompany him to dine. Besides which, she was tired of talking to the mice. They hadn’t read her book, after all, so they had little to discuss with one another.

“Shall we?” the earl said, pulling her cloak down from the peg by the door. He held it out for her, and she slid her arms in, very aware of how close he was, and how much power he seemed to exude, not to mention how incredibly handsome he was.

She wondered if he knew just how handsome he was. Perhaps she wouldn’t ask him, at least not this evening when they had just barely met.

“Do you know where we should go?” she asked instead, a much more innocuous question, and definitely more pertinent, than inquiring if he’d ever noticed his own looks.

“I saw a tavern a few streets away. It looked suitable,” he replied, as she buttoned her cloak and pulled the hood over her head.

“Excellent,” Annabelle said, as he opened the door, that deliciously lovely feeling of being in the presence of aristocracy curling in her stomach.

Although if she were honest with herself, which she always was, she would have to say it was mostly because of the aforementioned handsomeness, because he was a Scottish earl, and those didn’t seem to count as much. Although, since he was the only Scot and the only earl she’d ever known, perhaps she should say Scottish earls—the ones in her acquaintance, at least—mattered quite a lot.

T
he tavern was nearby, and Annabelle was relieved to see other women inside, not that she wouldn’t have gone in anyway, but at least it seemed somewhat more proper for her to be there if there were other women there, too. None of the other women were ladies, but then again, none of the men in there were gentlemen, either, so it seemed proper enough.

The earl, Scottish though he was, was the only gentleman within, in fact.

He ensured she was properly settled, then sat himself opposite her at a low table in the back. He exhaled, one of those long, “I’ve just been speaking to Annabelle too long” sighs, only they hadn’t spoken at all.

So that would be up to her. “How was your day, my lord?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She felt as though he’d rebuffed her and felt momentarily hurt, until he met her gaze. “Tell me about yours. What were you reading when I came home?” And now it sounded as though he was really interested, and didn’t that make her feel all sparkly and alive.

Not that sitting in a tavern with the most attractive man she’d ever seen—and an earl—wasn’t sparkle-inducing enough.

“Do you read, my lord?” She didn’t wait for his reply. “Because I do, I mean I can read, of course, but I also love to read. And not just recipes, which as you likely know already, I don’t read at all, but books. I was reading Mr. Dickens’s
The Pickwick Papers
; it is one of my favorites.”

His face looked as though it was about to break into a smile, and she held her breath waiting for it.

Drat. No smile, but at least his tone was warm. “I enjoy Mr. Dickens as well. I find reading to be a welcome relief after working all day.”

Annabelle wrinkled her brow. “I didn’t realize earls did work, I mean, beyond being all
earl-y
,” she said, hoping this time that he would get the joke or at least acknowledge it.

He did smile then, and she felt as though fire from the tavern’s fireplace had just leapt out and enveloped her in its warmth. “Perhaps they don’t, but I do. I like working, I like being . . . useful.” The way he said it made it sound as though he was embarrassed about it.

“I like to work as well. I can’t imagine not working. I mean, I would enjoy a week or so of sitting at home and just reading, but I think I would go mad with boredom.”

He nodded, as though he agreed—again!—and now she felt practically on fire herself, she was so warm.

She opened her mouth to continue, but stopped when she heard another voice.

“Be right there,” the barmaid called. “Two pints?” she asked, nodding toward them, and the earl nodded. But the interruption seemed to make him realize he’d been speaking and even smiling, since his whole self returned to his more somber mien.

At least she no longer felt as though she might spontaneously combust. Even if she did miss his smile.

“A
nd the young lady you met at your uncle’s house one of those first evenings. Was she nice?” Miss Tyne’s voice was more subdued than usual, the question sounding as though she wasn’t certain she wished to hear the answer. Unlike all the other questions she’d asked thus far.

He’d felt, for just a few moments, what it would be like to speak with someone when they had things in common, and not just about an investment opportunity. He wanted to find out what other books she liked, if they shared more than Mr. Dickens in their taste. But she was waiting for his answer, not for more questions. Not that he’d even know how to ask the questions; he wasn’t accustomed to speaking to anyone of common interests.

Matthew thought of Miss Delaney. She was perfectly pleasant, lowering her eyes in shyness or politeness, he wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered. He’d found himself comparing her with his housekeeper, and Miss Delaney, to his surprise, had been found wanting. And it wasn’t for lack of opportunity; he’d deliberately taken his dinners at his uncle’s house, and Miss Delaney was staying there, so he had gotten to know her, somewhat. But he doubted whether she could ever compare.

He shrugged. “She was very pleasant. She finds the weather tolerable and likes to visit the National Gallery, and she plays the pianoforte. Oh, thank you,” Matthew said to the barmaid who brought two pints of ale. “I’ll have the beef pie, and the lady will have—?”

Miss Tyne smiled up at the barmaid so brightly it nearly hurt Matthew’s eyes. “The beef pie sounds wonderful. Is it good? Do you recommend it?”

Here she was, again asking questions as though she really wished to hear the answer. The barmaid’s expression blossomed like an opening flower.

“It is, miss, it is the cook’s special recipe. And the pies were just made today. Sometimes Cook doesn’t get a chance to make them, so we’ve got the day before’s, only they aren’t quite as good. These are lovely.”

Was it possible for Miss Tyne to smile even more broadly? Apparently so.

“That is what I will have, then. Thank you so much.”

The barmaid nodded, still smiling, then walked away from their table.

Matthew leaned forward to her. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?” she said, glancing around as though she’d done something.

