Page 19 of My Best Friend's Earl
“I think she’s trying to make a point, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is. She gave a whole speech about proving I was capable of caring, et cetera. I’ve known her for too long to believe that’s all this is.”
“Have you considered simply asking her?”
“I tried, but I don’t think she’s being truthful. If she doesn’t want to tell me, then so be it.”
Constance rolled her eyes. Althea had mentioned his disinterest and emotional detachment. This attitude certainly supported that. If he knew his fiancée wasn’t being frank, shouldn’t that inspire a deeper concern or curiosity to understand the woman he intended to marry? Whether it was the result of deliberate disinterest or an asinine level of male obtuseness, she didn’t know.
However, when essentially trapped with a semiferal kitten, he’d reached out to Connie rather than ask Althea for help. Stubborn, obstinate man. “I’m beginning to see why she isn’t looking forward to marrying you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Gently shifting the kitten to the carpet next to her, Constance rose to her feet and brushed the fur from her skirts. “Dignity goes hand in hand with respect, wouldn’t you agree?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “You honor the dignity of a feral cat, yet can’t extend the same respect to the woman you’re planning to marry. How hard you’re trying to win over Prince is your saving grace right now. Otherwise, I’d let this kitten claw your eyes out and leave you to your fate.”
Southwyn watched her with a wary, albeit confused, expression. Even if he didn’t know what brought on her current emotion, he was paying attention.
“Cats are carnivores, you know. Like little tigers or lions. If you died in your sleep, he would eat your corpse before anyone was the wiser.” Despite the macabre statement, Connie bent and stroked the kitten one more time. “Lord Southwyn, if I may, I’d like to offer some advice. Whether it applies to your fiancée, or a woman sometime in the future after you wake up and realize how ill-suited you and Althea are, I suggest you exert the same effort in understanding her that you’ve shown for Prince. We are not the unknowable mystery poets make us out to be. Ask a woman what she needs, thenlistento her. I know Althea has told you what she needs, yet you’re more concerned with this kitten’s comfort than with that of the woman you’ve promised to marry. If you respected Althea as much as this animal, you’d help her retain her dignity as well.”
Constance gathered her bonnet and cloak from the chair. Feeling extra combative in the face of this unwelcome, yet familiar, awareness, along with a healthy portion of frustration toward men in general, she held Southwyn’s gaze and deliberately moved the inkwell on his desk six inches to theleft. Then, lifting her chin defiantly, she plucked the stack of papers from beside the inkwell, threw them into the air, and made her exit as they fluttered to the floor.
As expected from a well-trained butler, the unsmiling man met her in the foyer and waited by the door. However, even an excellent servant of his ilk couldn’t have guessed at the way she silently chastised herself while she donned her things.
You know better than to lecture a powerful man like that. It is asking for trouble of the sort you don’t need right now. And yes, making a dramatic exit and leaving a mess behind you felt wonderful. But don’t think I didn’t notice how completely alive you felt in there.The way her pulse rabbited at her throat was exhilarating, even though half of it came from the way his eyes had followed her with rapt attention. Drawing in a sense of calm, Constance willed her first response into extinction.
Her role today was to help him win over a cat and advance Althea’s agenda. That was all. Perhaps he would take her advice, listen to his fiancée, cry off, and everything would sort itself. Then she’d never need tell her friend that she’d momentarily forgotten her place and told the earl he should care more—when the ultimate goal was to make him care even less. Enough to run away and set Althea free.
Tugging on her gloves, Constance shook away the thoughts and addressed the butler. “Give his lordship bits of meat to offer the cat, and tell him to feed the kitten by hand. No more bowls or saucers unless it is water or cream. Have someone fill the cat’s pan with soil from the garden, if not the dirt from the plant he knocked over. Also, bring used linens from the earl’s bed into the study for the kitten to sleep on. The faster Prince Puddles adjusts to his lordship’s scent, the faster they can make peace with one another. Once they’re on better terms, I suggest leaving the cat in that room for a fewmore days before allowing him to roam in the house. Such a large space will be overwhelming to a small animal.”
“I beg your pardon, but… Prince Puddles?”
Constance stopped before a large mirror and tied the ribbon of her bonnet in a jaunty bow, even though the bleak weather outside would make her efforts moot within minutes. “I think it appropriate. Whether the earl realizes it or not, that tiny bundle of fur outranks him.” She offered the butler a sunny, albeit forced smile. “Are my instructions clear? Do we need to write down anything for your staff?”
The butler somehow managed to straighten his spine further, until he resembled a soldier standing at attention. “No doubt we shall manage. I will send you a missive should we need elaboration. Thank you, Miss Martin.” His demeanor softened. “I hope if you have reason to visit again, you’ll see his lordship in a state more appropriate to his position. He’s not himself right now.”
In her mind she saw the image of Lord Southwyn lounging half-dressed on the floor of his study as he swore at a cat, and it made her smile. That might not have been reflective of the earl’s grand status, but she’d never found him more appealing than when he’d smiled at her with those bloodshot hazel eyes.
“I’m sure he will be feeling more like himself soon,” she said, believing every word, and hating the twist of disappointment in her gut.
Chapter Eight
Try to ask the right questions. Is there a way to wiggle out of this commitment?
Sir William Thompson’s study had an air of disuse to it. As if the maids swept through the room, opening drapes and windows to relieve months of stuffiness right when Oliver arrived. Few personal items were strewn about. Nothing like Oliver’s own study. Which, at the moment, was one part workspace and three parts feral cat sanctuary.
Thankfully, the instructions Miss Martin left with his staff were working, albeit slowly. He and Prince may not be the picture of domestic bliss yet, but the cat was eating from his hand and allowing the occasional pat, even without bribery. Not bad progress for a few days’ effort.
Althea dropped by every day, ostensibly to check on Prince. That morning, he’d realized visiting the cat wasn’t all his fiancée did when she called.
Oliver smoothed a hand self-consciously over his waistcoat. Navy blue, the one he wore on Mondays. Except it was Sunday. However, his Sunday waistcoat seemed to have disappeared, replaced by a pink and lime-green floral monstrosity shot through with gold thread. The garishness of it threatened to make his eyes bleed.
Pinned to the hideous fabric had been a note:
Dear future husband,
The Earl of Southwyn should shine just as brightly as his countess, don’t you think?
Happy Sunday,
Althea
