Page 13 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)
Ignore the fizzy feeling in your belly. It’s not attraction
Embroidery: make one new bookmark
Lecture an earl
Y es?”
One word couldn’t melt her spine to jelly, although that tone might.
Constance clenched her teeth into a semblance of a smile and stood straighter—just in case she wilted against her will, then slunk down the steps and scurried out of Mayfair.
“If there’s a school for butlers, I’ll bet you took top marks, didn’t you? ”
Nothing. Not so much as an eye twitch. The frosty butler might be immune to her charms, but she was here on official business.
And frankly, Constance was just as surprised by that as anyone.
In the three days since Althea gave Lord Southwyn the kitten, she hadn’t anticipated a scenario in which he contacted Constance directly. Because why would he?
In lieu of a calling card, she held out the missive she’d received that morning. “The earl summoned me. Please tell him Miss Martin is here.”
The butler offered a single nod, then stepped aside to allow entry.
A few years ago, Constance would have gawked at the foyer. Thanks to repeated exposure to Caro and Dorian’s ducal home, when she took in the carved marble and gilded details of the high ceiling and finely decorated walls around her, she merely caught her breath for a moment.
The table beside her wouldn’t fit through the door to her bedroom, much less in the room itself. What an appalling waste of space. And all to hold a vase of flowers, a salver with a collection of calling cards and post, and one gentleman’s hat.
Meanwhile, her bedroom slept at least two people, and more often, three. Betsy moving out had given Connie and Hattie a brief reprieve before Caro arrived. It was everything she could do to not shake her head and make a disparaging comment about wealthy people.
Since the butler stood nearby, silently watching her instead of sending for Lord Stuffy Pants, Constance raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Please inform his lordship that my time is just as valuable as his. I came quickly, as requested. I expect his prompt attention in kind.”
Finally, the butler cracked enough to blink twice. Good, she’d taken him off guard. It served him right when he’d opened the door looking at her as if she were something one scraped off a shoe.
“Please wait here, miss.”
Left to cool her heels in the echoing entry hall, Constance did her best to maintain a neutral mien.
Servants passed as they went about their duties, casting the occasional curious or pitying glance at the woman the butler abandoned in the foyer rather than showed to a drawing room.
It was on the tip of her tongue to defend herself to each of them.
I’m here by invitation.
I’m related to a duchess. In fact, the duke sat at my kitchen table last night and fed her cheese until she cried from happiness.
Really, I belong here.
Instead, Constance stared at the table, with its single hat and collection of items. She’d seen beds smaller than that table.
Hell, if she had to wait much longer, she might just lie down on the thing and nap until the earl deigned to see her.
Oh, how the servants would stare then. The butler would likely keel over clutching his chest in shock.
Several minutes passed before he returned, considerably friendlier than when he’d left. “He will see you right away. Anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. This way, Miss Martin.”
She had to trot to keep up with his long strides. Tempting as it was to ask the man what this was about, Connie held her tongue rather than admit she didn’t know why she was here.
They stopped before a heavy wooden door. He gave her a grave frown and repeated, “Anything you need. Anything at all. Just ask.” As if on cue, a deep yelp came from somewhere inside the room, followed by a crash.
Good God, what was happening behind that door?
There was only one way to find out. After a nervous look at the butler, Constance entered absolute chaos. The servant closed the door behind her so quickly, a breeze ruffled her hair.
At some point, this room had been equally grand as the foyer.
Drapes framed large windows that allowed in enough light to make out the baffling scene before her.
A wood desk held a stack of ledgers teetering askew at one corner.
Several bowls, cups, saucers, and three brandy snifters cluttered the surface.
Why hadn’t the servants cleared any of this away?
Upon closer inspection, she noted areas of the drapes with shredded threads and pilled fabric.
The crash from moments ago was probably from the plant falling to the floor.
Broken shards of what used to be a rather nice white ceramic pot poked from dark earth scattered across the wood plank floor and a rug.
Given the obvious quality of the rest of the furnishings, that rug probably cost more than her bookshop made in sales per quarter.
Someone had made a bed on the chaise beneath the window.
