Page 87 of My Best Friend's Earl

It wasn’t terribly yellow yet, but that would come.

“My love, you have that expression on your face again. What are you thinking?” Oliver closed the bedroom door.

“I’m trying to remember where we put the wallpaper Mum chose for this room. She and Betsy plan to begin papering this week. We didn’t leave it at home, did we?” When she turned around as if she meant to find it right then, he stayed her with a hand.

“Tomorrow. Wallpaper can wait. I haven’t had a moment alone with you all day, and if I don’t kiss you properly, I’ll go stark raving insane.” His mouth met hers and settled in for a deep taste. All thoughts of wallpaper or to-do lists disappeared.

Oliver had a way of kissing her as if the contact provided him relief on a soul-deep level. There was never a moment when she worried that his mind wandered, as hers sometimes did. Every time, he treated kissing her like an experience he relished.

The bed caught them as they fell, pushing a laugh of pure happiness from Connie at the sight of his wide grin above her. It didn’t matter if their coupling was frantic or leisurely, the feeling of connection was the same. She couldn’t imagine living without it.

So, when he whispered, “Hello, wife,” against her lips, she gave herself over to loving him. He tasted of the slightly sweet cider from their meal, and that unique flavor she’d come to identify as simply Oliver.

During their first year of marriage, so much had become wonderfully normal. His taste, the scent of his sweat after a long bout of lovemaking, the way Oliver always made sure she had tea before getting his own cup.

Oliver leaned away to whip his shirt off, and Connie made short work of removing her clothing. Wearing nothing but her stockings and garter ribbons, she posed prettily, resting on her elbows as she took in the sight of him.

Then laughed, because when he saw her bare breasts, he stopped and appreciated them. Every. Single. Time.

There were some things she was learning that were delightfully predictable.

Although they’d come together so many times since eloping in a flurry of scandalized whispers, she had yet to take this part for granted.

This man, bare-chested and unable to tear his eyes off her as he fumbled with the buttons on his breeches. His focus made her core slick in anticipation. Love and lust and a deeper need filled his gaze.

The way he looked at her made it impossible for Constance to doubt herself, her appeal, or her welcome. And that was perhaps the most freeing thing of all. She only needed to be herself.

Oliver Vincent adored her as much as she adored him, and the truth of that had sunk deep into her bones.

He shucked his breeches to the floor, cursing when he realized he’d forgotten to remove his boots. Constance giggled at his flustered state. Rather than help, she chose to torment him while he untangled himself from clothing and leather.

With a lazy finger, Connie explored the plump flesh between her thighs. Her finger came away wet with evidence of her desire.

Oliver lost track of what he was doing. “Witch,” he groaned.

“I’m waiting,” she sang.

“Seems like you’re starting without me, vixen,” he grunted, struggling to remove his other boot.

Naked at last, Oliver crawled up her body, then sucked her finger into his mouth. Hungry eyes met hers before he smiled wickedly and reversed course.

“Your parents are down the hall.” Throwing her legs over his shoulders, he settled into one of his favorite positions, and Connie’s core clenched in anticipation. He placed an open-mouthed kiss high on her inner thigh. “Shall we have a competition, you and I?” A long, lazy lick along the seam of her sex made her whimper. “The one who makes the least noise, wins.”

Devilish lips closed around the nub at the top of her slit, and Constance groped blindly for the nearest pillow to muffle her cries. Her husband was far too good at this for her to have any hope of winning the game, otherwise.

She still lost.

Later, they lay intertwined as their breathing slowed and that delightful shimmering sensation hummed through herbody. Usually, Connie’s brain went quiet after making love. Tonight, the thoughts drifted lazily by.

With her parents retiring, there’d be changes at Martin House. This visit to move Owen and Mary into their new home had been the first time Constance and Hattie left their newest employee, a widow named Whitney Parker, in charge of the shop without a family member available for emergencies. Mrs. Parker was scarily competent, remaining cool under pressure. The cousins weren’t worried about leaving her alone.

Hattie loved the idea of living alone and was bursting with ideas of ways to make the flat more to her taste. Between her mum and her cousin, Connie suspected she’d master hanging wallpaper by the end of the summer.

Discovering how to be a countess and a business owner in the day-to-day running of things was ongoing, but exciting and full of possibilities. Navigating the ton sometimes felt like dancing barefoot through a snake pit, but she’d found several kindred spirits in unexpected places. As Oliver predicted, Lady Agatha Darylwrimple was a complete delight and stalwart friend.

Someone with less energy, or a more retiring personality, might find the variety of roles daunting, but the novelty appealed to her.

Oliver and Franklin had begun the arduous process of finding investors for their canal and hoped to break ground in the new year, shortly after the arrival of Althea’s first child.

The thoughts floated by, like clouds in the sky. Until one made her snicker. Oliver’s noise of inquiry wasn’t quite a word, but, nonetheless, communicated effectively.

“Oliver… it’s Tuesday.”

“Ah, teacup, are you wanting a show? Maybe a fiveminute frig?” His laugh rumbled, deep and low from his chest in that way she adored. Constance snorted against his shoulder as he wrapped his arms tighter around her.

One thing was clear: they’d spend the rest of their lives laughing together.

Life with Oliver would never be boring.