Page 50 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)
The current baron had thus far managed to tread water and stay afloat, but he’d made his motives clear to anyone who cared to pay attention.
Lord Bixby had younger sisters, and the man was determined to see them married.
Not only well, but happily. Not an easy feat when their dowries were pitifully small.
Essentially, Bixby bartered information for entrée to the best society events.
“His lordship will be with you shortly,” the housekeeper said.
“Thank you.” Oliver sent her a respectful bow.
Lord Bixby didn’t keep him waiting. “Southwyn. This is a surprise.” His tone offered no clues as to whether he considered the surprise a happy one. He likely didn’t know if Oliver calling for the first time ever was a reason to celebrate, or duck and cover.
“Thank you for seeing me, Lord Bixby. May I beg a few minutes of your time?”
His host motioned to a sofa, upholstered in faded blue damask. Like almost everything else in the house, the furniture was old, but of good quality.
Oliver clasped his hands together until his knuckles shone white. So much depended on this. If Constance wasn’t happy with what he planned, he’d be a laughingstock. But asking her about it would ruin the surprise, and he wanted to give her what she wanted—the opposite of a boring life.
“Something is going to happen. Everyone in the ton will be talking about it. That’s deliberate. While I understand what the people involved intend to gain from the chatter, I want to lessen the negative impact on them.”
Bixby’s eyes gleamed. “Well, well, well. You come bearing gifts, don’t you, Lord Southwyn? May I ask what you expect in exchange for this information?”
“Your help in guiding the conversation, as it were. I give you two pieces of information. The ton will pick apart one like vultures. The other, only you will know. I need you to spread that story far and wide. Offer something juicier, so to speak.”
Lord Bixby crossed his legs in a graceful movement that struck Oliver as nearly theatrical.
“So, I’ll receive two nuggets of information—one of which is an exclusive morsel—and all I have to do is talk about it?
You may not fully understand the concept of bargaining, milord.
” An amused smirk made him appear younger than usual.
“How so?”
“Usually, you give me something in exchange for something else. It sounds like, in this instance, I get everything.”
Oliver smiled, even though his heart galloped at a breakneck pace.
This whole madcap plan fell outside his realm of experience.
But that was the point. Wasn’t this what heroes in romantic novels did?
He’d read a few of Blanche Clementine, or rather Caro’s, books.
The hero made a public, grand gesture before they lived happily ever after.
Still, it wasn’t a comfortable thing. Decades spent walking that narrow road of honor and unobjectionable behavior made putting his heart on his sleeve difficult.
Constance was well beyond what society consider an appropriate countess.
Despite that, Oliver had no doubt she’d be perfect for the role.
She cared. She was adaptable, intelligent, and already had the Duke and Duchess of Holland in her corner.
What scared him was not knowing if she’d think this grand gesture came too soon.
He wasn’t the impulsive sort. But she was, and he hoped she’d see his heart in this, as well as welcome the chance to lessen Althea’s scandal.
Oliver’s gut told him she’d think it a great romp and a wonderful story to tell their children one day.
The tension in his neck eased, imagining the way she’d eventually spin the tale.
“Your cooperation in spreading the counter-story is my only request. No need to suppress the other gossip. Merely add to it. Are we in agreement?”
The baron chuckled. “I see no reason we wouldn’t be.”
Oliver nodded, feeling resolute. Down in the depths of hell, he hoped his father wailed over Oliver throwing everything at the feet of one woman. And his mother? She’d applaud how fiercely he loved Constance.
“Right, then. Day after tomorrow, the Forsyths will host their annual soiree. During that evening, Miss Althea Thompson will be compromised by someone who is decidedly not me.”
Bixby’s eyebrows lifted to nearly meet his hairline.
No going back now. “When that happens, I need you to counter the story with the rest of the truth. No only do I wish them well, but I’m in love with a bookseller and intend to elope with her that same night.”
Bixby laughed aloud. “Is there something in the brandy you’re sharing with Holland? You’ve both lost your heads over booksellers.”
“When you meet my new countess, you’ll understand. She’s sunshine and chaos, and leaves smiles in her wake.”
“Jesus, you are a goner, aren’t you?”
Openly talking about marrying Constance was a unique kind of relief. “Yes, I am. Now let’s hope she’ll agree to have me.”
A knock sounded at the door, and Bixby called for them to enter. A maid appeared, pushing a cart bearing a teapot and a small decanter. Equipped for every eventuality.
His host thanked the maid, then poured a finger of amber liquid into two glasses.
“In that case, let’s drink to your upcoming nuptials.” Lord Bixby handed Oliver a tumbler, then raised his own. “May you and your bookseller enjoy many years of happiness. And may Miss Thompson find love elsewhere.”
Oliver grinned. “I’ll drink to that.”
Despite the run-down air of the man’s house, his brandy was exceptionally smooth as it rolled down Oliver’s throat, leaving a mellow trail of heat in its wake.