Page 29 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)

Find a way to reach Franklin (did Althea ever tell me his last name?)

Find out who Franklin is

Invoices. Just do them

Answer customer mail

Send another note to Althea asking how she is (Maybe sixth time’s the charm)

T here are customers asking for you,” Hattie said from the office doorway.

Constance held up a finger, silently telling her cousin she’d be there in a minute, then gulped tea to wash down the last bite of meat pasty she’d eaten while she worked.

Glancing at the clock, she winced. How had it only been an hour since she started the invoices?

More time should have passed. Several hours, if not days.

Wearily eyeing the stack of papers still awaiting her attention, she silently vowed to return and finish the task, then stood.

After a single hour at the desk, her brain felt like it might melt from her ears, and her eyes burned.

How was she going to do this every day for the rest of her life?

The books themselves, the customers, designing eye-catching displays?

Dealing with them was second nature by this point.

But this cramped office, with its endless demands of filing, recordkeeping, and writing down every last detail…

she had to find a way to thrive here if she was to keep Martin House.

With a heavy heart, she stepped onto the sales floor.

It had been over a week since she’d seen or heard from Althea, so finding her perusing the shelves with Lord Southwyn came as a surprise.

The last time she’d been in their presence, Althea had essentially called her fiancé a bully, and he’d silently accepted the accusation.

Now they appeared perfectly content in one another’s presence. What had she missed?

Several other customers milled about the store. Hattie was busy wrapping a parcel with paper and twine as she spoke with one of their older patrons.

Constance recalled the date, then nodded.

Yes, Mrs. McArthur usually visited the shop during the first week of the month.

Which meant the parcel contained one new purchase—usually a torrid novel, like those Caro wrote as Blanche Clementine—and three books from their lending library.

Smiling a silent greeting at the woman, Constance turned her attention back to the newcomers and dipped a curtsy.

“Lord Southwyn, Althea. This is a pleasure.”

“Miss Martin,” came the deep greeting. Although she tried to ignore the way his voice affected her, she understood now how Gingersnap must feel each time he arched into her hand when she scratched that one spot on his back. Constance gritted her teeth at how much she liked the sound.

Althea laid one dainty hand on Southwyn’s arm and smiled prettily up at him as they exchanged a few quiet words.

The way she leaned close made it seem like an intimate moment, and Constance caught herself retreating toward the safety of the office.

Irritation at the instinct forced her to still, and she silently berated herself for the surge of jealousy she felt at seeing them together like this.

The self-chastisements would have to wait, however. Because when Lord Southwyn gave her a nod, then wandered deeper into the shop, Althea faced Connie with a vastly different attitude. Like a mask had dropped, her face changed from demure and sweet to intense and a little angry.

“I don’t have much time,” Althea hissed.

“Is everything all right?” Constance followed her to the side of the store furthest from Southwyn.

“Not at all. Connie, for all intents and purposes, I’m a captive in my own home.

Father has done everything short of posting a guard outside my bedroom door.

No messages allowed in or out of the house.

The only time I leave my room during the day is when Oliver calls to take me somewhere.

Mother told everyone I have a knee injury and can’t dance at events.

One of my parents sits beside me all evening when we’re out in society. ”

This sounded like one of Caro’s stories. Minus the entertaining bedroom escapades, unfortunately. “Your father has become the villain we feared. Are you unharmed?”

“He hasn’t laid a hand on me, if that’s what concerns you. Father prefers to force his will on others—which doesn’t leave a mark to incite gossip.”

“You say Lord Southwyn escorts you about. So, he knows all this and has done nothing?” Constance shot a look at the man currently examining the lending library section by the front windows.

Even with the backdrop of a world drenched in dirty mop water, he stood out to her as something rather brilliant and beautiful.

The line of his back seemed tense in this public place.

Not the relaxed posture he’d had at the breakfast table when she saw him last.

If he was as culpable as Althea thought, then the man truly was a wolf in disguise.

A small kernel of doubt stopped Connie from loathing the sight he made.

