Page 14 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)

An entirely different, softer feeling grew as she took in the mess in a new light. The chaos told the story of a man who had tried.

And that… that melted her heart in a way that was dangerously close to spawning affection.

“When is the last time you left this study?”

He didn’t open his eyes and took long enough to answer that she almost thought he’d fallen asleep. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.” No wonder he hadn’t noticed his waistcoat was missing. The man was barely dressed. Without meaning to, her eyes lingered over his loose-limbed pose beside her.

“Ah.” A matched pair of deep lines appeared between his closed eyes. “When did you meet us in the park? Monday?”

“You’ve been in this room for three days?” She gaped in shock, not that he could see it.

Not only had he neglected shaving for the last three days, but with his eyes closed and lying so still, she couldn’t miss the purple shadows under his eyes, and the way his hair stood on end every which way, as if he’d run his fingers through it countless times.

“Althea gave me orders. Not only am I forbidden from losing this beast, I am to win over its affections as well. I thought I could do it, but the monster resists all efforts. You’re my last resort.

You have a cat that clearly tolerates you and is thriving if its sheer size is anything to go by.

” Those eyes—a rather surprising hazel—opened.

Perversely, the bloodshot nature of them actually increased their green flecks, making them more attractive.

Damn and double damn. “Teach me your ways, Miss Martin. Teach me how to get this thing to love me.”

Her incredulous laughter took them both by surprise.

Southwyn’s eyes—still green hazel, exhausted, and far too direct for comfort—flared with what she’d think was admiration on anyone else, and she had to look away.

This whole situation was so far beyond what she’d expected when plotting to upend his life.

Had she wanted him uncomfortable? Yes. Inconvenienced?

Of course. Had she anticipated being acutely aware of him, and his scruffy beard, and those blasted eyes?

Or sitting beside him on the floor of an untidy study in which he’d locked himself while attempting to woo a mostly feral cat?

Never. Not in a million years.

Constance peered down at the kitten, now contentedly curled in a spiral of fur on her lap, sneaking a snooze. “Why is it so important to win its affections?”

He seemed to give that genuine consideration, and part of her was surprised he didn’t merely brush off the question. Perhaps he was too exhausted to operate at his usual level of aloofness. Which was a pity, because she liked him better this way.

“If I give my word, I do everything I can to keep it. I told Althea I’d take care of her furry little hell spawn, so I will.

But also… he’s so scared. Of everything.

Of me. Loud noises. A cart tipped over outside in the mews sometime last night, and I thought he was going to fly out of his skin.

No one should be that scared all the time.

So, if I make him love me, it solves both problems.”

Her teeth clamped so firmly on her lower lip, she was in danger of breaking skin, as she bit back a smile. “Of course. Several problems, one solution. Very efficient.”

“Quite. Two birds, one stone, and all that.” Southwyn watched her out of the corner of his eye. A twitch at the edge of his mouth resembled a budding smile.

Clearing her throat, Constance stared down at the cat instead of the man who suddenly felt as if he took up all the space in the room. “You might begin by giving him a name. Perhaps something princely and a touch exotic, to give him something to aspire to.”

“Exotic? Do you know a word in another language that sounds nice, but means ‘shits on the rug at two in the morning’? If so, we will name him that.”

A laugh escaped as she shook her head. “You need to let the poor thing outside to relieve himself. What did you expect?”

“If I let it out, it will run away. If it runs away, Althea will throw a tantrum. If Althea throws a tantrum, my life will become uncomfortable. Do you see the problem? The maids brought a large pan in for it to use. We lined it with newspapers. He’s used it twice, although he isn’t happy about the situation, and isn’t using it exclusively. ”

“I suppose a collar and lead was out of the question for some reason?”

“He’d have to let me catch him first, and you can see for yourself how well that’s going.”

Lord Stuffy Pants didn’t seem like such a fitting name anymore.

Not seeing him like this. Guilt over the way she’d mocked him tried to rear its head and she batted it away.

