Page 42 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)
Lay your cards on the table
Follow your heart. Even if it leads to disaster
C onstance suspected a master moved them about, like pieces on an invisible board. Except, the manipulator didn’t play chess. No, far worse. They were at the mercy of a novelist.
Lord Southwyn’s carriage thumped over a rut in the road, and Connie instinctively braced to anchor herself to the seat.
This wasn’t the carriage he’d bundled her into after kissing her soundly.
This was a traveling carriage, comfortable and luxurious.
And she suspected if the roads had not been in their current state from the abysmal weather, it would be a wonderfully smooth ride.
A less cushioned equipage would have left bruises on her bottom.
The duke’s carriage—where she was supposed to be right now—had been equally luxe.
Between Dorian, Caro, Constance, and Nathaniel in his sleeping basket, there hadn’t been room inside for Southwyn as well.
Besides, the men reasoned, with two carriages, they’d be free to explore the area around the property and surrounding area without leaving Caro and Constance stranded with an infant.
It had all sounded so terribly logical. She’d never suspected a thing.
Until Caro complained of a headache during their mid-journey stop.
The headache had struck rather suddenly, and Connie agreed that Caro looked a bit worn around the edges.
Purple smudges shadowed her eyes, and she seemed rather pale, in addition to wincing and shifting occasionally on the seat.
When asked if she’d mind moving to the other carriage, so Caro could lie down and rest for the remainder of the drive, Connie hadn’t hesitated.
Now, alone with Lord Southwyn for the foreseeable future, she wondered why Dorian hadn’t been as concerned about Caro’s comfort as one would expect.
The man doted on his wife to a nearly ridiculous degree.
Usually, the duke would have been brimming over with solutions or demands that they take a room at the inn and allow Caro to nap until she felt better.
Instead, he’d nodded sympathetically and said Connie moving to the other carriage sounded like a fine idea.
At times, it was only with reflection that things made sense.
Sure, Constance bubbled and smiled through most social situations, but often she’d think back and realize she’d been too chatty, or out of step with the emotions of the others.
This was one of those times. As each mile passed, she began to wonder if the meeting she’d interrupted the other day at Caro’s had actually been her cousins and Althea devising a way for Connie and Southwyn to be alone together.
Such as inviting them on a road trip to Kent after the weather wreaked havoc on the roads, then fabricating an excuse to put them in a carriage by themselves.
Southwyn was oblivious. In fact, during the brief times she’d seen him today, he looked more cheerful than usual. Smiling at Constance, drawing her into the conversation, and even touching her hand at the inn—twice.
While she’d never begrudge the man a fine mood, Constance was vexed that his grief over ending their relationship before it began had been so short-lived.
“I hope Caro feels better by the time we arrive at the cottage,” Southwyn said.
She pursed her lips. “Oh, I’m sure she will be right as rain by then.
” Although, if Constance were writing this plot, she’d make sure the young lovers had more than an hour or two in a carriage together.
If she were a betting woman, she’d play the odds on arriving at the Hollan home to eat and check on the condition of the cottage, as planned.
The day’s schedule called for them to head back toward Betsy’s house and assess the property for sale.
However, Constance expected she’d arrive at the cottage with Southwyn, then learn shortly thereafter that the duke and duchess wouldn’t be joining them.
A broken wheel, perhaps? Or claims of one, at any rate.
Constance studied the passing scenery as she pondered.
Betsy’s home must not be far from the Hollands’ current location.
If she were to hazard a guess, she predicted they’d stop there.
It would be far more comfortable than an inn.
Would they stay overnight? How long was she going to be alone with Southwyn?
A glance at the man in question showed him watching her with open curiosity. “What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t think you’ve ever been quiet for this long in my presence.”
“I’m thinking. Enjoy the silence. It doesn’t happen often,” she mused self-deprecatingly.
His handsome face creased into a scowl. “Don’t do that.”
She blinked. “Do what? Think?”
“Speak of yourself in a negative way. I enjoy your chatter.” His annoyance melted into a wry smirk. “Yes, I’m surprised to discover that as well. But it’s the truth. I’m usually flummoxed by what comes out of your mouth, and I… like that. A silent Constance Martin is unnerving.”