His straight posture made her fingers itch to unwind him.

To see Southwyn soften and smile for her in his shirtsleeves.

Because that version of the earl struck her as honest, somehow.

And Honest Southwyn might shed light on the situation.

Hadn’t he said there were extenuating circumstances to discuss with Althea?

The paltry words they’d exchanged within Connie’s hearing hadn’t been enough to clarify much of anything.

It was hard to comprehend how the suitor Althea described could be one and the same with a man who fed a kitten fresh kippers out of a porcelain dish and ensured Constance’s feet had a warm brick during a short carriage ride on a rainy day.

“You heard Oliver just as clearly as I did. He specifically questioned if I knew Father planned to withhold my dowry should I try to marry anyone other than his precious earl. Pretty promises about making me happy count for nothing when he’s cooperating with my parents.”

Horror held Constance’s mouth agape. She’d been so sure he was different. “That’s what he was talking about when he asked about your dowry?” She stared back at Southwyn, trying to merge what she knew of him into one image.

“Father is determined to get his way, even at the cost of making me unattractive to other suitors and knowing he ruins any chance I might have at happiness. I told my parents there was someone else I prefer, and this quasi-imprisonment is their response.”

Constance swiveled her gaze back to Althea. “You told them about Franklin? I recently realized I don’t know any details beyond his first name. Without more, I’m not sure how I can help.”

Althea clutched Constance’s hands in hers.

“I promise I’ll explain everything when we have more time.

As to how you can help, I have an idea. During the last dance we shared, before my fabricated injury, Franklin admitted he loves me too.

However, I can’t write to him, and he can’t get near me at events with my parents standing guard. ”

Constance nodded. “Yes, of course. Do you need me to deliver a letter? Perhaps use the shop’s mail system and communicate with him that way?”

“I can’t risk putting this debacle in writing and it falling into the wrong hands.

Franklin says he loves me, but who knows how he will feel when he learns that I have no dowry and a family threatening to disown me if we wed.

We will need to take drastic measures if we’re to be together—if he still wants me once he knows of my true circumstances. ”

Constance grimaced. Promises and romantic declarations, no matter how heartfelt, were fragile things. Having been on the breaking side of those promises, she knew that more than anyone. “What can I do?”

Althea drew in a deep breath, and that was when Constance realized that whatever her friend was about to ask of her, it would be well beyond anything she’d mentally prepared for.

What the devil was Constance Martin doing here?

Oliver craned his neck to peer around the dancers lining up as the music began.

The damned woman was so short, it was nearly impossible to spy her head amidst everyone’s shoulders.

Thankfully, even though she’d made a valiant effort to contain her curls in a fashionable coiffure, the sheer mass of her hair added several inches to her height.

Rather than looking for her blue eyes, or that distracting dimple, he searched for a puff of blond curls.

Who knew how long it had been since she’d arrived at Lady Bellingham’s event, or how long she intended to stay, but her presence at all was highly suspect.

Over the next few excruciatingly long minutes, he tracked her progress around the perimeter of the ballroom by following the male heads turning in one direction. When she stopped on the other side of the dance floor, and he took in the full impact her, he understood why.

Fuck, she was beautiful. She’d been lovely in her simple day gowns and cotton aprons in the bookshop. And he’d seen her in a rather nice gown during that dinner party at Dorian and Caroline’s. Neither of those ensembles did her justice.

Coral-pink satin traced her curves and made her skin glow in the light of hundreds of candles overhead.

Bountiful breasts pushed against the low neckline of her gown, framed and seemingly barely contained by delicate lace trim designed to draw the eye.

As if her natural form wasn’t eye-catching enough.

With those wild blond curls pinned high on her head, her unadorned earlobes and neck seemed exceptionally naked, leaving observers little recourse but to imagine this delicious creature actually naked.

The whole effect made Oliver both ready to pant after her and growl like a dog with a bone at anyone who dared look her way.

And they were looking. Not just because she was stunning, but also because Miss Martin was a new face in a room of people well-known to one another.