For one thing, Southwyn hadn’t known about the moniker.

Also, she hadn’t known he was capable of being anything besides tightly controlled and vaguely annoyed all the time.

Constance wrinkled her nose. “That explains the smell.”

“In all fairness, the smell might also be me. But yes, most of it is from Carpet Pisser over there.”

A snort escaped, and she tried not to let it turn into another full laugh.

Besides, he was wrong. While he didn’t smell particularly fresh, she could detect the complex notes of his cologne or soap lingering faintly on his skin. Lemons, rosemary, and perhaps a trace of sandalwood, she thought. A combination she’d smelled before, though it had never affected her like this.

Constance closed her eyes and tried to hone in on the other scents—cat odors, sweat, dust—to combat this unwelcome awareness of him.

“First things first. The pan is a good idea until he will accept a leash and lead. Cats like to bury their waste. It keeps them safe from predators if they hide their smells, you see. Bring in dirt from the garden and fill the pan with that.”

He rolled his head to look at her directly. “That’s rather ingenious. Thank you. Luckily, I happen to have soil from the plant he just murdered. What about the rest of it?”

“The rest of what? Handling him? Has he let you touch him at all?”

“Once, this morning.”

“That’s progress.” As she stroked the furry body in her lap, a vibration began in an answering purr. “He’s fine with me and Althea, so I suspect the issue is you’re a man. A man probably hurt him.”

Southwyn glanced at her lap and, she assumed, the sleeping cat. “I arrived at the same conclusion. However, if my maleness is the issue, that may be an insurmountable problem.”

Constance shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing is truly insurmountable. After all, you aren’t the one who hurt him.

Given enough time, he will learn you aren’t a threat.

He will simply love you for yourself. For whoever you are at your core.

” She risked a glance and saw him staring at her with an intense expression she couldn’t decipher.

“As long as who you really are is a good person, Prince Puddles here will eventually trust you.”

A crooked smile tilted his mouth, and the fact that it wasn’t straight and perfect did something to her insides. Oh, this feeling was not helpful. “Prince Puddles?”

“He needs a name, and given the state of this room, it seems fitting.”

“Prince Puddles it is. Making him feline royalty might restore a bit of his dignity.” Southwyn lolled his head back to stare at the ceiling, and within moments his eyes closed again.

“Dignity, eh? I thought he was hell spawn.”

“Everyone is allowed dignity, even demons from the pit of hell.”

Tiny hairs stuck up along the edge of Prince’s ear. When she brushed her finger over them, the entire ear twitched. “Althea gifted you with quite the challenge, didn’t she?”

“I think she’s trying to make a point, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is. She gave a whole speech about proving I was capable of caring, et cetera. I’ve known her for too long to believe that’s all this is.”

“Have you considered simply asking her?”

“I tried, but I don’t think she’s being truthful. If she doesn’t want to tell me, then so be it.”

Constance rolled her eyes. Althea had mentioned his disinterest and emotional detachment.

This attitude certainly supported that. If he knew his fiancée wasn’t being frank, shouldn’t that inspire a deeper concern or curiosity to understand the woman he intended to marry?

Whether it was the result of deliberate disinterest or an asinine level of male obtuseness, she didn’t know.

However, when essentially trapped with a semiferal kitten, he’d reached out to Connie rather than ask Althea for help. Stubborn, obstinate man. “I’m beginning to see why she isn’t looking forward to marrying you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Gently shifting the kitten to the carpet next to her, Constance rose to her feet and brushed the fur from her skirts.

“Dignity goes hand in hand with respect, wouldn’t you agree?

” She didn’t wait for his answer. “You honor the dignity of a feral cat, yet can’t extend the same respect to the woman you’re planning to marry.

How hard you’re trying to win over Prince is your saving grace right now.

Otherwise, I’d let this kitten claw your eyes out and leave you to your fate. ”

Southwyn watched her with a wary, albeit confused, expression. Even if he didn’t know what brought on her current emotion, he was paying attention.