A thick blanket draped off the cushion, pooling onto the floor at one end, and a pillow lay at the other.
The pillow still held the imprint of a head.
An intimate thing, that. Especially when the head in question likely belonged to the Earl of Southwyn.
Who… knelt in the corner peering under a cabinet, cursing in a mild tone. She cocked her head and stepped closer to hear him.
“And damn you too, hell spawn. If you hadn’t bitten me, I wouldn’t have bellowed. Apologies for startling you, but you’ll need to set aside your taste for human flesh if you don’t like your prey to make noises like that. Also, you owe me a plant.”
The sight of him in his shirtsleeves and breeches captured her attention more than the absurd scene.
Instead of focusing on the mess or the questionable odor wafting from somewhere, Constance couldn’t look away from the plane of the earl’s back under the fabric of his shirt.
Even more engrossing was the way his buckskin breeches stretched over slim, defined muscles in his legs.
The temperature in the room rose several degrees as she observed him, so she untied her cloak and slung it over her arm.
Southwyn was slightly taller than average, and she’d have described him as handsome, if a bit lanky before now.
Seeing him like this, disheveled and half dressed, it was a revelation to realize his body was long and lean, rather than skinny.
Even his bare feet showed lines of muscle and sinew she wouldn’t have expected, had she ever given thought to a man’s feet before.
But those toes, curling into the carpet to balance his position, crouched and bent over as he was, caught her off guard.
Constance removed her bonnet as well, then set it and the cloak on the nearest surface—the desk chair, piled with books and several pieces of cutlery.
The earl shifted, still seemingly unaware of her presence, and the lines of his back actually rippled with the movement. A low whimper escaped before she turned the sound into a polite cough. “Milord?”
The heat building in her belly had to be discomfort or surprise, she told herself firmly. Any other emotion would be wildly inconvenient, all things considered.
He jerked his head around. “Oh good, you’re here.”
It must have been days since his cheeks had met a razor, and the effect shouldn’t have been so appealing.
The fire below her navel flared, sending sparks flying through her blood in a familiar sensation.
The fizzy pop of attraction acted like embers against a night sky spelling out that’s not disgust you’re feeling. Damn him.
“The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced this is your fault. Even if it weren’t, you’re the only person I could think to ask for help.”
The pull of attraction lessened somewhat, though it didn’t dissipate entirely. Her brows pinched together. “I am not sure if that’s an accusation or a compliment.”
“Both, I think,” the impossible earl said in that same bland tone he’d used when calling the cat hell spawn. At least, that’s what she assumed he was talking to a moment ago.
“For what am I being blamed?”
“Lucifer. Hell spawn. Or possibly George, in honor of our destructive and unlikable regent. I haven’t decided yet.”
Ah, so she was correct. If this room was any indication, it seemed their plan to wreak havoc on his orderly existence was working swimmingly.
“This is about the cat, is it?” Constance crossed to where he sprawled on the carpet, looking more casual than she’d imagined him capable of being.
The toes that had caused such a ruckus a moment before wiggled like a child’s playing in grass, and she wondered if he realized he’d done it.
She took a seat on the floor beside him, then peered under the cabinet.
“Hello, my darling. Are you giving him fits? Psss, psss.” Holding out her fingers, she fluttered them in greeting.
“If that thing comes right to you—bloody hell.” When the gray cat pranced out to Constance and climbed into her lap, Southwyn rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. “I give up.” A deep sigh rattled from his chest. His distractingly defined chest, given the way the thin shirt draped over him.
The kitten released a low rumbly purr, making Constance grin and earning a scratch under its chin. “Are some of those dishes yours? Have they been feeding you?”
“Yes,” Southwyn answered.
“I was speaking to the cat.”
“I assumed as much. As he has yet to master the King’s English, he can’t assure you that he hasn’t been starved, beaten, or abused in any manner. Well, except exposure to some strong language. My staff has kept us both fed and watered while my life spiraled out of control in this room.”
She glanced around, absently petting the cat. The animal was slightly less bony than the last time she’d seen it, despite not warming to its new master. And given the rough appearance of Southwyn, she suspected the reluctance was mutual.