When Good Earls Go Bad Read online

  “Sure you don’t want me to carry your trunk in, my lord?” the cabbie said, looking skeptically at either Matthew or the trunk, Matthew wasn’t sure.

  Not that it mattered.

  “No, thank you,” he said, reaching into his pockets for the fare. “Here you go.”

  The cabbie looked at what Matthew had given him and raised his head, scowling. “Scottish, are you?”

  As though the man could not tell by Matthew’s accent.

  “Yes, Scottish.” This was not the time to discuss one’s origins. It was late, even though he was early, and Matthew’s trunk still remained on the back of the cab. “If you don’t mind?” he said, gesturing to the trunk.

  The man shook his head, as though in disgust, and hauled the trunk off the back of the cab onto the sidewalk. He didn’t even look at Matthew before vaulting up onto the seat of the cab, uttering some inarticulate grunt to get his horse moving.

  Matthew felt in his waistcoat pocket for the key Mr. Bell had given him, checking for perhaps the thousandth time that day. Reassured, he bent down to the trunk and grabbed the handles on either side.

  He’d been traveling all day, sitting on a train, and hadn’t gotten his usual exercise of walking, so it felt good to work his muscles. Muscles that felt as though they were perfectly happy to have a day off from what he normally did to them, judging by the twinge that followed as he hoisted the trunk up against his body.

  It couldn’t be helped, though. The cabbie was long gone, there was no one else on the street, and he’d have felt like an idiot if he had to ask for help anyway. He hated asking for help as much as he hated wasting time. Or money—that, as much as his need for quiet, was what made him only grudgingly accept the necessity of a housekeeper during his stay. He didn’t see the point of anything more, anybody more; it would be wasteful to have people around when he was just working. But he had to have someone, that was made painfully clear. But thankfully she wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, so he would have at least twelve hours to himself.

  Perhaps there would be a comfortable chair, and if he could just manage to find a glass, he would be able to relax with a bit of whisky before going to bed.

  And then tomorrow he would begin to focus on the task at hand.

  “Wha’ will be a traitor knave? Wha’ will fill a something something’s grave?” Matthew sang as he downed the last sip of whisky, realizing he hadn’t had anything to eat for nearly half a day. That was very poor planning on his part. A definite misstep, and doubtless caused by the whole being-early fracas.

  Well, it was far too late for him to go out anywhere. Plus his bed was waiting, and the room was, if not spinning, then a little wobbly around the edges. He definitely couldn’t focus enough to read, which was his usual evening pursuit. And he didn’t know where the library was anyway, if it was here, and even if he could find it, it probably didn’t have what he liked to read.

  He glanced around to locate his trunk, which he would have sworn he’d dragged in here. Yes! There it was, just inside the door. But it would be too hard to carry the trunk up the stairs, especially since he also wanted to bring the bottle to bed with him. He looked at the trunk, then the bottle, then the trunk again.

  Of course. He could solve this with logic, as he always did. He tucked the bottle under his arm and approached the trunk as though it might rear up and bite him. Then he undid the clasps and flung the lid up.

  His nightshirt was right on top, the most logical place for it to be. He congratulated himself, as he often did, on applying logic to even the most minuscule of tasks. It made things so much easier and wasted much less time. Therefore, his nightshirt was on the top, so he could put it on immediately, his toiletries were just below, and so on. He picked the garment up, then tucked it under the same arm that held the whisky bottle. Now for the stairs.

  Where were they? Oh, yes, just to the right of the room he was in now. He’d only seen this room and the entryway, but thus far, it seemed like a pleasant house. He had been dreading the thought of coming to London—his first time here, and he had not made the trip willingly—but if he had this place to come home to in the evening, a quiet, restful house, he might escape unscathed by his experience.

  The stairs weren’t as hard to conquer as he’d thought they might be; true, one of the steps appeared to lunge up at him, but he righted himself at the last minute and was able to maintain control of the bottle.

  His nightshirt was not so fortunate, however; as he reached the first floor landing, he noticed a strong aroma of whisky. The bottle had leaked, but it seemed most of it had fallen on the fabric.

  Thankfully, there was no chance of anyone seeing him in his bed. It was the most practical decision to sleep naked, so that was what he would do.

  He dropped the spirits-soaked garment on the floor of the landing and entered the closest room, the only one with an open door. He’d investigate his new lodgings in the morning; right now he needed to sleep.

  Once inside, he drew his jacket off, then his cravat, then drew his shirt over his head. He lowered his hands to his boots, but that was awkward, given his current state of inebriation, so he just sat down on the floor and took them off, then yanked his trousers down.

  The moon shone bright through one of the windows, and he was grateful not to have to trust his unsteady hand with a candle. There was plenty of light to see the bed, just there in the corner.

  He drew the covers back and slid in, expecting a cold, empty bed.

  Instead, he found it to be quite warm, and filled with another occupant.

  A Belle’s Guide to Household Management

  Beating the rug does not mean you engage to trounce the rug in a game of cards.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Annabelle had never been so comfortable before, or at least it felt that way. The bed was soft and warm, the house was quiet, just a slight rustling of something, fabric maybe? Then the feel of another body easing into—

  “What? Who? What are you doing in here?” she said, kicking at the other occupant of the bed, who was not only someone she’d not invited in, but definitely not anyone she’d even ever met before.

  It was light enough in the room, thanks to the moonlight, to see it was a man, which did not reassure her. From what she saw of his expression, however, he was just as startled as she was to find her there. Well, she was not startled to find herself there, but she was startled to find him.

  Perhaps she would not be the best person to lead the How to Speak to Annabelle course, since she barely understood herself what she was thinking.

  “Who are you?” His voice held a foreign accent, but it was his obvious outrage that she listened to the most.

  “Who am I?” she said, pushing herself back into the corner of the bed, her back making a comforting contact with the wall. “Who am I? I am supposed to be here, whereas you . . . ”

  “Are supposed to be here also,” he replied, before she could finish her sentence.

  And the foreign accent clicked it all into place, and she felt her stomach whoosh in panic and terror and . . .

  “You’re the earl. And you’re early.”

  His face did not change, not even when she stressed “early” as in earl-y.

  “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, onl
y 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.

  Matthew 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

  My 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 w
as 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.

  Matthew 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.