Page 20 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)
He’d give anything to have her beside him now, using that same quiet confidence to guide him through this dinner party.
Dorian vacillated between hovering protectively over his extremely pregnant duchess and preening with pride when Caro said something particularly witty.
The Dowager Duchess Holland, never an easy woman to decipher, seemed overjoyed at the expected child itself, but only a hair beyond tolerant toward the woman carrying said child. Even this long after the wedding, the dowager appeared determined to shape Caro into a proper duchess.
Which allowed ample opportunity for Caro’s cousins to tease and generally poke holes in the illusion of haute ton the dowager desperately attempted to create during what was supposed to be a relaxed family dinner.
For Althea’s part, she’d thrown her lot in with the cousins. While not actively poking the bear—in this case, the dowager—Althea was happy to laugh encouragingly at their antics and jest with Miss Martin.
Fascinated, and feeling much like he had as a boy petting a zebra for the first time, Oliver chewed a mouthful of roast beef and listened intently to the conversations whizzing about the table with the speed and accuracy of bullets.
“Your Grace, you simply must eat. The child needs red meat,” the dowager was saying.
“If I eat another bite of meat, I will cast up my accounts. That, I can promise you.” Caro winced for a long moment and held her breath before releasing it slowly. “Someday, I will exact revenge for the way this child is digging its toes into my lungs.”
Miss Martin tsked and shook her head in feigned disappointment, and Oliver felt a preemptive shot of amusement at whatever would come out of her mouth next.
“I’m not a doctor, but I’m fairly certain your baby isn’t floating around inside you, and able to tickle your lungs.
Do I need to bring you an anatomy text from the shop?
I found the most interesting book last week.
The illustrations are incredibly detailed. Especially the reproductive bits.”
Dorian closed his eyes while he drank deeply from his wineglass.
The other cousin, Miss McCrae, muttered, “Oh God, must you antagonize her?” and set down her fork with a clatter of metal on china.
Althea’s head swiveled to watch Caro’s reaction, but her eyes went a bit swimmy. Likely from how much wine she’d consumed.
The duchess glared daggers at her blond cousin, who sat across from Oliver.
“This child doesn’t tickle. It jabs. It spears my insides with its sharp little knife fingers and toes.
And all that is after it forcibly ejects everything I eat from my body.
I can’t wait for you to be with child, Connie.
I plan to mock you without mercy while you suffer, and the revenge will be sweet. ”
Miss Martin grinned. “Luckily, that’s a dish best served cold, since I don’t have plans to procreate anytime soon.”
“Especially not if you insist on running away from the altar,” the dowager intoned.
Red blotches colored Miss Martin’s cheeks as her smile tightened at the corners. Before she could reply, Caro pointed a finger at her mother-in-law. “No. You won’t be vile to my family. I may tease and threaten. You may not.”
“That’s quite all right, darling,” Miss Martin said, then addressed the older woman. “Better to run away and be happy alone, than marry someone who would turn me into a miserable old woman.”
Althea raised her glass. “Hear, hear!”
The dowager quirked a silvery eyebrow at Oliver. “Perhaps, Lord Southwyn, your bride is entertaining second thoughts.”
Or twenty-second. Miss Martin caught his gaze, and he feared for a moment that she saw too much.
Oliver looked away, forcing his attention back to Althea, who held her empty glass out to a footman while flirting rather shamelessly as he refilled her wine.
From his place beside her, Oliver had a clear view of her fluttering eyelashes and overheard her quiet comment about how large the servant’s hands were, and how…
generous… he was with the pour. Subtle, she was not.
The footman’s cheeks turned pink, and Oliver couldn’t help but pity the man as he cast worried glances in his direction.
Jealousy, or any number of other emotions, might have reared their head at her perfectly delivered inuendo. Oliver noted, as if observing himself like an animal behind bars, he felt… nothing.
Ironically, the utter lack of emotion concerned him more than Althea’s indiscreet behavior. There were no feelings upon which to apply logic and navigate the awkward moment. Just absolute apathy.
“I’ve heard rumors of a wedding date this Season but have yet to receive my invitation in the mail,” the dowager said.
Oliver offered a smile as false as Miss Martin’s had been a second ago.
Over the years, Dorian’s mother had been generous with him, and he didn’t want to offend.
But the general rule to surviving any kind of relationship with the dowager was to never let her see your soft underbelly.
“No need to worry, Your Grace. I’m positive you’re on the guest list and will receive details when a time slot at St. George’s becomes available.
Althea and I shall contend with the details of our marriage, while you bounce your grandchild on your knee. ”
Miss McCrae interjected, “I read last year that St. George’s sees a thousand weddings per year.
Can you imagine? Someone will have to cancel their nuptials or die for Althea to get a wedding date.
With all that schedule jostling, how are you supposed to read the banns?
Or do you intend to use a license to wed? ”
Oliver and Althea looked at one another, as if the other might know the answer to the questions. Finally, he shrugged.
Miss McCrae seemed content to accept that, and continued, “I, for one, don’t intend to wed at all.
Marriage as an institution isn’t beneficial to a woman in the vast majority of situations.
Caro is lucky to have a husband who doesn’t see her as the weaker party, or merely property he’s acquired.
Unfortunately, most men aren’t so enlightened. ”
“My incomparable wife would smother me in my sleep if I dared insinuate she was weak in any way,” Dorian said with a level of cheer rarely seen when discussing one’s own possible demise.
“You know me well,” Caro agreed. The same footman who’d been attending Althea moved to remove the duchess’s plate, and she thanked him. Oliver couldn’t help but note that despite her claims of being full, she’d hardly eaten a thing all night and only sipped at her beverage.
“Of course, you seem like a decent-enough sort, Lord Southwyn,” Miss McCrae continued. “Our present company might consist of the last two men in England who don’t act like a horse’s arse.”
Oliver laughed. “Damned by faint praise, but I’ll accept it.”
“Well, since both of you are off the marriage mart, I needn’t feel bad about avoiding the parson’s trap for the indefinite future,” Miss Martin quipped, and for a brief flash of time, that bright, dimpled smile was aimed at him.
Her comment could have been flirtatious, but given the circumstances, it wasn’t.
Charming, yes. But flirtatious? Absolutely not.
A stab of something twisted in his chest, but before Oliver could examine it with the same distanced fascination his mother had shown her precious gorilla skull, a glass shattered on the floor.
Dorian shot to his feet. “Caro?”
The duchess clutched her stomach as a white ring of tension formed around her pursed lips.
Her cousins sprang to their feet in an instant, but the dowager held out a hand. “Give her space. Don’t crowd the woman.” Surprising everyone, Dorian’s mother pushed the shards of glass aside with her foot, then knelt at Caro’s knee. “Breathe,” she commanded.
Caro sat still as a statue, her face turning an alarming shade of red.
The dowager slapped her hand on the table, making everyone jump. “Breathe. Yes, it hurts. But you must breathe through it .”
Dorian rubbed his wife’s neck, and Caro dropped her chin to her chest as she exhaled slowly. The duke stared at his mother. “Is the baby coming now?”
The dowager nodded. “Yes. Now, are you going to stand there like a ninny, or make yourself useful?”