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

without even thinking about the impropriety of her employer, a member of the aristocracy, taking his employee, a fallen woman who was attempting to right herself, out for a meal.
    Well, or not thinking about it very much. Or about the fact that he wasn’t at his uncle’s, for once, but was home with apparently no plans but to take her out somewhere. And since she was hungry and he seemed to want company, and if all he needed was for her to be present and answer the door and tidy his things, it didn’t seem like too much to ask for her to accompany him to dine. Besides which, she was tired of talking to the mice. They hadn’t read her book, after all, so they had little to discuss with one another.
    “Shall we?” the earl said, pulling her cloak down from the peg by the door. He held it out for her, and she slid her arms in, very aware of how close he was, and how much power he seemed to exude, not to mention how incredibly handsome he was.
    She wondered if he knew just how handsome he was. Perhaps she wouldn’t ask him, at least not this evening when they had just barely met.
    “Do you know where we should go?” she asked instead, a much more innocuous question, and definitely more pertinent, than inquiring if he’d ever noticed his own looks.
    “I saw a tavern a few streets away. It looked suitable,” he replied, as she buttoned her cloak and pulled the hood over her head.
    “Excellent,” Annabelle said, as he opened the door, that deliciously lovely feeling of being in the presence of aristocracy curling in her stomach.
    Although if she were honest with herself, which she always was, she would have to say it was mostly because of the aforementioned handsomeness, because he was a Scottish earl, and those didn’t seem to count as much. Although, since he was the only Scot and the only earl she’d ever known, perhaps she should say Scottish earls—the ones in her acquaintance, at least—mattered quite a lot.
    T he tavern was nearby, and Annabelle was relieved to see other women inside, not that she wouldn’t have gone in anyway, but at least it seemed somewhat more proper for her to be there if there were other women there, too. None of the other women were ladies, but then again, none of the men in there were gentlemen, either, so it seemed proper enough.
    The earl, Scottish though he was, was the only gentleman within, in fact.
    He ensured she was properly settled, then sat himself opposite her at a low table in the back. He exhaled, one of those long, “I’ve just been speaking to Annabelle too long” sighs, only they hadn’t spoken at all.
    So that would be up to her. “How was your day, my lord?” she asked.
    He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    She felt as though he’d rebuffed her and felt momentarily hurt, until he met her gaze. “Tell me about yours. What were you reading when I came home?” And now it sounded as though he was really interested, and didn’t that make her feel all sparkly and alive.
    Not that sitting in a tavern with the most attractive man she’d ever seen—and an earl—wasn’t sparkle-inducing enough.
    “Do you read, my lord?” She didn’t wait for his reply. “Because I do, I mean I can read, of course, but I also love to read. And not just recipes, which as you likely know already, I don’t read at all, but books. I was reading Mr. Dickens’s The Pickwick Papers ; it is one of my favorites.”
    His face looked as though it was about to break into a smile, and she held her breath waiting for it.
    Drat. No smile, but at least his tone was warm. “I enjoy Mr. Dickens as well. I find reading to be a welcome relief after working all day.”
    Annabelle wrinkled her brow. “I didn’t realize earls did work, I mean, beyond being all earl-y ,” she said, hoping this time that he would get the joke or at least acknowledge it.
    He did smile then, and she felt as though fire from the tavern’s fireplace had just leapt out and enveloped her in its