“Cats are carnivores, you know. Like little tigers or lions. If you died in your sleep, he would eat your corpse before anyone was the wiser.” Despite the macabre statement, Connie bent and stroked the kitten one more time.

“Lord Southwyn, if I may, I’d like to offer some advice.

Whether it applies to your fiancée, or a woman sometime in the future after you wake up and realize how ill-suited you and Althea are, I suggest you exert the same effort in understanding her that you’ve shown for Prince.

We are not the unknowable mystery poets make us out to be.

Ask a woman what she needs, then listen to her.

I know Althea has told you what she needs, yet you’re more concerned with this kitten’s comfort than with that of the woman you’ve promised to marry.

If you respected Althea as much as this animal, you’d help her retain her dignity as well. ”

Constance gathered her bonnet and cloak from the chair.

Feeling extra combative in the face of this unwelcome, yet familiar, awareness, along with a healthy portion of frustration toward men in general, she held Southwyn’s gaze and deliberately moved the inkwell on his desk six inches to the left.

Then, lifting her chin defiantly, she plucked the stack of papers from beside the inkwell, threw them into the air, and made her exit as they fluttered to the floor.

As expected from a well-trained butler, the unsmiling man met her in the foyer and waited by the door. However, even an excellent servant of his ilk couldn’t have guessed at the way she silently chastised herself while she donned her things.

You know better than to lecture a powerful man like that.

It is asking for trouble of the sort you don’t need right now.

And yes, making a dramatic exit and leaving a mess behind you felt wonderful.

But don’t think I didn’t notice how completely alive you felt in there.

The way her pulse rabbited at her throat was exhilarating, even though half of it came from the way his eyes had followed her with rapt attention.

Drawing in a sense of calm, Constance willed her first response into extinction.

Her role today was to help him win over a cat and advance Althea’s agenda.

That was all. Perhaps he would take her advice, listen to his fiancée, cry off, and everything would sort itself.

Then she’d never need tell her friend that she’d momentarily forgotten her place and told the earl he should care more—when the ultimate goal was to make him care even less. Enough to run away and set Althea free.

Tugging on her gloves, Constance shook away the thoughts and addressed the butler.

“Give his lordship bits of meat to offer the cat, and tell him to feed the kitten by hand. No more bowls or saucers unless it is water or cream. Have someone fill the cat’s pan with soil from the garden, if not the dirt from the plant he knocked over.

Also, bring used linens from the earl’s bed into the study for the kitten to sleep on.

The faster Prince Puddles adjusts to his lordship’s scent, the faster they can make peace with one another.

Once they’re on better terms, I suggest leaving the cat in that room for a few more days before allowing him to roam in the house.

Such a large space will be overwhelming to a small animal. ”

“I beg your pardon, but… Prince Puddles?”

Constance stopped before a large mirror and tied the ribbon of her bonnet in a jaunty bow, even though the bleak weather outside would make her efforts moot within minutes.

“I think it appropriate. Whether the earl realizes it or not, that tiny bundle of fur outranks him.” She offered the butler a sunny, albeit forced smile.

“Are my instructions clear? Do we need to write down anything for your staff?”

The butler somehow managed to straighten his spine further, until he resembled a soldier standing at attention.

“No doubt we shall manage. I will send you a missive should we need elaboration. Thank you, Miss Martin.” His demeanor softened.

“I hope if you have reason to visit again, you’ll see his lordship in a state more appropriate to his position. He’s not himself right now.”

In her mind she saw the image of Lord Southwyn lounging half-dressed on the floor of his study as he swore at a cat, and it made her smile.

That might not have been reflective of the earl’s grand status, but she’d never found him more appealing than when he’d smiled at her with those bloodshot hazel eyes.

“I’m sure he will be feeling more like himself soon,” she said, believing every word, and hating the twist of disappointment in her gut.