“Make everyone you’re speaking to feel as though they’re the only person in the world you wish to speak to.”

She blinked in surprise. “But it is the truth. I don’t try to be anything I’m not,” at which point she colored up, “and I do like to speak to people. All sorts of people. Barmaids and hackney drivers and even, on occasion, gruff earls from Scotland who surprise me when I’m sleeping.” She grinned and took a sip of her ale.

Matthew felt himself start to blush also, remembering the moment—
was it just a week or so before?
—that he’d gotten into that bed with her. It had seemed shocking at the time, of course, but now that he’d seen her and spent time in her company, it also seemed as though it were something he wished would happen again.

Even though that thought was entirely unlike him. He was not spontaneous, he was not particularly lustful, and he seldom entertained inappropriate thoughts.

And yet here he was, doing all three. And while he could have blamed it on being in London, a city he’d never been in before, he had to acknowledge that it was most likely Annabelle who was making him feeling this way.

And he wasn’t sure how he felt. About any of it, and that uncertainty was perhaps the most unlike him thing he’d ever felt.

Thankfully, their food arrived before he could ponder his own anomalies any further.

“W
hat is Scotland like? I’ve never been, at least not that I know of.” Miss Tyne rested her elbows on the wooden table, her eyes the brightest spark in the dimly lit pub.

Conversation had stopped when the food arrived. Both he and Miss Tyne were apparently starving, since they spent the first fifteen minutes of their meal together in complete silence, both just concentrating on eating.

He’d glanced at her a few times, of course, just to ensure they weren’t in some sort of awkward silence of which he wasn’t aware, but she seemed just as happy as he was not to talk. That was unexpected, given how much she seemed to like to talk. Unexpected, but not one of those unpleasant unexpected surprises; instead, it felt as though he might not know all about her yet. That was unusual as well; normally he could assess a person within a few minutes of making their acquaintance.

“It’s like here, I suppose.”

“Here like a pub, filled with laborers and solicitors and men who seem as though they are very important? Possibly a few women who appreciate the company of important men?” Her smirk told him she was joking. That she saw fit to do so was another unexpected item to add to the list of things he now knew about her. Few people joked with him, and of those, he liked very few of their jokes.

What made her so different from most people?

“No, Miss Literal, not like here.” He allowed himself to roll his eyes at her. Something he normally chided his sisters for doing. Of course, they were usually rolling their eyes at him. “Where I live, in town, Edinburgh that is, is a busy city much like London. Different accents, of course, but most things are the same.”

Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. “Honestly, the same? I should think not, and I’ve never even been there! The people, the language, the food, the habits, the celebrations, the clothes—all of those things are different in different areas. The west side of London is different from the docks, correct? You wouldn’t say all of London is all the same; how can you say Edinburgh is?”

She waved her hand around the pub. “Even here, where things are the same, the people are different. You, for example, are clearly of the nobility; your linen is fresh, your clothing is well-kept and well-made, and you are well-groomed.” She picked his hand up from the table and examined his fingers. “Your nails are cut, and you don’t even have any dirt underneath your fingernails.”

He drew his hand back and looked at it. She was correct, and he hadn’t even thought about it.

“Now look at my hand,” she said, stretching it out to him. He took it, the warmth of her skin reminding him of before when his naked body had been close to hers, however briefly.

He could not get distracted by that, however. It wasn’t practical.

Her hand was small and its shape was delicate, but the skin was rough and her fingernails were ragged, although clean. He looked at the back of her hand, then turned her hand over and looked at her palm, which had a few red spots where calluses were beginning to form.

“You’re not a housekeeper,” he said, sliding the pad of his finger along one of those new calluses. “If you were accustomed to this sort of work, your hands would be rougher. You obviously work with your hands in some capacity, but not doing what you did today.”

“Oh!” she said, snatching her hand back and stuffing them into her pockets. “You are very observant, even if you think two completely different cities are similar to one another.” She stuck her tongue out at him quickly, then clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. “I am so sorry, I should not have done that.”

Matthew tried to keep himself from smiling, but couldn’t, not in the face of such . . . joy. She was practically overflowing with it, and he wished he could figure out a way to capture some of that joy for himself. “I am not offended at all; in fact my sisters would be applauding you right now.” He spoke in a lower tone. “I am very glad they are not here for that very reason.” Not to mention he was definitely liking being alone with her, and wasn’t that another surprise?

“Shall we go?” Matthew said, signaling to the man behind the bar. He made the “final bill” gesture, then drew out a few coins from his pocket and laid them on the table.

The barkeep came bustling over, an obsequious smile on his face. “Four shillings, my lord.”

Matthew counted out the four shillings, then rose from his seat.

The barkeep picked up the coins, scowling. “You’re Scottish, aren’t you?” he said in an accusing tone.

Why did that keep coming up?

Matthew didn’t bother to reply, just strode around to Miss Tyne’s side of the table and took her cloak, holding it up so she could put it on.

As she wriggled into it, her arm brushed his side, and Matthew felt something very unexpected indeed.

Something he wished to expect more of, and hopefully in the near future.

A Belle’s Guide to Household Management

When asked to put Holland covers on the furniture to protect it while the members of the household are away, do not assume that you may only use covers made in Holland or that the covers are meant to cover the country in question.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A
nnabelle preceded him from the pub, the happy warmth of the food they’d eaten warring with the uneasy feeling that he was about to ask her why she was his housekeeper if she wasn’t a housekeeper at all.

“Are you going to tell me?” he asked in a conspiratorial tone as he drew alongside her.

“Tell you what?” she replied, even though she knew perfectly well what it was, and she was just stalling.