Page 58 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)
Live happily ever after
One year later
W hen one possessed an army of staff and deep pockets, it was impressive what could be accomplished in a day.
Owen and Mary Martin had long since adopted dazed expressions and simply stepped out of Connie’s path. The look was familiar. Her husband wore it on a regular basis.
Two of the men they’d hired for the day carried a wooden crate marked with a swipe of orange paint and paused in front of where Connie stood, unpacking dishes into a cupboard.
Color coding the boxes had been Caro’s contribution to the move. After a quick consultation with her master list, Constance directed, “World history and geography. Second bookcase on your left, in this next room.”
Two more sweaty-faced men approached bearing a crate with a green paint stripe as Connie closed the cupboard and moved on to a stack of table lines.
“Primary bedchamber.” When they hesitated, she realized they were newly arrived and didn’t know the lay of the land yet.
“East side of the house. With the view of the orchard, not the smaller room looking out on the road. That one is the guest bedroom.”
Through the wide doorway to the main living area, Constance checked to ensure the men with the crate of history texts had found their destination. Hattie greeted their arrival by wielding a crowbar for the boxes and grumbling something about “too many bloody books.”
“Don’t let Owen hear you say that. It’s sacrilege in this family,” Oliver commented on his way through the room, carrying a dining chair in each hand.
He stopped beside Connie and pressed a quick kiss to the side of her head.
“You’re a marvel, teacup,” he murmured, using his favorite pet name for her, then continued on his way.
The affectionate words hugged Connie as they always did. His tempest in a teacup. A tiny storm, perfectly sized to warm his hands.
“Constance!” Betsy yelled.
Connie stepped toward her. “What is it?”
“Blue curtains. Parents’, or the guest room?” Her sister stood in the main living area, holding a bundle of cloth. Oliver stepped out of the dining room, now empty-handed.
One of the men Constance had just sent on their way stumbled and nearly dropped his box. He gawked at the sisters.
Oliver grinned. “I initially had the same reaction, lads. This is Mrs. Tilford.” He motioned toward Betsy, then pointed at Connie. “The one giving orders is mine, Lady Southwyn.”
“Blimey,” the man said.
Dorian’s voice carried from the front door. “Beds are here! Connie, are there any changes to where they go?”
“No, continue as planned,” she called back.
Betsy grinned at the men holding the crate. “We’re easy enough to tell apart once you know us. Constance is the one capable of juggling five tasks at once.” Returning her focus to her sister, she held up the fabric in silent question.
The last year had brought several honest discussions between Connie and her sister, and their relationship continued to improve.
“Blue goes in the nursery. The guest room is yellow, and our parents’ room is green, like the paint stripe on their boxes.”
This property was larger than her parents had anticipated, but their plans for the future hadn’t taken into consideration a duke and an earl.
Maintaining such a house wasn’t too much, as it came with the help of a general man of work and a housekeeper.
The couple lived in a caretaker’s cottage behind the small orchard and garden plot.
In fact, this was the house Betsy had encouraged Dorian to look into, which led to Connie and Oliver’s night in the cottage.
Unbeknownst to Constance, her husband and the duke had purchased the property together, hired the caretaker and housekeeper, then kept the whole thing a secret until Owen and Mary began actively planning their retirement.
When pressed, Dorian admitted he’d paid the lion’s share of the purchase price and justified it as gratitude for the Martins giving Caro a safe home when she needed one.
Constance got misty-eyed whenever she recalled the way her parents reacted to their gift from the men who loved their girls. Regardless of actual place on the family tree, Owen and Mary considered Hattie and Caro to be their girls as fully as the twins.
As promised, Betsy lived a short walk away through the village, with a convenient, although small, bookshop along the route.
Echoing voices and footsteps gradually grew muffled throughout the day as the house filled with furniture, rugs, drapes, and books. So many books.
Georgia’s screeching giggles and Nate’s young laugh pierced the air occasionally from where they played in the nursery.
By the time the sun dipped its hat in farewell and sank below the horizon, the house felt like a home, and Connie relished the weary satisfaction of a job well done.
She and Oliver were staying in the guest room, which her mum was having a grand laugh over referring to as the yellow room.
It wasn’t terribly yellow yet, but that would come.
“My love, you have that expression on your face again. What are you thinking?” Oliver closed the bedroom door.
“I’m trying to remember where we put the wallpaper Mum chose for this room. She and Betsy plan to begin papering this week. We didn’t leave it at home, did we?” When she turned around as if she meant to find it right then, he stayed her with a hand.
“Tomorrow. Wallpaper can wait. I haven’t had a moment alone with you all day, and if I don’t kiss you properly, I’ll go stark raving insane.” His mouth met hers and settled in for a deep taste. All thoughts of wallpaper or to-do lists disappeared.
