Page 18 of My Best Friend's Earl
Never. Not in a million years.
Constance peered down at the kitten, now contentedly curled in a spiral of fur on her lap, sneaking a snooze. “Why is it so important to win its affections?”
He seemed to give that genuine consideration, and part of her was surprised he didn’t merely brush off the question. Perhaps he was too exhausted to operate at his usual level of aloofness. Which was a pity, because she liked him better this way.
“If I give my word, I do everything I can to keep it. I told Althea I’d take care of her furry little hell spawn, so I will. But also… he’s so scared. Of everything. Of me. Loud noises. A cart tipped over outside in the mews sometime last night, and I thought he was going to fly out of his skin. No one should be that scared all the time. So, if I make him love me, it solves both problems.”
Her teeth clamped so firmly on her lower lip, she was in danger of breaking skin, as she bit back a smile. “Of course. Several problems, one solution. Very efficient.”
“Quite. Two birds, one stone, and all that.” Southwyn watched her out of the corner of his eye. A twitch at the edge of his mouth resembled a budding smile.
Clearing her throat, Constance stared down at the cat instead of the man who suddenly felt as if he took up all the space in the room. “You might begin by giving him a name. Perhaps something princely and a touch exotic, to give him something to aspire to.”
“Exotic? Do you know a word in another language that sounds nice, but means ‘shits on the rug at two in the morning’? If so, we will name him that.”
A laugh escaped as she shook her head. “You need to let the poor thing outside to relieve himself. What did you expect?”
“If I let it out, it will run away. If it runs away, Althea will throw a tantrum. If Althea throws a tantrum, my life will become uncomfortable. Do you see the problem? The maids brought a large pan in for it to use. We lined it with newspapers. He’s used it twice, although he isn’t happy about the situation, and isn’t using it exclusively.”
“I suppose a collar and lead was out of the question for some reason?”
“He’d have to let me catch him first, and you can see for yourself how well that’s going.”
Lord Stuffy Pants didn’t seem like such a fitting name anymore. Not seeing him like this. Guilt over the way she’d mocked him tried to rear its head and she batted it away. For one thing, Southwyn hadn’t known about the moniker. Also, she hadn’t known he was capable of being anything besides tightly controlled and vaguely annoyed all the time.
Constance wrinkled her nose. “That explains the smell.”
“In all fairness, the smell might also be me. But yes, most of it is from Carpet Pisser over there.”
A snort escaped, and she tried not to let it turn into another full laugh.
Besides, he was wrong. While he didn’t smell particularlyfresh, she could detect the complex notes of his cologne or soap lingering faintly on his skin. Lemons, rosemary, and perhaps a trace of sandalwood, she thought. A combination she’d smelled before, though it had never affected her like this.
Constance closed her eyes and tried to hone in on the other scents—cat odors, sweat, dust—to combat this unwelcome awareness of him. “First things first. The pan is a good idea until he will accept a leash and lead. Cats like to bury their waste. It keeps them safe from predators if they hide their smells, you see. Bring in dirt from the garden and fill the pan with that.”
He rolled his head to look at her directly. “That’s rather ingenious. Thank you. Luckily, I happen to have soil from the plant he just murdered. What about the rest of it?”
“The rest of what? Handling him? Has he let you touch him at all?”
“Once, this morning.”
“That’s progress.” As she stroked the furry body in her lap, a vibration began in an answering purr. “He’s fine with me and Althea, so I suspect the issue is you’re a man. A man probably hurt him.”
Southwyn glanced at her lap and, she assumed, the sleeping cat. “I arrived at the same conclusion. However, if my maleness is the issue, that may be an insurmountable problem.”
Constance shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing is truly insurmountable. After all, you aren’t the one who hurt him. Given enough time, he will learn you aren’t a threat. He will simply love you for yourself. For whoever you are at your core.” She risked a glance and saw him staring at her with an intense expression she couldn’t decipher. “As long as who you really are is a good person, Prince Puddles here will eventually trust you.”
A crooked smile tilted his mouth, and the fact that it wasn’t straight and perfect did something to her insides. Oh, this feeling wasnothelpful. “Prince Puddles?”
“He needs a name, and given the state of this room, it seems fitting.”
“Prince Puddles it is. Making him feline royalty might restore a bit of his dignity.” Southwyn lolled his head back to stare at the ceiling, and within moments his eyes closed again.
“Dignity, eh? I thought he was hell spawn.”
“Everyone is allowed dignity, even demons from the pit of hell.”
Tiny hairs stuck up along the edge of Prince’s ear. When she brushed her finger over them, the entire ear twitched. “Althea gifted you with quite the challenge, didn’t she?”
