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

to be at a loss for words. So if you can’t think of what to say, then what you have to say must be quite intriguing. What is he like?”
    “He’s very sensible,” Annabelle replied in a repressed tone. “And he is quite smart and interested in what I have to say, and he likes to read Mr. Dickens, and he is quite . . . pleasant to look at, and he is, oh, well, he is . . . the thing is . . . ” she continued, hitching her chair a little closer to Caroline, “is that I need one of those things that Lily bought for the ladies.”
    Caroline’s eyes widened more. “A condom? My goodness, how long have you known him?”
    I know him. I know he is secretly humorous and altogether handsome and definitely Scottish and obviously stubborn and logical—and I think I am falling in love with him .
    I am in love with him.
    Only she didn’t say any of that. “More than a week,” she said defensively.
    “More than a week,” Caroline repeated dryly. “Are you certain about this? I am glad you are ensuring there will be no accident, if you do plan on doing this, but after a week—”
    Caroline’s face had a concerned expression, so Annabelle didn’t remind her it was more than a week. Just barely, but still. Annabelle knew her friend loved her and didn’t want her to fall again. They’d had enough trouble righting her after Charles broke her heart.
    “I am certain. I think,” and now she could say it out loud, since she’d thought it at least five seconds ago, and that was a lifetime in Annabelle’s usual brain-to-mouth speed. “I think I love him.”
    Caroline peered intently at her, then her face cleared as she saw something, apparently, that satisfied her. Sometimes it was a good thing that everything Annabelle thought went directly to her face. “I think you do, too.”
    She got up and went to the cupboard and pulled out a paper sack.
    “Here you go,” she said, handing it to Annabelle. “I hope it is everything you have hoped for.”
    Annabelle thought of how he’d looked at her the night before and how he’d groaned as he spent and how his mouth kissed her—as though she was the only woman in the world he’d ever kissed or ever wanted to kiss—and how she wanted him to claim her, to bring her pleasure in his bed.
    “It will be,” she replied, a wicked grin on her face.
    A few hours later, she wasn’t quite as confident. Because she didn’t think he would want to do anything with her if he were hungry—for food, not for her—and right now, regarding the pork chops she’d bought, it didn’t seem as though she would be able to feed him properly. Not without resorting to burnt toast.
    She heard the door open and her panic increased; he was home, she’d promised him food, and right now she had two quite uncooked pork chops, along with some vegetables, also uncooked, and some wine.
    She didn’t know if wine was cooked or not, but somehow she doubted it was.
    So. An entirely uncooked meal when she’d promised cooking.
    “Annabelle?” he said, his voice holding a tone of eagerness she hadn’t heard from him before. That made her stomach jump in a lovely way, not in the “I have no dinner for the man I’m planning to seduce” way.
    But again, he wouldn’t be so eager if he weren’t fed.
    “I’m in the kitchen,” she said, approaching the stove with a purposeful stride. She could do this. She could.
    “How is dinner going?” Matthew said as he entered the kitchen. “Are we having toast with oatmeal? Or oatmeal with toast?”
    She spun on her heel and looked at him. Goodness, he was so handsome. And he would be hers for a few more days. If he didn’t starve to death in the meantime.
    “Pork chops. I think,” she added, just in case he was going to get his hopes up too high.
    “You think?” he asked, approaching the stove. “Do you need me to light this?”
    She crossed her arms over her chest and made a harrumphing noise.
    “You know how to? Are all Scottish earls so competent, or is