Page 28 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)

But did she know that? Did she realize that any man who caught her fancy should be thanking the bloody stars?

Because after meeting her sister and seeing the way Miss Martin accepted teasing from her family, he wasn’t so sure.

He’d hated the way she’d smiled while comparing herself to her sister and saying nothing positive.

Hated it. It made him want to shake every adult in that room who laughed at her expense.

Which was a novel experience for Oliver.

That nearly overwhelming urge to somehow protect Miss Martin from believing the nonsense she spouted from those plush lips had taken him by surprise.

Neither the shaking nor the desire to defend her made any kind of sense, so he’d sat immobile until the subject changed.

“What does that expression on your face mean, milord?”

Oliver then took a bite of eggs that had gone cold. It would be impossible to explain his thoughts without initiating a conversation he couldn’t have. Besides, his head was too muddled. God only knew what would come out of his mouth if he tried to speak, so he held his tongue.

“I’m on my way to visit Althea and thought I’d stop and see Prince.

” A nervous lilt to her words made him think she spoke to fill the awkward silence he’d created, which meant he’d made her uncomfortable.

Again, the need to soothe and protect reared its head, and some part of his brain made a note that the urge didn’t stem from any part of his groin region.

Which was worrisome. Finding someone attractive was one thing. But this—

“Thank you for the tea. It will fortify me for the rest of the walk.”

“No need to walk. I’ve plenty of room in my carriage and planned to call anyway.

Sir William is expecting me.” After a second’s hesitation, he finished the thought, allowing each word to be a brick in a wall between his troubled thoughts, and the reality of his duty.

“I’m picking up the marriage contracts today. ”

Beside him, Miss Martin went still. Understanding her reaction or asking about her feelings wasn’t something he could allow himself to do, however, so Oliver drained his tea, then offered a final scratch on the kitten’s head.

“You’re sure you’ll only take tea?” At her nod, he rose.

“Then I’ll gather my coat and be ready to leave when you are. ”

If she worried over his odd mood, it wasn’t any of his concern. Or at least, that’s what he told himself when he left the room, refusing to look back.

Men were the most confounding creatures. Welcoming and offering a woman tea on a drizzly morning one minute, then distant and cold the next. For a short time, Constance had felt a kinship with Southwyn as they sat in the domestic environment of his breakfast table.

The warm welcome had been more than she expected when the impulse to call struck.

She’d used the excuse of checking on the kitten, but the reality was that she wanted to see what would happen if they were alone again.

Would he be Lord Stuffy Pants, or would she catch another glimpse of the man who’d sprawled on the floor half-dressed and spoken so openly with her?

During the time it took to drink a cup of tea, he’d been the man from his study. If she could, Connie would have spent the whole day at his table, befriending that side of him.

Lord Southwyn had been kind, and even—dare she think it—admiring. Then, quick as a slamming door, he’d changed and shut her out. No instigating action on her part, and God knows she’d examined the conversation in her head from every angle since climbing into his carriage.

It reminded her of that moment in Caro’s hallway, when she assumed he wanted to kiss her. Then, as today, he’d coolly dismissed her instead.

Rejection stung, no matter how overt or subtle. Once again, without warning or communication, he’d judged her and found her wanting.

To make matters more confusing, after reverting to the haughty version of himself, Lord Southwyn prioritized her well-being in the carriage.

There were warming bricks for her feet, but none for his.

A lap blanket for her, while he made do with his oilskin cloak, which gleamed with moisture from the short walk between his door and the carriage.

Rain beaded along the brim of his hat. Constance watched the tiny pool of water overflow the edge of black felt, then drip onto the dark blue velvet seat. He didn’t seem to notice.

Once he ensured her comfort, Southwyn turned toward the window and didn’t glance at her again.

His profile belonged on a coin, she thought. Carved permanently into a mold, then cast in metal for everyone to admire. Had she such a coin, the face would be smooth from her fingers tracing the lines of his jaw and chin.

Lord Southwyn wasn’t a large man, or particularly burly.

Compared to her, he was a bit of a giant, but standing next to Dorian, he appeared entirely average.

The word made her bite her lip the moment it crossed her mind.

No, not average. Bulk didn’t matter when his body was so lean and strong, and moved so capably and confidently through a room.

Heaven knew how the memory of him in his shirtsleeves always caused a flutter in her core.

Southwyn had the kind of face that would age well, she thought, looking her fill while he ignored her.

It was easy to imagine silver hair at his temples and deeper lines around his eyes and mouth.

For his sake, Constance hoped those lines came from laughter.

Years of laughing might leave a map on his features, and it would be a delightful thing to witness firsthand.

Not that she would be nearby for any of that. Unless, of course, she failed to help Althea, and he married her dear friend. Imagining years in which she tried to maintain a friendship with his wife sent a shudder through her body.

Southwyn’s boot nudged the warm brick closer to her toes. She’d have sworn until then that he’d forgotten she was in the carriage.

Warmth seeped through her leather walking boots, as she wiggled her toes. Another kind of warmth, bittersweet from her musings, curled through her chest.

Perhaps she should rethink her cousin’s offer to find someone with similar qualities as Southwyn. Staring out the window, Connie pretended interest in the gray rain-smeared scenery and compiled a list of qualities she’d want in such a man.

Someone who cared for the little details of her comfort.

A partner who saw to the specifics of daily life would be ideal, she decided.

Especially since she often forgot to do some of those simple things for herself.

Not that she meant to neglect herself or her surroundings, but when her attention focused elsewhere, everything else slipped her mind entirely.

Having a husband who made sure she was warm on a rainy day or checked to be sure she’d remembered to eat before leaving the house would be wonderful.