Oliver had a way of kissing her as if the contact provided him relief on a soul-deep level. There was never a moment when she worried that his mind wandered, as hers sometimes did. Every time, he treated kissing her like an experience he relished.
The bed caught them as they fell, pushing a laugh of pure happiness from Connie at the sight of his wide grin above her. It didn’t matter if their coupling was frantic or leisurely, the feeling of connection was the same. She couldn’t imagine living without it.
So, when he whispered, “Hello, wife,” against her lips, she gave herself over to loving him. He tasted of the slightly sweet cider from their meal, and that unique flavor she’d come to identify as simply Oliver.
During their first year of marriage, so much had become wonderfully normal. His taste, the scent of his sweat after a long bout of lovemaking, the way Oliver always made sure she had tea before getting his own cup.
Oliver leaned away to whip his shirt off, and Connie made short work of removing her clothing. Wearing nothing but her stockings and garter ribbons, she posed prettily, resting on her elbows as she took in the sight of him.
Then laughed, because when he saw her bare breasts, he stopped and appreciated them. Every. Single. Time.
There were some things she was learning that were delightfully predictable.
Although they’d come together so many times since eloping in a flurry of scandalized whispers, she had yet to take this part for granted.
This man, bare-chested and unable to tear his eyes off her as he fumbled with the buttons on his breeches. His focus made her core slick in anticipation. Love and lust and a deeper need filled his gaze.
The way he looked at her made it impossible for Constance to doubt herself, her appeal, or her welcome. And that was perhaps the most freeing thing of all. She only needed to be herself.
Oliver Vincent adored her as much as she adored him, and the truth of that had sunk deep into her bones.
He shucked his breeches to the floor, cursing when he realized he’d forgotten to remove his boots. Constance giggled at his flustered state. Rather than help, she chose to torment him while he untangled himself from clothing and leather.
With a lazy finger, Connie explored the plump flesh between her thighs. Her finger came away wet with evidence of her desire.
Oliver lost track of what he was doing. “Witch,” he groaned.
“I’m waiting,” she sang.
“Seems like you’re starting without me, vixen,” he grunted, struggling to remove his other boot.
Naked at last, Oliver crawled up her body, then sucked her finger into his mouth. Hungry eyes met hers before he smiled wickedly and reversed course.
“Your parents are down the hall.” Throwing her legs over his shoulders, he settled into one of his favorite positions, and Connie’s core clenched in anticipation.
He placed an open-mouthed kiss high on her inner thigh.
“Shall we have a competition, you and I?” A long, lazy lick along the seam of her sex made her whimper.
“The one who makes the least noise, wins.”
Devilish lips closed around the nub at the top of her slit, and Constance groped blindly for the nearest pillow to muffle her cries. Her husband was far too good at this for her to have any hope of winning the game, otherwise.
She still lost.
Later, they lay intertwined as their breathing slowed and that delightful shimmering sensation hummed through her body. Usually, Connie’s brain went quiet after making love. Tonight, the thoughts drifted lazily by.
With her parents retiring, there’d be changes at Martin House.
This visit to move Owen and Mary into their new home had been the first time Constance and Hattie left their newest employee, a widow named Whitney Parker, in charge of the shop without a family member available for emergencies.
Mrs. Parker was scarily competent, remaining cool under pressure.
The cousins weren’t worried about leaving her alone.
Hattie loved the idea of living alone and was bursting with ideas of ways to make the flat more to her taste. Between her mum and her cousin, Connie suspected she’d master hanging wallpaper by the end of the summer.
Discovering how to be a countess and a business owner in the day-to-day running of things was ongoing, but exciting and full of possibilities.
Navigating the ton sometimes felt like dancing barefoot through a snake pit, but she’d found several kindred spirits in unexpected places.
As Oliver predicted, Lady Agatha Darylwrimple was a complete delight and stalwart friend.
Someone with less energy, or a more retiring personality, might find the variety of roles daunting, but the novelty appealed to her.
Oliver and Franklin had begun the arduous process of finding investors for their canal and hoped to break ground in the new year, shortly after the arrival of Althea’s first child.
The thoughts floated by, like clouds in the sky. Until one made her snicker. Oliver’s noise of inquiry wasn’t quite a word, but, nonetheless, communicated effectively.
“Oliver… it’s Tuesday.”
“Ah, teacup, are you wanting a show? Maybe a five minute frig?” His laugh rumbled, deep and low from his chest in that way she adored. Constance snorted against his shoulder as he wrapped his arms tighter around her.
One thing was clear: they’d spend the rest of their lives laughing together.
Life with Oliver would never be boring.