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

seemed so, but then again, he’d seemed altogether too brusque and remote when she’d first met him. Maybe he was hiding shyness under all that. Maybe he differed from the British aristocracy in his . . . well, in other things, as well. Because she hadn’t noticed him looking at all the women as they’d walked down the street or been in the tavern. He’d just looked at her.
    And didn’t that give her a delicious feeling!
    A feeling she’d never had, not even when she’d thought she was in love, long before she’d fallen. It all had to do with him.
    “Yes,” she said, to clarify. “I absolutely would.”
    “Good,” he said.
    “Matthew,” she said as she flattened her palm against his chest, feeling the hard planes of his skin underneath his clothes. Goodness. What did Scottish earls do to get so fit? She’d have to ask him. Only not now, not when he was clearly so . . . so shy about all of this. He might just bolt, and then she’d never get to touch that bare chest for herself.
    And she had every intention of doing so, all in the name of exploration, of course.
    “Yes, er, Annabelle?” His eyes had darkened, so dark they were nearly black, and suddenly it didn’t feel as though she were the one in control. His eyes, the dark passion she saw there, made her mouth dry and a slow, sensual shiver run through her body.
    Oh, this was going to be wonderful. Even though it might mean that it ruined her for the rest of her life. Because she could already tell that this man, whether he was Scottish, an earl, a burnt-toast lover, and so much more, was someone she could fall in love with. Even though there would only be that afterward, no promise of anything more. Not that she needed anything more.
    She just needed him. Right now.
    “Shall we go upstairs?” Her voice sounded lower, softer, and she could have sworn he shook as she spoke.
    “Yes, we should.” He rose, her hand dropping to the table, but before she could stand as well he had picked her up out of the chair and held her, high against his chest, his wonderful, hard, gorgeous chest, those dark eyes seeming to burn right through her.
    She squeaked in surprise as he strode to the staircase, his steps as sure and strong as though she weighed as little as a piece of paper. Or a speck of dust.
    “W ait one moment.” Annabelle—he should think of her as Annabelle now—waved her hand toward her room, the room where he’d first encountered her, all warm soft female of her. “I need something. Put me down, please.”
    Matthew lowered her down, his hands sliding down her back, longing to caress her just a bit more, now that he knew that she wanted this, too. That this, whatever this was, was going to happen.
    Only not, apparently, until she got something from her bedroom. She gave him one last, mischievous glance, and his cock hardened in response. What was she doing?
    She emerged just a few moments later, an item— a feather duster? —in her hand, an even slyer smile on her face.
    He swallowed as his gaze traveled between her face and the feather duster and back again. Interesting. He had no idea what she was planning, only that he was guessing—as his cock was as well, it seemed—that whatever it was would be pleasurable. Because it was her, and they were upstairs together alone, and they were about to “explore their attraction.” Damned if he didn’t sound like his usual stuffy self, only she seemed to like him, and that was a surprise. A welcome surprise.
    “Shall we?” she said, waving the duster in the air as she headed to his room. He followed, this throat thick with lust, his hands frantic with the need to touch her.
    She stood aside to let him enter, then gave him a quick, appraising look. “Do you even know how handsome you are?” she said, her voice low as though she weren’t even talking to him, even though of course she was.
    But there was no answer to that, and thank goodness it seemed she didn’t expect one.
    She tossed the duster