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

expire, or you will have a mouthful of unpleasantness. Either way, it is not to be desired.

CHAPTER SIX
    T he week passed about the same way each day; Annabelle made tea for the earl, who spoke very little but looked at her frequently, and then he’d head off to do his work and she’d be left on her own. She’d had enough free time to work at the agency for a few hours here and there, but she was beginning to realize she needed to start the How to Speak to Annabelle class if only to hear another voice that wasn’t her own speaking.
    He took most meals at his uncle’s house where, she presumed—but didn’t want to imagine—he met many ladies who were ladies, whereas not only was she not a lady, she was also not a housekeeper. Although she had to admit she was keeping the house perfectly well, at least as much as he allowed her to.
    He returned late at night, holding various amounts of paperwork and speaking just as little as he had in the morning. And yet, she got the feeling he was acutely aware of her, just as she was acutely aware of him.
    There was a substantial amount of acuity in the house.
    O n the eighth day, she heard the key turn in the door earlier than was his custom. She’d still spent the past five hours completely on her own, and she’d been reduced to speaking with the mice she assumed were present but couldn’t see.
    Heaven help her if she did see them, since she was terrified of mice. And don’t even speak about rats.
    She’d read some of her book, but it was so oddly distracting to be alone in this big house, so quiet, where she was accustomed to the noise of the other tenants in her building, the comings and goings of all the other workers who lived there. She didn’t know if she’d ever get accustomed to the quiet, especially after only a week.
    He’d been very late the night before; she hadn’t heard him come in, but then again she’d been completely exhausted from her day of cleaning and had eaten a quick dinner (oatmeal, no toast) and then taken herself off to bed, alone, long before she even expected him to arrive.
    That morning, as usual, she’d caught him staring at her a few times, as though he wished to ask something, but wasn’t certain.
    Hopefully it wasn’t anything about why the toast was always burnt, because she simply did not have an answer. It just was. Was that the toast’s destiny? She wished she could point out the joke to him, but she was thinking he might not find it nearly as amusing as she did.
    “Good evening, my lord,” she said, shutting the book and placing it on the table beside her. She rose and walked to where the earl stood, smoothing her not-quite-worst dress. “I trust you had a pleasant day? Let me have that,” she said, taking the large case he was carrying without waiting for him to reply. Or even to hand it over, judging by how his grip had tightened as she drew it away.
    “Good evening, Miss Tyne,” the earl replied, his eyes on where she held the case.
    “You look tired. Are you tired? That is, I know it is rude to comment on how someone looks, at least unless the someone has a piece of food in their teeth, in which case it would be rude not to point it out, for fear that the person might be embarrassed later on. What if the Queen should happen to stop by?”
    The earl gaped at her as though she were speaking a foreign language, an impossibility since she didn’t know any.
    “The Queen is not likely to stop by, as you say, Miss Tyne.” The earl sounded tired as well. It appeared she would have to supply his end of the conversation as well that evening. “Miss Tyne,” he continued, before she could announce her plans for monologuing, “I am hungry, and I would like it if you would accompany me for some dinner. I presume you have not eaten? I do not recall you buying either bread or oatmeal,” he said in a nearly humorous tone.
    Was he actually making a joke? The Earl of Dour?
    “I would love to, my lord,” she said, responding