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

that something you’ve taken on as some sort of personal challenge?”
    He laughed, and that sound, so rare in their acquaintance, made her heart beat a little faster and made her want to hear it some more.
    Hopefully, however, he wouldn’t laugh when he ate dinner, because then it would likely be in a bad way, and she was hoping to feed him enough so he’d have energy for later on.
    For later on when she loved him. Literally, as well as figuratively.
    “I just know how to,” he said with a shrug. He took the matches from beside the stove and lit it, just as he’d said he could.
    “And the pan? Did you find one?” He glanced at the wall, where a few pans hung from hooks.
    “A pan! Of course!” Annabelle scrambled onto the counter, then lifted one of the pans off the wall and hopped down, holding it out to him.
    “So, if I’m not mistaken, we put the chops into the pan, put them over the heat, and cooking occurs.” His voice was amused, and she was relieved he wasn’t irritated at her inability to cook.
    Then again, she’d told him she wasn’t a cook, so he couldn’t have been expecting much. She knew it was likely to be a disaster, but she’d wanted to do something for him, something that was here in the house they were sharing—albeit for only a short period of time—something that was lovely and companionable and very domestic.
    While the chops sputtered in the pan, he chopped the vegetables and directed her as to how to open the wine bottle and set the table. And every so often they’d bump into one another and she’d glance at him, and something in his gaze would make her breath catch and think about later, after dinner, and what she had gotten from Caroline.
    “Dinner’s ready,” he said after about fifteen minutes of pan-sputtering and glance-sharing and wine-opening.
    The chops were good and the wine was better, and soon Annabelle didn’t feel foolish about any of it, especially when he looked so satisfied, but also hungry, and this time for her.
    “Stop looking at me like that,” she said in a low voice.
    “Like what?” he took a sip of wine and then licked his lips, and Annabelle knew the exact same look of desire was on her face.
    “Like I am dessert.”
    He raised one eyebrow. “I hadn’t thought of that, but now that you mention it, perhaps we could move straight to dessert?” And he stood and held his hand out to her, and she rose and took it, then let him guide her up the stairs, through the hallway, up the stairs again, and down the hallway to his room.
    To his bed.

 
    A Belle’s Guide to Household Management
    Mopping the floor with someone is quite different from just mopping the floor .

CHAPTER TWELVE
    N ow that it was finally about to happen, Matthew felt nervous. Nervous he wouldn’t please her, nervous it wouldn’t live up to his expectations.
    Nervous that he’d never want to do this with anyone but her, ever again.
    “It feels odd, having come up here just for this purpose,” she said as she faced him, beginning to untie his cravat. Her eyes were focused on what she was doing. Until she paused and looked up at him, her expression so direct it made him shiver.
    “That is, I suppose I should be coy and pretend I don’t want this, but I don’t pretend—I can’t; and we only have a little more time before you return to Scotland, and I want to do this as often as we can, and I already miss you.” She looked back down and finished the cravat removal, tossing it onto the floor.
    He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I suppose I miss you already, too,” he said stiffly, wishing he could be as guileless as she was. Not that he lied, but he had difficulty expressing emotions.
    Likely because usually he didn’t have any, beyond annoyance that he had to explain something that seemed perfectly clear.
    But with her, he had many more emotions: he felt joy and happiness and warmth and desire and satisfaction.
    He felt what it was like to be human.
    Is this what