When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella by Megan Frampton Page B

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