The Care and Feeding of Your Captive Earl (What Happens In Scotland Book 3) by Kate McKinley

gossips.
    There was only one way to remedy the situation, and it might very well kill him if he allowed it to. Marriage was not an institution one entered into lightly, but given his troublesome obsession, and her likely ruination, it appeared they had little choice.
    He ducked out of the room and nipped down to the kitchen. He was relatively useless when it came to preparing food, but his governess had thought it pertinent to teach him the essentials. In case he was ever stranded, she would say.
    His current situation qualified unequivocally.
    The kitchen was simple, unadorned. Splayed out on the roughhewn table in the center of the room, were the groceries Gwen must have purchased in the village—butter, one loaf of bread, two more (dreadfully awful) meat pies, three potatoes, half a dozen eggs, a hunk of cheese, a few apples, and a head of cabbage. It was hardly enough for breakfast, let alone enough to sustain two people for a week.
    Perhaps he should just be glad she’d thought to bring food at all. Ladies of her position occupied themselves with little more than fashion plates and embroidery. Preparing meals was not a diversion they often entertained—or cared to entertain, for that matter. That was why servants and cooks existed.
    Grabbing a bowl from one of the shelves lining the wall, he set about making an omelet. It was one of three dishes he could cook and he was thankful in that moment for his governess’s foresight in teaching him.
    She had been a remarkable woman—intelligent, witty, and one of the only women in his life to ever show him real affection—something even his mother was not inclined to do. She’d faulted him for looking too much like his father, and thus, her affection was not granted.
    After lighting the fire in the stove, he cracked several eggs into the bowl. As he whisked the eggs with a fork, he wondered if Gwen would be such a mother to her children. Though she certainly had a sharp tongue, he could not imagine her being so harsh to a child. Indeed, he could envision her rocking a babe to sleep in her arms, a gentle smile on her lips.
    Blinking, he shook his head. Where had that thought come from? It had always been impressed upon him that he would need to continue the family name, but never, until this moment, had he ever envisioned the child—or the child’s mother.
    Outside, sheets of rain still blanketed the wild landscape. He was tempted to set out on his own and fetch a carriage to return for Gwen—but his conscience wouldn’t allow him to leave her here alone. If something were to happen to him, she would be left defenseless.
    No, they would need to wait until the rain let up.
    “You are cooking.”
    Matthias turned at the sound of Gwen’s voice. She stood at the doorway, her long blond hair in a tumble around her shoulders. His eyes traveled down her body. She was wearing only her shift, the fabric so sheer he could glimpse her pale pink flesh beneath.
    Christ.
    “Ah, yes,” he said, shaking off thoughts of seeing her unclothed. “Omelets. Only one of three dishes that I can cook, truth be told.”
    She smiled—actually smiled, and he felt his heart stutter against his ribs. “Then I suppose I should be grateful—lest we be eating raw eggs. What are the other two dishes you can make?”
    “Cheese on toast and cawl.”
    She lifted a brow at cawl.
    “I had a Welsh governess.”
    She stepped into the kitchen, pulling a shawl over her shoulders, hiding her magnificent breasts from view. He shouldn’t have noticed, but it was like trying to look away from an exquisite Grecian painting. She existed to be seen. By him. Only him.
    “Your governess taught you to cook? What a clever woman. I only wish mine had been half as industrious. Such a skill would be useful right about now. As it is, I’m quite hopeless in the kitchen.”
    There was something in her voice, in the way she looked down at the ground as she declared herself hopeless that stirred his more protective