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

hand still pressed against his chest, the other hand up to her mouth as though to stifle her giggles.
    He did not wish to stifle her.
    “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Well, fine then,” she said, straightening in her chair and donning a very serious expression, belied only by the fact that her eyes were dancing and her mouth kept twitching as she suppressed a smile.
    “What do you wish to ask?”
    Now that he had her attention, and he honestly wasn’t sure how long she could remain silent, he wasn’t sure what to say. At this rate, the amount of things that had never happened to him before might overbalance the things he’d come to expect. And he didn’t know how he felt about that.
    “It seems that there is a . . . an attraction between us, Miss T—that is, Annabelle.”
    “Mm-hm,” she agreed, as though it was entirely understood and it was entirely normal for them to be discussing it. Was it normal? Did these conversations occur all the time between men and women?
    He couldn’t worry about that now. Because he had enough to worry about with what was actually happening to be concerned about something he might have missed before.
    “And . . . and it seems as though it would be logical, given our proximity to one another and since I am in London for the next month and that you are, that we did, that . . . ”
    “That we kissed?” she supplied helpfully.
    “Yes, that, and you can tell, can’t you, how your presence is making me feel?”
    She pressed her palm harder against his chest, her fingers sliding over the fabric of his waistcoat. Her gaze was locked with his, except for a brief moment when he could have sworn her gaze dipped below the table to . . . to there.
    “I can tell. And I feel the same, Matthew.” This time, there was no hint of humor in her voice, for which he was grateful, because if it had seemed as though she were laughing at him, or in any way mocking him, he knew he would have retreated forever, to always be capable, responsible Matthew, not the Matthew who could spontaneously kiss women—or this woman, in particular—against a building in a busy London street.
    And he wanted to explore who that other Matthew might be. The spontaneous one, the passionate one, the one who might choose to do something irresponsible, like kiss a woman whom he’d just met, who had, in fact, made his (admittedly burnt) toast that morning.
    “So what I would like to know, Miss, Annabelle, is if you’d be interested in continuing to explore our attraction to one another.”

 
    A Belle’s Guide to Household Management
    Also (see “cleaned out”), cleaning up does not, sadly, usually mean you have come into a great fortune. Unless your fortune is measured in dirt, soot, and dust. In which case, you are wealthy beyond measure .

CHAPTER NINE
    S he couldn’t laugh. Even though she really, really wanted to, just for the sheer ridiculousness of it—him sitting over there, all confused and gorgeous and proper, asking her to “explore an attraction,” as though it were an exhibit at a museum.
    But she knew if she did laugh, even for the right reasons, his lovely mouth would thin out into a hard line and he would close off and be buttoned up for the rest of the month, and she didn’t want that to happen, not at all.
    What she wanted was for him to stand up, grab her, and pull her to him, putting his mouth to hers in a ferocious, claiming kiss.
    But he was far too polite to do that. At least not until she’d told him she wanted it. That. Him . And she hadn’t told him anything, not yet, even though his question hung in the air like the recently banished dust she’d raised while cleaning the house.
    And like the dust, she needed to address it. Only she wouldn’t be using her feather duster in this case.
    Unless . . . ?
    “I would, my lord. Matthew,” she amended, smiling as she glimpsed the quick spark of desire that lit his eyes before he glanced away. Was her Scottish earl shy, then?
    He hadn’t