Wednesday, February 18, 2015

When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine’s Day Novella (Dukes Behaving Badly #1.5) by Megan Frampton - Blog Tour & Giveaway

Tour Wide Giveaway for Three Digital Copies of WHEN GOOD EARLS GO BAD

When Good Earls Go Bad:
A Victorian Valentine’s Day Novella
Dukes Behaving Badly # 1.5
By: Megan Frampton
Releasing February 3rd, 2015
Avon Impulse

Megan Frampton’s Dukes Behaving Badly series is back, though this time it’s an earl who’s meeting his match in this delightfully fun and sexy novella!

What’s a lovely young woman doing asleep in his bed? Matthew, Earl of Selkirk, is shocked to discover it’s his new housekeeper! She’s a far cry from the gray-haired woman he expected. Matthew is no fan of surprises, and Annabelle Tyne is pure temptation. Perhaps he shouldn’t have had her hired sight unseen.

Annabelle, co-owner of the Quality Employment Agency, is no housekeeper, but she wasn’t about to lose a potential client simply because there was no one to fit the bill. Imagine her shock when the Earl arrives at his London townhome and she’s awoken in the night by the most attractive man she’s ever seen.

Matthew is a man who lives life by the rules, but sometimes rules are made to be broken…and being bad can be very, very good.

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Watch your feet as you come in, I’ve just mopped.” Matthew halted as he drew the key from the door, then leapt to where he could see a dry spot on the hallway floor, feeling like an idiot. Or a frog. Or both.
She appeared at the end of the hallway, the soft twilight framing her as though she were in a painting.
“Good evening, my lord.” She hopped from dry spot to dry spot, eventually landing on the nearest spot to him. Very near; he could see faint freckles on her cheeks and a smudge on her nose.
Before he even thought about it, he raised his hand to her face and swiped the smudge off, nearly smiling at her startled expression. Nearly.
Good evening, Miss Tyne.” This close, he could smell the faint fragrance of lemon, perhaps the cleaning solution she’d been using. And there was something else, too, something rather feminine and warm and soft.
Or that was just her.
I’m home just to change my clothes. I am going to my uncle’s for dinner.” Where I will meet an entirely suitable young lady, one who probably doesn’t have freckles and smells of something floral and delicate, not warmth and lemons and softness.
And wasn’t that a fanciful thought for him to have? What would softness smell like, anyway? Before he knew it, he found himself sniffing.
Do you have a cold? I will just go make you some tea; you need something in case you are coming down with something,” she said, a concerned look on her face. “I took the liberty of putting your clothing away, and it appears you need a fresh cravat. I will just iron it while you have tea.”
Matthew normally did not allow anyone to order him about, but soon he found himself seated in the kitchen, a cup of tea and a piece of burnt toast at his elbow, Miss Tyne busily ironing his cravat in front of the stove.
And how were your meetings, my lord?” she asked, her tone sounding as though she were actually interested. She didn’t wait for his reply before continuing. “My day was spent in meetings with dust and grime. I am surprised the rental agent allowed the house to be let like this. I cleaned your bedroom, so it is all ready for you this evening. I hope it is to your liking; the sheets and room are clean, at least.”
Matthew took a sip of the tea. Made just how he liked it, and he’d only told her once how he took it. That warmed him as much as the tea did.
“If it is a bed, it will suit me fine,” he said, feeling for the first time how his travel and uncomfortable sleeping position last night had affected him. He wished he didn’t have to go out to his uncle’s tonight; he wanted to stay here. Specifically, stay here with her and her charming manner, and how she asked questions she really wanted to know the answers to but didn’t wait for a reply, since it seemed her mind was traveling so quickly.
He hadn’t met many ladies who weren’t entirely circumspect in their speech before. He found it oddly refreshing.
And your meetings?” she asked again, her head still bent to her task.
Fine.” There was so much to research; he knew it could be done within a few weeks, but so much was riding on his decision: not only his uncle’s money, but the livelihood of the people he employed, not to mention Mr. Andrews’s employees and the people who manufactured the fabric Mr. Andrews wished to sell.
He felt an unfamiliar exhaustion creeping over him, not just from his general fatigue but with always having to be responsible for so many people. His mother and his sisters, his workers, his tenants, more distant family like his uncle and others, and all the people who knew him to be responsible and thoughtful, so would come asking for his advice.
Nobody but her had ever asked, with any sincerity, how he was feeling.

Megan Frampton writes historical romance under her own name and romantic women’s fiction as Megan Caldwell. She likes the color black, gin, dark-haired British men, and huge earrings, not in that order. She lives in Brooklyn, NY, with her husband and son.

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