Loving animals was nonnegotiable. Any person she chose had to like cats especially, and other animals in general.

The memory of Prince perched on a chair with his own dish of breakfast kippers made her smile.

Even though Southwyn’s smile had shuttered and he’d turned cold, he’d still brushed a gentle caress on the kitten’s head before leaving the room. Yes, a kind man.

A man who was, at his core, a decent person, who would try to do the right thing. Which caused a question she’d harbored for a while to spill from her lips without thinking.

“Why are you so hell-bent on marrying Althea?”

Either her voice or her words made him jolt and blink, like she’d woken him from a daydream. His hazel eyes narrowed on her. “I beg your pardon?”

Blast. She should think before speaking.

Constance bit her bottom lip. Withdrawing the question now would be gutless.

“I know it’s presumptuous to ask. But Althea is a friend and we speak openly about the situation, so I know you two aren’t a love match.

She’s been vocal about her reluctance to marry you.

Forgive my impertinence, but you don’t seem like the kind of man who would force a woman into marriage. So… why?”

Lord Southwyn took his time answering, appearing to consider his words before finally speaking.

“One of the reasons I’m visiting in person is to discuss several things with Althea.

If she wishes to tell you of our conversation, that is between the two of you.

But suffice to say, marrying me is her best chance at a comfortable future.

We may not be a love match, but I care for her.

I’ve known her nearly all my life. I hope, once she understands the situation, she might feel favorably toward the match. ”

Interesting. There may be more afoot than she or Althea realized. Or at least, Southwyn believed that was the case. Constance wondered how her friend would view the engagement after today.

Something dull and tender, like a bruise, settled under her breastbone at the thought of Althea and Lord Southwyn standing in a church, happily making vows to each other.

Jealousy tasted bitter in her mouth, but she forced sweet words anyway.

“You both deserve happiness. If it is with one another, I wish you well. With time, I hope love will grow between you.”

All at once, the warmth from the brick at her feet and the weight of the blanket were too much.

Connie tucked her feet to the side and busied her hands by folding the heavy quilt into a lumpy squarish shape.

If she focused intently on the task, there’d be no way to fall into the trap of searching Southwyn’s face for clues to his thoughts and emotions.

And he couldn’t do the same to her, should he be so inclined. If he somehow read her mind and sensed her feelings, she would die. Just die of mortification.

Thankfully, the coach slowed, then stopped. When she looked up, the familiar facade of the Thompson townhouse gleamed white and gray in the damp morning.

A footman opened the door, and she offered a quiet thanks when he helped her to the pavement.

Inside the foyer, the butler hurried toward them. “I beg your pardon, milord, miss. Sir William and Miss Thompson are indisposed. This might not be the best time to call.”

As if on cue, the deep roar of Sir William’s voice bellowed into the hall when a door opened. “Another word from you and you’ll regret it, foolish girl! Now, get out of my sight.”

Althea appeared, with a red face and stony expression, slamming the heavy wood door behind her.

Lord Southwyn hurried toward Althea, but Constance stood rooted to the spot. Would her friend want witnesses to this? Wouldn’t their presence embarrass her? And what on earth—Southwyn asked the question before she could.

“What’s happened?” He grasped Althea’s shoulders with so much concern on his face that Constance felt even more like an outsider.

“I told my father in no uncertain terms that I don’t want to go through with the engagement.”

To his credit, the man she was supposed to meet at the altar merely nodded. “I see. That’s what the yelling was about, then. Did he explain about the circumstances with your dowry? Why it’s best we move forward? I wish there was a better way to see you settled. I truly do.”

Althea shook off his hands. “Oh, he explained everything. No dowry, no choice in the matter. I’m to obey, as always.

He doesn’t want a daughter; he wants a trained hound.

” Her eyes met Constance’s. “I’m sorry you had to see this, Connie.

Might we reschedule our visit for another day?

I am not great company at the moment. Besides, I’ve been sent to my room like a child. ”

Constance rushed forward and wrapped her in a hug. Under her hands, Althea’s frame quaked with emotion, even as she woodenly returned the embrace.

“I am here for whatever you need, darling. Be proud of yourself for your bravery. It sounds like your father was awful.”

“I’ll visit the shop or get word to you soon. I’m not done with this yet,” Althea whispered, then drew away and turned toward the staircase.

“I’ll do my best to make you happy, Althea. Please know that. Whatever life we make has to be better than what you just went through, right?” Lord Southwyn stared up at where Althea stood.

“That you’re willing to go along with my father’s wishes makes you complicit in his bullying. Only, you’re quieter about it, and don’t call me names.” The hurt and anger in Althea’s voice made Constance’s eyes burn.

Lord Southwyn dropped his chin to his chest. From Constance’s vantage point, he seemed to study his hands as his jaw flexed. The confidence she associated with him was nowhere in sight. He offered no arguments or defenses.

Without another word, Althea continued upstairs. Constance glanced around the foyer. The servants had made themselves scarce. Probably for the best that she hadn’t had a chance to remove her cloak or bonnet. Now she could slip away without a fuss.

Lord Southwyn, however, still stood with his head bowed. The usually straight line of his shoulders slumped under the weight of his emotions, whatever they were. She wished, fruitless as it might be, that she knew him well enough to guess at his thoughts.

Except, they weren’t on the same side of this scuffle, were they? Althea said she’d continue in her efforts, and Constance would help her. Because that’s what she’d agreed to do, and that’s what a friend would do. Althea needed a friend right now.

Seeing him struggling made her want to reach out and be a friend to him as well. Instead, Constance cleared her throat. “I will leave you to collect the marriage contract, milord. Thank you for the ride. I’ll make my own way home.”