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Authors: Megan Frampton
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scared, as so many other young unmarried ladies were, of what men wanted and what they frequently wanted to do with young unmarried ladies.
Of course she wouldn’t take advantage of him, and then had to remind herself not to smirk at the thought. He would think she was laughing at him, when really she was just amused by the thought that she could possibly be in power over an earl, even if he was Scottish.
“Shall we walk?” she said instead, pushing herself off the wall and onto her own two, admittedly unsteady, feet.
He nodded and held his arm out for her, as stiffly as he’d spoken earlier, and she wanted to roll her eyes and stick her tongue out at him for being so pokerish, but she didn’t think he would appreciate her levity. Not, she thought, when he was so obviously perturbed by the whole thing.
“I need to ask your opinion on something,” he said. His voice was low and rumbly and made Annabelle’s stomach do an unexpected leap. Even though she already knew he wasn’t going to ask her opinion on kissing, or anything of the sort.
More’s the pity.
“Of course, my lord,” she said, grasping his arm a little tighter. Goodness, he was strong. Maybe he did do his own housework; bringing in firewood, beating rugs, moving furniture around, and other tasks would certainly build up his muscles. Perhaps there were different requirements for earls of the Scottish persuasion, so it was necessary for them to be all muscular as well as handsome.
Or maybe it was only this one. In which case she was quite pleased she had not ended up with, say, the gouty earl with the high-pitched cackle and a penchant for eating smelly fish.
Not that she knew if this one ate smelly fish, but she knew about the rest of it.
“My uncle has asked me to town to consult on an investment he is considering, ah, investing in.” He sounded irked at having to repeat a word, and Annabelle hoped it was because she had loosened his brain with her kiss. Or something like that.
“And it is something about which I know very little, and I would like your thoughts about it.”
Was it a manual on how to remain cheerful despite all of life’s problems? Or maybe he was the one teaching the How to Speak to Annabelle class, and he thought he’d come to the source. It couldn’t be her toast or oatmeal skills, those were minimal, and he’d only had her tea thus far. It couldn’t be How to Make Tea, unless he was a complete idiot.
Which he wasn’t. He’d kissed her, hadn’t he? Right when she might have almost secretly been thinking about that very thing? Was he a mind reader?
No, because then they’d still be back there, his mouth on hers, since that was precisely what was on her mind.
“If it’s not how to pretend to be a housekeeper, I’m not sure I can help you,” she said, hoping he would laugh rather than glower at her.
He did both, which was better than merely glowering, but not as good as just laughing. And his face looked so funny, all screwed up in disapproval even as he was chuckling, that she had to laugh, too, at which point he forgot all about the laughing part and just glowered.
Reminder to herself: Don’t laugh at him.
“It is for a fabric importer, and I know nothing about fabrics.”
“And I do?” she said, drawing back to regard him with a puzzled look.
He sighed, as though exasperated, a response Annabelle was quite accustomed to. Maybe he had taken the class on How to Speak to Annabelle, or its companion class, How to Respond to Annabelle in a Way that Conveyed Disappointment and Frustration.
Many, many people seemed to have taken that particular course.
And look at her, getting all mopey. She shouldn’t be, not when she’d just been kissed and was walking on the arm of the most handsome man she’d ever seen, much less kissed.
Although the thought occurred to her that this man was so much more than his looks, and she wasn’t certain she would ever find his equal again. That was mope-inducing, to be
Of course she wouldn’t take advantage of him, and then had to remind herself not to smirk at the thought. He would think she was laughing at him, when really she was just amused by the thought that she could possibly be in power over an earl, even if he was Scottish.
“Shall we walk?” she said instead, pushing herself off the wall and onto her own two, admittedly unsteady, feet.
He nodded and held his arm out for her, as stiffly as he’d spoken earlier, and she wanted to roll her eyes and stick her tongue out at him for being so pokerish, but she didn’t think he would appreciate her levity. Not, she thought, when he was so obviously perturbed by the whole thing.
“I need to ask your opinion on something,” he said. His voice was low and rumbly and made Annabelle’s stomach do an unexpected leap. Even though she already knew he wasn’t going to ask her opinion on kissing, or anything of the sort.
More’s the pity.
“Of course, my lord,” she said, grasping his arm a little tighter. Goodness, he was strong. Maybe he did do his own housework; bringing in firewood, beating rugs, moving furniture around, and other tasks would certainly build up his muscles. Perhaps there were different requirements for earls of the Scottish persuasion, so it was necessary for them to be all muscular as well as handsome.
Or maybe it was only this one. In which case she was quite pleased she had not ended up with, say, the gouty earl with the high-pitched cackle and a penchant for eating smelly fish.
Not that she knew if this one ate smelly fish, but she knew about the rest of it.
“My uncle has asked me to town to consult on an investment he is considering, ah, investing in.” He sounded irked at having to repeat a word, and Annabelle hoped it was because she had loosened his brain with her kiss. Or something like that.
“And it is something about which I know very little, and I would like your thoughts about it.”
Was it a manual on how to remain cheerful despite all of life’s problems? Or maybe he was the one teaching the How to Speak to Annabelle class, and he thought he’d come to the source. It couldn’t be her toast or oatmeal skills, those were minimal, and he’d only had her tea thus far. It couldn’t be How to Make Tea, unless he was a complete idiot.
Which he wasn’t. He’d kissed her, hadn’t he? Right when she might have almost secretly been thinking about that very thing? Was he a mind reader?
No, because then they’d still be back there, his mouth on hers, since that was precisely what was on her mind.
“If it’s not how to pretend to be a housekeeper, I’m not sure I can help you,” she said, hoping he would laugh rather than glower at her.
He did both, which was better than merely glowering, but not as good as just laughing. And his face looked so funny, all screwed up in disapproval even as he was chuckling, that she had to laugh, too, at which point he forgot all about the laughing part and just glowered.
Reminder to herself: Don’t laugh at him.
“It is for a fabric importer, and I know nothing about fabrics.”
“And I do?” she said, drawing back to regard him with a puzzled look.
He sighed, as though exasperated, a response Annabelle was quite accustomed to. Maybe he had taken the class on How to Speak to Annabelle, or its companion class, How to Respond to Annabelle in a Way that Conveyed Disappointment and Frustration.
Many, many people seemed to have taken that particular course.
And look at her, getting all mopey. She shouldn’t be, not when she’d just been kissed and was walking on the arm of the most handsome man she’d ever seen, much less kissed.
Although the thought occurred to her that this man was so much more than his looks, and she wasn’t certain she would ever find his equal again. That was mope-inducing, to be
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