Free The Cheer in Charming an Earl (The Naughty Girls) by Emma Locke Page A

the floor and fur blankets smelling faintly of lavender were piled thick on the cushioned seat. Elinor huddled against her aunt’s lithe arm as the horses began to pick over the still-icy road.
    It was slow-going to Chelford, leaving Elinor yet more time to think. And doubt. Why had Grantham bothered with her, when he’d thought her such a ninny just a few days since? Aunt Millie had said he’d come by the cottage before. Why? Had he grown tired of his lady friends? He’d said he’d sent them home, but why? She could think of no other reason for him to have turned his sophisticated attention on her than abject boredom. But why had he sent his friends home, if not to make it possible for her to call on him, as he’d said?
    As often as she could persuade herself that he’d sent them home so he could court her properly, she could as easily convince herself otherwise. One thing she knew for certain: if he thought her available for his amusement, she’d show him how dull an innocent could be. None of that wide-eyed wandering about his house. No, sir. And going on and on about how lovely Chelford was? Absolutely not. Nor would she once stare agog at—
    “Good heavens! Is this your library?” Within moments of being shown into his house, she was awestruck again. She turned slowly as she took in six massive bookcases fixed at obtuse angles. “You must have thousands of books!”
    He took two steps toward her. His pale waistcoat shined in the low light emitting from the lamps set about the room. “Several thousand. My uncle was a dogged collector of the written word. I am sorry to say I am nothing like him.”
    Elinor pursed her lips at this disappointing revelation. What a waste of a handsome man, if he didn’t read.
    Aunt Millie gave her a pointed look. Say something encouraging.
    Elinor did her best to look less aggrieved. She’d wanted to know him better, hadn’t she? The good and the bad. “We cannot all enjoy expanding our mind, I suppose.”
    He puffed his chest a bit. “But I didn’t say that, did I? While I do find reading tedious, I happen to be an enthusiast of debate. There are several existentially minded salons in London that I attend regularly.”
    “Why go there?” Elinor fired, smiling at her cleverness in luring him into a discussion of reason.
    “Why be anywhere?” he quipped back. “Where are we at any moment?”
    She grinned. “Not the drawing room, I see. And Aunt Millie did so desperately wish to see it, after all of my stories.”
    He smiled back self-deprecatingly. “There is more to me than what you’ve decided, Miss Conley. Now, over there you’ll find sentimental novels, though nothing recent, I’m afraid. You may, of course, borrow anything you like.” A slight frown marred his brow, casting a pall on his previous banter.
    She wanted to wipe his sadness away. If only she knew what had provoked it! “What if I prefer the classics? In Latin?”
    The shadow ebbed, as if she’d succeeded in diverting him. “Then I shall consider you a very accomplished young woman.”
    She laughed and skipped toward his bookcase of sentimental novels. “It’s my turn to disappoint you, my lord. I never was good at conjugating.”
    “Nor was my sister.”
    She froze. This was the source of his melancholy. She knew it as surely as if he’d said it. These dusty novels must have belonged to his sister. Elinor tried to search the gilt-lettered spines for titles she recognized, but all that swam before her was the ethereal specter of a pretty little girl. A cherished sister. Had Lady Hannah read them all? Which one was her favorite?
    Very carefully, Elinor reached for the first volume in front of her. Aunt Millie had gone quiet almost from the start, but even her breathing seemed to have paused.
    “Was,” Elinor said to Lord Chelford, as he’d said to her about her late father. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
    His footfalls dropped in a slow, wide circle around the room. “Thank you, but