When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella (3 page)

“And who are you?” he said, folding his arms across his—
oh my goodness—
naked chest.

“The housekeeper?” Annabelle hated that her voice rose at the end, as though she weren’t quite sure herself. “The housekeeper,” she said, this time in a much firmer tone. But not nearly as firm as his chest was; it was rippled throughout with all sorts of intriguing muscles and a light dusting of dark chest hair, and his shoulders were so broad it seemed he filled the room, or at least her vision of the room.

And suddenly she was even warmer in her bed than she’d been five minutes ago.

The Scottish earl should not be this attractive, which she could tell even only by the moonlight. Imagine the impact when she viewed him with the full strength of the sun. She shuddered at the thought, only the shudder somehow seemed to feel more like a shiver. Of something.

“You were not to arrive until tomorrow,” he said, his voice, despite the nice Scottish burr, practically dripping disdain.

“Well, I’m here, and so are you, and here we are, and you are nearly, well, if I might say so, you are nearly naked,” Annabelle finished in a rush, trying very hard not to look there, not where there were some interesting parts covered by his underclothes.

Even in the dim light she could see when he realized just how he must look, his eyebrows raising up so far up his face it seemed as though he might just take flight, his eyes wide.

“Mrs. Housekeeper, I promise you, I am not in the habit of . . . ” he began, then spun on his heels—or his bare feet, actually, since he wasn’t wearing boots, presenting Annabelle with a view of a very strong, very broad back, with some even more interesting divots that were on either side of his lower spine.

He picked something up off the floor, then got onto one foot and stuffed his leg into his trousers, followed by the other leg. Then some hasty buttoning of something or another, and then he turned back around, still shirtless, but at least she wasn’t distracted by all the white fabric and other things any longer.

Unless she was distracted by the fact she wasn’t distracted any longer, and she rather wished she had gotten a chance to see what his legs looked like. She could just imagine, given how he seemed to tower over the bed, that he was very tall, and that his legs were suitably long as well. Because it would just be odd if his legs were only as long as hers were, for example, with him being so much taller than she.

“Perhaps you might join me downstairs, and we can discuss the situation.” It was not a request, and what was more, it sounded as though he were about to lecture her on her inadvisable behavior, when really it was he who was inadvised, having gotten into her bed, and not the other way around.

But she didn’t point any of that out to him; first of all, his chest was distracting her, he seemed even more naked now that he was half-clothed than when he was nearly entirely naked, which was an odd sort of situation. Plus he was her new employer, and he was an earl, and she was not even a real housekeeper, even if she did own a feather duster.

“Of course, my lord,” she said instead, lowering her gaze from his chest to the bed. Definitely a much less distracting view. But also much less intriguing.

“Five minutes,” he said as he picked something else up off the floor and walked out of the room.

Leaving her much more awake, intrigued, and surprisingly warm than she had been five minutes earlier.

M
atthew stomped downstairs after grabbing his things, including his whisky bottle, from the room, feeling as though he should be apologizing to the stranger in his bed but also as though it was entirely her fault she was in his bed in the first place.

Although perhaps that wasn’t his bed? In which case it was his fault. He shook his head; it couldn’t be his fault, nothing was. People were just mistaken when they thought it was. And he would have to spend time, time he didn’t have, explaining how they were wrong.

It had gotten to the point where his sisters, all four of them, just rolled their eyes and made a
hmphing
sound whenever he opened his mouth. That was one advantage London had—no younger sisters who required watching over.

Although it seemed he had acquired a housekeeper who did. He had been expecting an older, perhaps gray-haired lady, not a young woman with blonde hair and what appeared to be some very nice curves, at least judging by how the comforter she’d clutched around her looked. Not that he had looked.

Having an attractive housekeeper was an unexpected surprise. Matthew did not like unexpected surprises, although not as vehemently as he disliked wasting time or money. This . . . this was just a minor change in his expectations, and he could change his expectations, despite what his sisters might say.

