Page 15 of My Best Friend's Earl
Connie shot Hattie a mocking glare. Really? She could keep a secret. Her cousin simply laughed at the look and carried on speaking. “They found a kitten in an alleyway, and Althea has given it to Southwyn in hopes of the thing terrorizing his peace. Today, Althea visited the store and had a bundle of cloth with her. Was that the swap of waistcoats you two planned?”
Nodding, Constance gave up on the idea of protecting Althea’s secrets from her meddlesome cousins. “When she gave him the kitten, she sneaked up to his rooms and stole two waistcoats. Thursday’s and Sunday’s, I believe.” At their obvious confusion, she explained, “He wears the same waistcoat on certain days. Blue on Monday. Green on Tuesday. Anyway, Hattie generously let me slip out for an hour and we visited a tailor to have replacements made.”
Caro’s eyes were bright with amusement. “Will they be hideous?”
Constance chuckled, recalling the fabrics they’d chosen. “Oh, they’re atrocious. He’s going to hate them with the passion of a thousand suns. Assuming he has the capacity for larger emotions, of course. I didn’t realize fabrics that ugly existed. Who makes them? Who designs them? Althea is practicing what she will say when he’s faced with wearing them. Right now, we are emphasizing how horrible a wifeshe will be. This will support her claim that she expects to be a leader in fashion once she’s a countess.”
A wrinkle pinched between Caro’s eyebrows. “She doesn’t really have plans to be that sort of wife, though. Correct?”
Constance waved away her concern. “Of course not. It’s all designed to make his life unbearable, so he will back out of the betrothal.”
“What else have you planned? Is there anything I can do? Please let me help,” Caro begged.
Constance stood and went to her apron, where it hung by the bedroom door, and dug out the matchbreaker list. “Most of this is specific to Althea. But if you call on him, you could move his things around. She says Lord Stuffy Pants is rather particular and orderly.” Her cousins laughed, and she looked up.
“Lord Stuffy Pants?” Caro giggled. “I can’t wait to tell Dorian.” Noticing Connie’s expression, she hastened to add, “Only Oliver’s nickname. I won’t mention the rest of it.”
The reassurance loosened some of the tension in Constance’s shoulders. “We discussed rearranging the items on his desk and shifting everything on his shelves a few inches. Just enough to make him feel like everything in his life is… off somehow.” An idea occurred to her. Althea had suggested a few things they’d ultimately rejected, out of concern for her reputation. “There is something else you can do. Would you mind hosting a small gathering? Just us, Althea, and Southwyn.”
“You mean Lord Stuffy Pants?” Hattie said.
Constance ignored her. “Althea could attempt a few of the items we left off the list. A private setting would help with some of the more daring tactics.”
Caro grinned. “Host a party where at least one guest will misbehave? I’d love to. These last few weeks of pregnancyare boring me to tears. The distraction will help me endure until the baby arrives.”
“Perfect.” Constance made a note on the list to tell Althea of this development.
“When will the waistcoats be ready?” Hattie asked. “And is there any word on how he handled the kitten? Southwyn has always reminded me of an overwound watch. Your particular style of chaos might be good for him.”
Resuming her place on the bed, Constance shrugged. “Althea said the kitten sparked a good conversation between them. Hopefully he will see reason soon. In the meantime, he’s prepared to care for the cat. As to the tailor, he claimed the new clothes will be ready in a couple days. It helps that we gave him the other waistcoats to use as patterns.”
Which meant they could expect some kind of reaction or movement on Lord Southwyn’s stance regarding the engagement within the week. If he truly was as rigid as Althea claimed, the destruction of his routines might make their pending future together seem bleak indeed.
One could only hope.
A knock at the bedroom door interrupted the conversation, and Constance’s mother peeked around the doorjamb. “Caro, dear? Dorian is here with the carriage.”
“Thank you, Aunt Mary,” Caro said, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed once Constance moved out of her way.
The cousins followed the sound of voices down the hall, to the kitchen. Caro’s husband, the Duke of Holland, sat with Owen, looking entirely at home in the tidy, simple room. On the table in front of him sat a small, paper-wrapped lump. Constance suspected she already knew the contents of that lump and grinned when Caro’s shriek echoed through the room.
“Is that what I think it is?” Caro dived for the parcel, sniffed it, and let out a sound that was nearly sexual. “Dorian, I didn’t think I could love you more. You just proved otherwise.” She placed an enthusiastic kiss on his smiling lips.
“Did he really manage—” Hattie hissed from behind Connie.
Constance snickered and held out her hand. “Pay up, darling.”
Caro perched on her husband’s lap, unwrapping her precious goat cheese. “I would marry you again, any second of any day. You glorious man.”
Dorian’s smile pressed against her temple as he kissed her. “Anything for you, love.”
Unexpected tears burned at Constance’s eyes as she watched them. Crossing her arms, she tried to cover the ache under her breastbone.
That. That’s what she wanted someday. That bone-deep sense of knowing she’d found the one person she loved above everyone else. Someone who would care for her as fiercely as she cared for him.
Over her shoulder, Hattie handed her a coin, and Constance took it. Yes, betting on the Duke of Holland’s love for Caro was always going to pay in her favor. Someday, she hoped someone would say the same thing about a man who loved her like that.
Chapter Seven
