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

warmth. “Perhaps they don’t, but I do. I like working, I like being . . . useful.” The way he said it made it sound as though he was embarrassed about it.
    “I like to work as well. I can’t imagine not working. I mean, I would enjoy a week or so of sitting at home and just reading, but I think I would go mad with boredom.”
    He nodded, as though he agreed—again!—and now she felt practically on fire herself, she was so warm.
    She opened her mouth to continue, but stopped when she heard another voice.
    “Be right there,” the barmaid called. “Two pints?” she asked, nodding toward them, and the earl nodded. But the interruption seemed to make him realize he’d been speaking and even smiling, since his whole self returned to his more somber mien.
    At least she no longer felt as though she might spontaneously combust. Even if she did miss his smile.
    “A nd the young lady you met at your uncle’s house one of those first evenings. Was she nice?” Miss Tyne’s voice was more subdued than usual, the question sounding as though she wasn’t certain she wished to hear the answer. Unlike all the other questions she’d asked thus far.
    He’d felt, for just a few moments, what it would be like to speak with someone when they had things in common, and not just about an investment opportunity. He wanted to find out what other books she liked, if they shared more than Mr. Dickens in their taste. But she was waiting for his answer, not for more questions. Not that he’d even know how to ask the questions; he wasn’t accustomed to speaking to anyone of common interests.
    Matthew thought of Miss Delaney. She was perfectly pleasant, lowering her eyes in shyness or politeness, he wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered. He’d found himself comparing her with his housekeeper, and Miss Delaney, to his surprise, had been found wanting. And it wasn’t for lack of opportunity; he’d deliberately taken his dinners at his uncle’s house, and Miss Delaney was staying there, so he had gotten to know her, somewhat. But he doubted whether she could ever compare.
    He shrugged. “She was very pleasant. She finds the weather tolerable and likes to visit the National Gallery, and she plays the pianoforte. Oh, thank you,” Matthew said to the barmaid who brought two pints of ale. “I’ll have the beef pie, and the lady will have—?”
    Miss Tyne smiled up at the barmaid so brightly it nearly hurt Matthew’s eyes. “The beef pie sounds wonderful. Is it good? Do you recommend it?”
    Here she was, again asking questions as though she really wished to hear the answer. The barmaid’s expression blossomed like an opening flower.
    “It is, miss, it is the cook’s special recipe. And the pies were just made today. Sometimes Cook doesn’t get a chance to make them, so we’ve got the day before’s, only they aren’t quite as good. These are lovely.”
    Was it possible for Miss Tyne to smile even more broadly? Apparently so.
    “That is what I will have, then. Thank you so much.”
    The barmaid nodded, still smiling, then walked away from their table.
    Matthew leaned forward to her. “How do you do that?”
    “Do what?” she said, glancing around as though she’d done something.
    “Make everyone you’re speaking to feel as though they’re the only person in the world you wish to speak to.”
    She blinked in surprise. “But it is the truth. I don’t try to be anything I’m not,” at which point she colored up, “and I do like to speak to people. All sorts of people. Barmaids and hackney drivers and even, on occasion, gruff earls from Scotland who surprise me when I’m sleeping.” She grinned and took a sip of her ale.
    Matthew felt himself start to blush also, remembering the moment— was it just a week or so before? —that he’d gotten into that bed with her. It had seemed shocking at the time, of course, but now that he’d seen her and spent time in her company, it also seemed as though it were something he