Thank goodness none of them were here now, or they would be doubled over in laughter at seeing their older brother so nonplussed by this situation.

With that sobering thought in mind, he put his shirt back on and did up the buttons. His cravat was still upstairs; there was no help for it but for his housekeeper to see him not garbed entirely appropriately.

But that just made him realize she had seen him nearly entirely garbed—or not—inappropriately, and an unfamiliar feeling rose up, making him feel flushed, or as though he had a fever.

He certainly hoped he was not catching ill. London was bad enough; to be here and be sick was not at all to be desired. The sooner he was done with his uncle’s business, the sooner he could return to Edinburgh, where all the housekeepers, in his experience, were not comely ladies, at least that he’d noticed.

He heard her footsteps on the stairs and turned to her. Yes, she was definitely not what he’d expected.

“My lord,” she said with a curtsy. She had gotten dressed and come downstairs all within five minutes. Excellent. That would make up for the fact that she was young, blonde, and, as he could see now, unaccountably pretty. What was she doing being a housekeeper? That was a mystery, and Matthew did not, of course, like mysteries. They always just needed solving and were invariably dull once one had solved them.

Although he might find this mystery more interesting to solve.

“My lord?” she said again in an impatient tone, with a rise at the end of her voice meaning she was waiting for a reply.

Of course. She was
. And here he was wondering about the intrigue of his new temporary housekeeper and was just likely wondering when he might respond.

He could take care of that now, at least. “Yes, Mrs.—? What is your name?”

“Annabelle Tyne,” she replied. “Of the Quality Employment Agency, and it’s Miss Tyne,” she added, as though that made a difference.

“Miss Tyne, it appears we have met each other in a rather odd way.”
If you consider meeting in bed an odd way, which he hoped she did, otherwise she would not be a suitable housekeeper at all
. “Let us start again. I am Matthew, Earl of Selkirk. And you are Miss Tyne. It is late, and I am more than accustomed to sleeping wherever I happen to find myself, so you may return to the bedroom, and I will sleep down here. We will discuss your duties in the morning. I will be up at six o’clock; I presume you will also.”

She nodded, tugging her lip with her teeth. “Yes, my lord, if that is best. I could clean the master bedroom, if you would prefer.”

Matthew exhaled. “I do not prefer. If I did prefer, that is what I would have asked you to do. I did not, and therefore you may assume I do not wish for that. I will ask for what I want, I assure you.” He realized, as he finished speaking, that what he had said could be an invitation to something other than housecleaning, something he’d never asked before, but something that was suddenly of more interest than it had been before he entered the house.

He could and should not entertain any of those types of thoughts regarding his housekeeper, or any woman, in fact, until he was married. It was not at all suitable for him to think of any woman who was not his wife. Tempted though he was. Or perhaps he was just tempted to touch her because he wished to straighten her hair, which was currently flying about her head in a most unruly cloud.

“I see,” she said, an amused tone in her voice. “I will see you in the morning, then, my lord,” she added, then dipped a curtsy and walked back upstairs, Matthew doing his best not to watch.

A Belle’s Guide to Household Management

Bedclothes are not what YOU wear to bed, but what your bed wears to . . . bed.

CHAPTER FOUR

M
y goodness
, Annabelle thought as she walked upstairs, acutely conscious that he was still down there, perhaps even still looking at her; her new employer was an exceedingly handsome man.

For one thing, she hadn’t been wrong before when she noticed he was absurdly tall. Then there were his broad shoulders, his body tapering down into a slim waist and long legs. And his face, which she hadn’t gotten a good look at before in the bedroom; it was too dark and she was too distracted by his naked chest.

He was commandingly handsome, with dark hair and eyes and a strong blade of a nose on top of a surprisingly full mouth. That mouth gave him a sensuous look, one at complete odds with his otherwise very serious demeanor. His words were clipped, despite the burr of his accent, and his very manner seemed to insist on obedience. Obedience she was hoping to be able to comply with, or those lovely lips might flatten into a hard line and she’d be sent on her way, without having snagged an earl as an agency client or, for that matter, having gotten a decent night of sleep.

