Page 47 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)
Talk to Caro about Martin House
H e was a dunderhead of the first order.
Oliver tended to make a decision, then stick to it, no matter what.
Sometimes because his initial choice was the correct one, and sometimes out of sheer stubbornness.
Before now, he hadn’t encountered many moments of regret regarding his lack of experience in love.
This, however, was one of those times. Would a man who’d fallen in and out of love with multiple partners recognize the ideal time to confess his love to a woman?
Because clearly, he’d fumbled that spectacularly.
Oliver made a huff of disgust at the paper on his lap desk, when another bump in the road made the letters scrawl over the page.
Not that he was writing the right words anyway.
After visiting the property they’d come to see, today’s travel back to London mirrored yesterday’s initial caravan.
Dorian, Caro, little Nate, and Constance were in one carriage, and he followed in the other.
Had he expected Constance to join him today, and had he been anticipating more time with her on the road?
Yes. Unequivocally yes. To his surprise, she’d joined her cousin outside the cottage this morning, leaving him wondering where things had gone wrong.
Damn it all, but he just didn’t have the right words.
Everything he wanted to write sounded needy, or insecure, or too gruff, or cold and unfeeling.
Ideally, he’d love to make this missive as simple as possible, with a short list of options for answers, thus removing all those pesky emotions from the situation.
Do you love me too?
A) Yes, marry me!
B) Maybe. Perhaps more sex will provide clarity.
C) No. You’re a disappointment as a lover. Go to hell.
She’d chosen to not ride with him back to Town, after sharing the best night and morning of his life. Not knowing what to do about it was tearing him up.
Slipping the paper into the lap desk, he slammed the lid closed and tossed the whole thing onto the seat beside him.
Could he ask for clarification at the inn, when they stopped to change horses?
If he couldn’t find a private moment with her, was he doomed to stew and fidget all the way to London?
Either way, he needed to learn what he’d done wrong, so he could castigate himself accurately for the rest of his bloody life.
Was he expected to read into her decision to ride with Caro, and draw a conclusion from that?
Unfortunately, if the only data available was someone not saying “I love you” back, followed by them choosing alternative transportation home, the obvious answer didn’t give him much hope. But—and the enormity of that but couldn’t be overstated—this was her .
A rueful smile crooked his lips when he considered how drastically Constance’s reasoning for this morning might differ from his.
If he could somehow walk through that woman’s brain, he imagined it would resemble a cluttered office, packed with haphazard stacks of interesting facts from random books and piles of unexpectedly practical skills.
All interspersed with half-finished artwork and topped with a rock she’d kept because it resembled a frog.
And the entire office would be run by seven squirrels and three mice subsisting on nothing but tea and iced lemon biscuits.
Oliver’s real-life workspace, on the other hand, was orderly and laid out so precisely that Althea successfully ruffled his peace by shifting items to the left by four inches.
They were vastly different people, and that was one reason he loved her.
However, those differences meant that anything related to Constance Martin would be, by default, entirely new territory for him—which made him indecisive.
Because that was the effect chaos had on the world.
Indecision, and wandering about scratching one’s head, muttering “How did that get there?”
Like now, when he’d laid his heart at her feet, only to have it ignored, and he didn’t know what to do.
His father would throw up his hands, mutter about fickle women, then stomp off and get drunk.
Obviously, Oliver wasn’t going to do that—although he wasn’t ruling out a large whisky at the end of the day.
If his mother were here, she’d urge him to ask for answers.
After all, he’d fallen in love with Constance, baffling as she often was, for good reason.
This wouldn’t be the last time she left him wondering which direction was up.
Thankfully, buildings flashed by the window, more frequently by the second. Which meant they’d stop at the inn soon. Calm settled over Oliver, knowing he’d speak with her in a few minutes.
When the carriages rolled into the inn yard, Oliver hopped down before a footman could reach his door, then waved away the Hollands’ servant and opened their door himself. Dorian’s surprise turned into a smirk when he saw Oliver.
