Page 37 of West End Earl
Think of Prinny naked on a frigid day.His stomach gave a roll.Count kittens. Something.He imagined a basket with a lid, and fluffy kittens climbing out of the basket one by one. Twitching whiskers, baring wicked-sharp claws, and swishing puffy tails.
It took seven kittens for his breeches problem to sort itself.
It said something about the current condition of his life that finding out one of his best friends was actually a woman wasn’t the most complicated situation on his plate today. Miss Violet Cuthbert must be dealt with, and frankly, he dreaded addressing that whole mess. Given this newfound—he glanced at his deflating placket—attraction to the friend formerly known as Adam, entering into any kind of agreement with Miss Cuthbert was out of the question. And the sooner he informed Miss Cuthbert of that, the better.
There must be a way to work around his father; he just needed to find it. Cal ran a hand through his hair. Hell and blast, he hadn’t secured it off his face yet. Patting his pockets, he finally found a slip of ribbon and tied his hair at the nape. There. Presentable enough to break an engagement he’d never agreed to in the first place.
***
The baron and his daughter lived in a newer townhome in Portman Square. A perfectly respectable address, with a grim-faced butler and slightly worn-looking maids that scurried out of his way as he entered the drawing room.
The room’s décor reflected the height of the Egyptian craze from a few years earlier, complete with strange animal-print patterns and a sarcophagus in the corner. Bringing a sarcophagus into style was something he’d never understood. It would be like drinking tea and eating biscuits off the top of Granddad’s tomb. Why anyone thought that was a good idea was beyond him. Maybe it made him a snob, but there was such a thing as trying too hard to be fashionable.
Miss Cuthbert appeared at odds with her environment. She sat on a settee covered in faux—God, he hoped it was faux—zebra print with legs painted to look like gilded paws.Why not hooves?She seemed like your average debutante, like any other you’d see in Almack’s on a Wednesday night. Blond ringlets, a sheer fichu to lend modesty to her day gown—because a true lady allowed the good bits out only after dark.
Phee didn’t seem to have much in the way of those bits, and it was hard to not compare the two women. Miss Cuthbert rose when he entered, and blushed prettily when he bowed over her hand—those well-covered but still obvious bits on display when she dipped her curtsy.
Ophelia had never curtsied that he’d seen, and she said words likecockand laughed without restraint. Miss Cuthbert, for all her English-rose charms, held no interest for him.
“Would you care for some tea, milord? I saw clouds in the distance and fear it may rain. I always find a warm beverage staves off the incoming damp.”
No, Miss Cuthbert would probably die before sayingcockor whittling a wooden penis for herself. In fact, she’d probably marry exactly whom her father told her to. Unlike Phee, who’d upended her life in her fight for some semblance of freedom.
His mind wandered back to his house. What was Phee up to? Had she gone to the library to find work to do? After all, she’d promised not to run. And decade-long masquerade aside, Cal trusted her to keep her word.
“Tea?” Miss Cuthbert asked again, pulling him from his thoughts.
“No thank you, Miss Cuthbert. I don’t plan to stay long. And frankly, I abhor tea. Terribly un-British of me, I know.”
“What prompts your visit today, milord?”
Jumping right into it, then. “Are you aware of the bet our fathers made?”
For the first time since he arrived, he detected a crack in her polish. She twisted her lips and inhaled with a rather dramatic flare of the nostrils. “Yes. I’m aware.”
“Miss Cuthbert, I’ll be blunt. I’m not going to marry you, and frankly, I think my father is grossly irresponsible for making such a wager in the first place.”
She sagged like a rag doll. “Oh, thank God.” Pretense and social niceties disappeared. “So what do we do? Our fathers are set on this plan of theirs, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’ve refused entry to Eastly for the last week and ignored his messages, but he has trouble hearing the wordno. Avoiding him until he goes away has never been an effective long-term plan.”
She rose to pace the length of the room, which left him standing until she chose to sit again. Occasionally holding his gaze with a direct stare, she apparently expected him to think of something brilliant to save them from marriage to one another. Shifting from one foot to the other, he placed his hands behind his back as she paced.
“What do you think will pacify the baron? If we can make him happy, we might find a solution.”
“He wants me married. I love my father, but he’s a bit of a social climber. He wants a title for me. Securing an earl was quite the feat, and he’s been crowing about it for days. Already calls me Countess in private, if you can believe it.”
Not if Cal had anything to say about it. “And what do you want?”
She paused and stared blankly for a moment. “No one has ever asked me that. It sounds silly, and it might be a schoolgirl fantasy, but I want to feel that instant spark when I meet my husband. No offense intended, but I don’t feel that spark of interest for you.” She looked him up and down, then shrugged one shoulder. “In the end, I’ll do my duty. I know not to push Father too far. You’re handsome, so things could be worse. But if I chose for myself? I want starlight and poetry, and a fever in my veins.”
God help him. A week ago, he’d have said that sounded like a condition best treated by a medical professional. But when a simple breakfast with a friend gave him a cockstand, it would be hypocritical to scoff at her rhapsodizing. “You want a love match.”
“Not that it matters. I know my role. I’ll marry whom my father dictates. You’re in a position to change Father’s mind, not I.”
What a muddle. Two grown adults pacifying two muleheaded old men, with the livelihood of everyone who depended on him on the line. “If we can find you a husband—a titled husband you care for—will that satisfy the baron? If we meet Rosehurst’s end goal and I have a hand in it, would he accept that, do you think?”
She flounced onto the zebra sofa, her gown settling around her once more in a flutter of muslin. “I think so. I’ll give you all the credit in the role of matchmaker. But whoever he is, he has to be titled to satisfy Father.”
