When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella (7 page)

He chuckled, and she realized she hadn’t heard him laugh yet. Not that they’d been acquainted all that long, but generally, if the people she met were friendly and relatively conversational, she was able to make them at least laugh a little bit. Him, not a whit. He had smiled, and had almost smiled a few times more than that, and he had definitely made a witty remark, but he hadn’t laughed.

She liked the sound of it. A lot. She wanted him to laugh more. For her.

“Tell me what you are if you are not a housekeeper.”

Annabelle tilted her head up to look at him. “I am also not a lion tamer. Despite how ferocious you might seem.” That surprised a quick smile from him. And encouraged her to continue. “I am also not a princess, a haberdasher, a scullery maid, a cook.”

“Obviously,” he interjected.

“A butcher, a carriage driver, a . . . let me see, what else am I not?”

She hadn’t noticed, but somehow she’d taken his arm, and was leaning on it as they walked. It felt so comfortable and yet also caused a tingling sensation throughout her entire body.

“Perhaps you are the Queen?” He drew away and gave her an appraising look. “No, you are far too frivolous. Although if you had food in your teeth it wouldn’t matter because it would be you who would possibly be bothered by it.” He frowned, as though in confusion. “Now I am using your logic.” He shook his head. “Only a few hours in your presence, Miss Tyne, and I am overwhelmed.”

Was that a compliment?

“The only thing I do know, Miss Tyne, is that you are not a housekeeper. Tell me. Are you also not a Miss? Is there a Mr. Tyne somewhere, perhaps a brood of small Tynes running about?” There was a sharp edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. Interesting.

Annabelle wasn’t naive; she knew the earl found her attractive, perhaps even intriguing, overwhelming, and she felt a surge of satisfaction at the confirmation. And since he was only here for a few weeks more and he was from Scotland of all places, never mind he was an earl as well, it didn’t matter. Except to her sense of vanity, which was quite pleased.

“No, I am just me. Miss Tyne, nonhousekeeper. Partial owner of the Quality Employment Agency, and your representative demanded someone immediately.”

“Ah, I was wondering what had happened. My uncle promised to find someone quickly.” He thought for a moment. “So you are part owner of the agency, the one that hired you out?” He shook his head, feeling entirely confused. Or what it must be like to be inside her head. “How does that work? Do you pay a percentage of your fee to yourself?”

She nudged him and laughed. “You’re funny, do you know that?”

Actually, he didn’t. No one had ever accused him of being funny before. Unless it was funny odd, like when his business contacts invited him to a brothel and he’d said no, he’d prefer to go home and read.

Now he’d have to say he’d prefer to go home and read with her. Sitting in chairs next to a fireplace, tea made just as they each liked it at their elbows, perhaps a stray feline wandering through, although that thought was even more funny, given that he had never given much of a thought to cats or where they might like to wander.

She shrugged before he could respond. Because of course he hadn’t responded, his mind had just wandered off, cat-like, into a world where they were equals, enjoying each other’s company and where it didn’t matter whether or not she was a housekeeper—not that she was—or that he was an earl.

“I do promise, my lord, that even though I am not what you hired me as, I will do all the work necessary to fulfill my function as your housekeeper as you’ve laid the work out for me . . . ”—she still had hold of his arm, but she held her palm up and ticked off the tasks with her free hand—“answering the door, keeping things tidy, making the tea, not to mention doing all—”

But her words were lost when he suddenly turned, walked her against the wall of a building they were passing, and pressed his lips to hers.

And he knew that right then, right at this moment, it didn’t matter who they were. They were man and woman, male and female, gentleman and lady. And it felt absolutely, perfectly right.

A
nnabelle had been kissed before—and more, she wasn’t a fallen woman just because she’d lost her footing—but never so suddenly, so solidly, or so unexpectedly.

Her back was against the cold stone of the building, and her front—well, her front was pressed against the warm hardness of him, as solid as the stone at her back but much more welcome.

And then, just when she was exclaiming delightedly in her head about this turn of events, it was over.