“My love, why don’t we go inside and see if there are any private dining rooms available. I believe Oliver wants a few moments with Connie.” The duke hefted Nate’s traveling basket and climbed down.
Caro sent Oliver an encouraging smile when he offered a steadying hand from the carriage.
“Thank you. We’ll join you shortly,” he murmured, then turned toward the one person remaining. “Constance, I need a word.”
Her obvious surprise at his request baffled him, but she took his hand and didn’t drop it when she reached the ground.
“Not to be indelicate, but do you need to use the facilities, or can you walk with me a while?” he asked. “Since we left the cottage, I’ve been wallowing in questions only you can answer. I’m tired of my thoughts and need to hear yours.”
Her gaze darted toward the inn. “I do need to… but perhaps I could ride in your carriage the rest of the way to London? We’ll discuss whatever’s on your mind, then.”
Oliver gave a nod, content with her assurance that they’d speak soon. “Of course.”
That relief sustained him through the hour they spent in a private dining room at the inn. By the time he helped her into his carriage, then waved off Dorian’s, he was only slightly twitchy with impatience.
When the coachman told the horses to “drive on,” Oliver spoke, as if the words were a breath he’d been holding. “I don’t know what to do, or what to think. All of this is new, and I’m afraid I’ve already somehow made a hash of things. Whatever it is, I need you to tell me, so I can fix it.”
“Oliver… what are you talking about?” He had to give her credit; she appeared calm and collected, until you noticed the way her fingers fussed with the edge of her cloak.
“I told you I love you, then you rode in the other carriage. I don’t know what that means.”
Her laugh sounded forced, and he thought he might vomit, then die from humiliation.
“Men say things in the heat of the moment. Don’t think I’ll hold you to that declaration.”
Oh God, he’d read all this correctly, hadn’t he? She didn’t return his regard, and she regretted what they’d done. Oliver leaned back against the seat, scrambling for the cool reserve he’d clung to for so many years. That would be his only defense against whatever came next.
“I rode with Caro because I needed to ask her about partnering with me and Hattie at the shop. I’d planned to speak with her about it while you and Dorian looked at that house, but we spent the time visiting Betsy.
Given the choice between begging my cousin to go into business with me, and playing with my niece, Georgia will win every time.
Besides, this way, Dorian joined the conversation as well. ”
That… wasn’t what he expected. Oliver blinked and allowed the defensive reserve he’d erected to slip. “The bookshop?”
“My parents want to retire. It’s been a journey for me to accept that I can’t run Martin House on my own. However, with Hattie willing to share the work, and Caro’s influence and purse strings, we’ll make a compelling argument toward convincing my parents the shop will be secure in our hands.”
Oliver rubbed a palm over his hair. As suspected, everything happening inside her brain was beyond what he’d considered.
“I would like to hear more about the future of the shop, and your role in that. Before that, might we please address the first thing you said? About not believing my feelings are honest?”
Hang it, he needed to touch her. Oliver transferred to her bench and took her hand. When she interlaced her fingers to his, something inside him calmed.
“Oliver, our lovemaking was… magical. I’d even call it combustible. But it would be easy to confuse your first orgasm at someone else’s hand—or other body part—with abiding devotion,” she explained patiently.
“I agree with all of that.” She stiffened beside him and he wanted to growl in frustration.
“Except I knew I loved you when you fell asleep on my lap in my study. If I told you too soon, I’m sorry.
All of this is new to me. I’ve never been in love before, or had a relationship I actually wanted.
I’ll make mistakes, but I promise you can trust me. ”
Watching belief dawn across her face was a beautiful thing. Constance whispered, “You already knew you loved me? So, you were in earnest?”
“Of course I did. And then I panicked when you didn’t respond.”
Quick as a blink, she shifted from soft and wondering, to argumentative. Constance threw one hand in the air and huffed, “Oliver, you were literally inside of me, on the verge of an orgasm. Everyone knows to not believe anything a man says under those circumstances.”