And she would be in proximity to him for a month? Him, with his firm tone, and firmer chest, his intense eyes focused on the work she’d be doing for him?

Suddenly it didn’t seem like such a grand idea, taking on a housekeeping job when the only thing she’d managed to keep properly was Cat.

But if she bolted now, she’d have to tell her partners at the agency that she had been intimidated by a naked chest and a handsome earl and a strong, commanding voice. And she’d never get to see more of that chest or find out what could possibly make that mouth smile.

Caroline was always telling her to stay focused, to find a goal and try to achieve it. Usually this was in the context of Annabelle actually remembering to make the tea after she’d boiled the water, but it could be applied to larger things, couldn’t it?

So perhaps she should set a goal of not being distracted by the earl. He was definitely larger than a cup of tea. In many ways.

M
atthew wasted no time in finishing the rest of the whisky; it made sense to do so now, unlike his having begun to drink too much of it in the first place, since he’d need help sleeping. Then he lay down on the sofa and settled himself to sleep.

Unfortunately, it also made sense he’d have a headache in the morning, so he couldn’t blame anyone but himself for how his head ached and how his mouth felt, as though he’d been chewing on cotton.

He got up from the sofa, which wasn’t nearly long enough for his six-foot-plus frame, feeling his legs grumble nearly as much as he wished to at having been in a cramped position for most of the night. He heard someone coming down the stairs and hastily pulled his sleeves down and donned his coat. He did not wish to repeat the nearly naked-in-front-of-the-housekeeper experience he’d had the night before.

“Good morning, my lord,” he heard her call out, then she entered the room, glancing about the room until she spotted him. At which point she smiled.

Miss Tyne had clearly slept wonderfully, at least judging by her cheery face and bright tone. The thought of her in the bed, the comforter curled around her warm form, was enough to put him in an even worse mood, for no good reason.

“Good morning,” Matthew said in a grunt. He cast a surreptitious glance at her from under his lashes—yes, she was as pretty as he’d thought the night before. It was not the result of his imbibing. If anything, she was even more attractive in the bright light of day; her blonde hair, now tidied, caught the sun; her smile, if one were inclined to be prone to infection, was practically infectious; and her warm brown eyes sparkled with humor, as though she were on the verge of telling a joke that would beguile and amuse everyone in her immediate environs.

Matthew did not like jokes.

“Do you need breakfast?” she asked, then continued without waiting for him to answer. “Not that there is any food in the house. I haven’t gone shopping yet; I wanted to ascertain if there was anything in particular you wished for.” She wrinkled her face up in an expression of thought. “Not that I am a very good cook; in fact about all I can make is tea, oatmeal, toast, and, well, I think that is it. Tea, oatmeal, and toast. And I usually burn the toast.”

“But,” she went on, walking further into the room, “I can see if the Quality Employment Agency has any cooks on its roster for hire. I know Mr. Bell said you didn’t want one, but you have to eat, don’t you, and meanwhile, I can make you some tea. Or oatmeal. Or . . . ”

“Or toast,” Matthew completed.

“Exactly! You are brilliant,” she said in what appeared to be a genuine tone of voice.

Remarkable.

“Although I would have to go out and buy the ingredients, since, as I said, there is nothing here.”

“I do not plan on taking many meals at the house, so there is no need for a cook.” Matthew felt the rush of frustration that always accompanied his having to explain things. “If I had wanted a cook, I would have instructed Mr. Bell to hire one for me while I am here. I did not. All I need is a housekeeper”—
although I should have specified she be gray-haired and shaped like a dumpling—
“to keep the house relatively clean, answer the door while I am away, and ensure there is clean linen and that my clothes are kept tidy.”

She wrinkled her brow again. “No meals? Not even tea? You must have tea,” she said, as though his not wanting the hot beverage was an impossibility.