He drew back, his eyes searching hers, his hands holding her elbows as though to steady her, even though she was not in danger of falling. Not literally falling, at least.

“I am so sorry, Miss Tyne. I did not, I do not, know what came over . . . ” he began, his gorgeous mouth forming words she didn’t want to hear.

“Hush,” she said, sliding her palms over his forearms, up his biceps, then curling her fingers in his hair and drawing his mouth . . . yes, that same gorgeous mouth . . . back to hers. “Kiss me.”

M
atthew could count on one hand the number of times he’d acted impulsively. One finger would suffice, and that was only because he had begun to kiss her just now. Previously, his count would have taken no hands.

And it would have been just a kiss, one simple pressing of mouths together in a brief moment of impulsiveness if she hadn’t wanted more, if she hadn’t pulled him back to her and twined her hands in his hair so he couldn’t escape, even if he wanted to.

He did not want to. He leaned into her, slanted his mouth over hers, put his hands at her waist and held her, then opened his mouth just a bit so as to coax hers to open as well. Her lips were warm and moist, and their bodies touched just at the most delicious places—her breasts, his cock, their mouths. A perfect triumvirate of passion that was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. And he had indulged before, just not to completion, so he did have some perspective on the matter.

She did take the hint, and she opened to him, sliding her tongue into his mouth and uttering a soft moan low, deep in her throat, that sent an answering shiver through him.

And they were both still entirely clothed, out on the street, where anyone—

“We have to stop,” he said, pulling away from her mouth but not yet strong enough to lift his hands from her waist. Her expression was dazed, and he felt a brief moment of triumph that he, as little experienced in such things as he was, could reduce her to that state with just a simple kiss.

But it wasn’t simple, not at all, not when you thought of the touching of bodies and mouths, the tangling of tongues, the soft sigh that had escaped her, the way his cock had reacted to the feel of her body against his.

Not simple at all.

“I
apologize,” Matthew said stiffly as he drew away from her mouth and her warm, luscious form.

“Oh hush, my lord,” she replied, as though it was customary for her to be kissed on London streets. And perhaps it was; what did he know about her, except that she was not a housekeeper? But he also knew there wasn’t a deceptive bone in her body, just a joyful frankness that was unlike anything he’d ever encountered before. So the fact that it seemed as though she was not upset or prudish about what had happened was as natural to her as it would have been for another lady to slap his face for his familiarity. Even if the latter lady had secretly enjoyed it.

He far preferred her response.

“If I hadn’t wanted you to kiss me, I wouldn’t have engaged you in a kiss. Isn’t that your logic? ‘If I had wanted a cook, I would have hired one,’ ” she said, lowering her voice and trying for a Scottish accent, which she mangled very badly.

He felt his lips curl up into a tight grimace, as though discussing the aftereffects of an impetuous kiss on a London street was something he could smile about. It was not, not at all, and a part of him, the part of him that was making its presence quite well-known in his trousers, wished he would just push her up against the building again and ravage her mouth, taste her sweet lips, and run his palms all over her curves. Better yet, take her home where there was a place where they might get horizontal with one another and not have to risk being seen.

Home. Hell, that was where they were both going, wasn’t it? Not that the London house was his home, per se, but it was acting in place of his home for the duration. The month he was in town sorting out his uncle’s business, being seen off and welcomed home every day . . . and night . . . by this woman whom he already found intoxicating.

He would have to maintain his renowned attributes of propriety and sense in keeping himself away from her.

He already hated that far, far more than either being early, being late, or wasting money.

I
t seemed she made him lose his speech, and perhaps part of his brain, judging by the expression on his face. Annabelle shouldn’t have been so delighted by this turn of events—the kiss and his reaction to it—as much as she was, but the truth was, she was, and she was curious, so curious, about how she could get under his skin, not to mention onto his mouth.

Being a fallen woman had its benefits; she knew precisely what she could do to keep herself from being permanently fallen, and she also wasn’t scared, as so many other young unmarried ladies were, of what men wanted and what they frequently wanted to do with young unmarried ladies.

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.