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
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.
“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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