The noise she made might have been a snort, or a weak laugh. Honestly, she didn’t know which, as his simple statement so thoroughly stunned her.
“What were you thinking about?” he pressed.
Studying his face, Constance considered how he’d react if she shared her suspicions about their friends playing matchmaker.
“My brain is a hive of activity as usual,” she said instead. After all, they’d agreed—although not in so many words—to go back to how things were before their devastating kiss. Past Constance would never discuss such things with him.
Yet, Southwyn was being so kind. Did he still want to return to their previous relationship of mutual tolerance? Could they?
A few days earlier, Franklin Wellsley had visited the bookshop and given her a message for Althea. In short, Franklin loved her friend. Lack of a dowry wouldn’t sway his affections, and he was trying to find a way for them to be together.
Assuming Franklin succeeded, did that solve the other problems Southeyn had mentioned, but not explained?
Pushing for details now, when they’d already agreed to retreat to their non-romantic corners, felt like begging.
You listed two things as obstacles to us being together, and one of them is taking care of itself. Is that enough? Do you want me now?
Apparently, she could only beg with his mouth on her body. Memories of the way they’d been together on that one occasion immediately sprang to mind, making the carriage too warm for comfort.
With her focus on the passing scenery, Connie silently wrestled her myriad emotions under control. Cooler air seeped through the glass and felt wonderful on her face, as she leaned against the wall. The movement caused her cloak to fall open, bringing a chill to her overheated skin.
A noise from the other seat in the carriage made her look up.
Southwyn’s eyes were dark and fixed on the flesh swelling above her neckline.
It wasn’t even a terribly low neckline, more’s the pity.
Granted, it was low enough to warrant a fichu, which she’d abandoned an hour earlier after Nathaniel spit up on it.
She nearly laughed aloud as Southwyn’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
He wrenched his attention back to her face with such obvious effort, it was difficult not to preen.
It didn’t serve anything but her pride, but it was lovely to know she still affected him.
Taking pity on his fracturing composure, Connie tried to change the subject.
“Is there a particular reason you’re in a better mood today? I would enjoy some pleasant news for a change.”
God, the way his gaze slid so hungrily over her made the cold from the windows moot.
Southwyn’s throat worked again and all at once, she remembered the taste of his skin there.
The scent of his cologne filling her senses.
The rough abrasion of new beard stubble beneath her tongue, with a hint of salt.
How his chest vibrated against her when he spoke.
“My mood? Maybe it’s hope you’re seeing.
There were countless times this week when I considered calling on you.
” His eyes were bright as he unabashedly drank her in.
“I may have found a way for us to discover just how happy we could make one another. But I’m still sorting the details, and I knew you’d want to talk about everything. ”
“I thought you like hearing me talk, milord.” Not only was Wellsley searching for a way to be with Althea, but Southwyn hadn’t given up on them after all.
Constance’s heart felt more buoyant than it had in days as she leaned forward, hoping the light from the window effectively illuminated her cleavage for his viewing pleasure.
She felt his inspection like a caress, brushing her curls—oh God, the escapee hairs were probably twisting about her head like a lion’s mane—lingering on the cleft of her breasts, down to the outline of her thighs, and back up.
For once, he didn’t hide his appreciation. He didn’t appear to be hiding a single thing, in fact. Or maybe he didn’t realize his pupils took over that hazel color she loved so much. With his lips slightly open, Southwyn’s mouth practically begged for a kiss.
When he matched her posture and rested his elbows on his knees, their faces were mere inches apart. By the time he finished his perusal and met her eyes, she’d nearly forgotten what they were discussing.
Like they had in his study, he reached out his pinky finger and caught hers.
And just like the first time, the touch sent a shiver up her arm.
His small finger curled, bringing her hand into the cradle of his.
Then his thumb caressed a path along the thin skin of her inner wrist. Goose bumps rippled in his wake.
“I realize this requires a leap of faith for you. But I’m asking you to trust me. I’m trying my damndest to take care of Althea without marrying her myself.”