Page 3 of My Best Friend's Earl
“I know our acquaintance has been brief. Regardless, I trust your discretion. No one else can know or would understand why I’d want to end my engagement…” Althea trailed off, while her fingers twirled and stroked the tassels on her reticule.
Constance reached to pet the silky fringe as well. “This is lovely. Is it new?” Jerking her hand back, she winced and felt her cheeks heat. “I apologize. Easily distracted. I am paying attention, I swear it.”
Althea waved away the momentary lapse in focus. It was one of the things Connie appreciated about her. She never appeared annoyed by Constance’s quirks. Unlike Althea’s fiancé, who grew more tense and tight-lipped each time they found themselves in one another’s presence.
She and the handsome earl first met when Caro invited them to join her and Dorian in their search for the man who’d had an affair with the late Duchess of Holland. To Connie’s recollection, Lord Southwyn spent most of the day watching her as if she were an unknown species of animal. His regard hadn’t warmed since.
Constance said the only thing that felt vaguely appropriate. “When I saw you with Lord Southwyn, I thought you made a lovely couple.” Stiff, formal, and everything she expected of the ton, but lovely as they sat, untouching, side by side. Like attractive bookends awaiting their moment to be useful.
Miss Thompson snorted at that, and Constance grinned at the indelicate sound. However, all traces of humor disappeared when a suspicion gripped her. “Is Lord Southwyn unkind to you? Has he given you reason to fear him? Is that why you need help?”
Althea’s face went slack. “Oliver? Heavens, no. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Except perhaps through neglect, supercilious lectures, or general disinterest. He’s not unkind, exactly. However, he’s clearly not romantically inclined toward me either. As a gentleman, he can’t cry off, but my father would make life unbearable if I ended the engagement.”
“Thus, the need to force his hand.” Clarity began to make itself known.
“Exactly. I must either give him a disgust of me so he will have no choice but to look elsewhere for a bride, or somehow muster the courage to run away from my own wedding, like you did. If at all possible, I’d rather the former. My attempts before now at being intolerable have had little impact, I’m afraid. That’s why I need your assistance.”
“I have to ask. Have you told him in plain terms you aren’t interested in the match? Perhaps you could work together to deal with your father.”
Althea’s laugh didn’t resemble the tinkling trill she’d used in Caro’s drawing room the week before. “I’ve tried. He dismissed it as nerves and suggested a long engagement so I could acclimate to the idea. Since then, I’ve misbehaved at events, thrown fits in private, and generally acted like thefurthest thing from a loving fiancée. He ignores all of it. My parents are at their wits’ end. After three years of being engaged, it’s time to pay the piper, as they say. My mother is planning the wedding of the Season. Father is over the moon because he will get the connection to an earldom he’s coveted for two decades. Not one person has asked me if I am ready to walk down the aisle. It’s as if they all agreed my time is up, and they expect me to meekly go along.” She rubbed her forehead and winced. Come to think of it, Constance’s temple was beginning to throb in sympathy. “I’m not an unreasonable woman. Every time I imagine making vows to Oliver, my stomach turns and I feel faint. This is more than nerves, and it’s not going away. Ineeda matchbreaker.”
Constance sighed. “There’s no way you can force him to listen? To see reason? Lord Southwyn and I may not see eye to eye on… well, anything. However, he doesn’t strike me as the sort to marry an unwilling woman.”
“I’ve known him my whole life. We grew up together as neighbors. There is no one more rigid and duty-bound than Oliver Vincent. Our fathers drew up the betrothal contract when we were children. In his mind, it’s done. I’m running out of time. Please, Constance.”
“If I do this—” Althea’s crow of triumph ended abruptly when Constance shot her a stern look. “If I do this, we will need a plan. The world is not kind to women who defy powerful men, especially when weddings are involved. We must try to protect your reputation.”
How she’d do it, she had no idea. Finding a way to give the Earl of Southwyn a disgust of this perfectly charming, attractive woman whom he’d already waited years to marry, would be… Well. Not boring.
Chapter Two
Matchbreaker meeting—make a plan
Find a book on military tactics. Maybe it will help?
When Oliver Vincent’s mother, the late Countess of Southwyn, had been in residence, his father had referred to their ancestral seat as Bitchwood Court instead of Birchwood Court.
Suffolk was normally a lush, verdant landscape by this time of year. Today, as a freezing drizzle spit down with a relentless sort of inevitability that soaked him layer by layer until his very bones ached with the cold, his surroundings were brown and gray. Mud and fog dominated everything he’d seen since rising with the sun—such as it was—in his childhood bedchamber that morning. Pitifully few scraggly plant shoots dotted the fields.
As the Earl of Southwyn, he owned acres upon acres of muck. If anything, his estate manager had understated the situation in the last letter. Oliver stood on the bank of the river dividing his property from Sir William’s and lifted his mount’s foot to inspect her hoof. Using a stick, he pried out clumps of dirt and a decent-size stone. No wonder the mare had been limping. Unfortunately, she was still limping as he led her along the riverbank to test her gait.
“At least you waited to get a bruise until we’d finished our rounds. Thank you for that.” The mare whuffled in his face with warm, hay-scented breath, and he chuckled.
Wandering along the bank, he nudged a rock into the water with the toe of his boot to ensure the horse didn’t step on it.
For years, he’d envisioned a locks and transportation system in this spot. After the wedding this summer, ownership of this river would revert back to the earldom, and Oliver could monetize this narrow strip of land in a way that would eventually support the entire estate, and help farmers and artisans in the surrounding area.
Much of England teemed with canals full of narrow boats transporting goods to market. Thanks to his father’s fiscal mismanagement and lack of caring about anyone other than himself, this part of Suffolk remained underserved. Soon, that would change.
To fulfill the original agreement between Sir William and the late earl, Oliver would marry a Thompson daughter and get the land back. Unfortunately, Althea Thompson wasn’t eager to become a countess, which meant the plans he’d been meticulously laboring over for years might never see fruition.
More than once, the subject of purchasing the river outright had been set before Sir William, and each of those conversations had been nothing short of disastrous. So, in light of Althea’s reluctance, the logical and most direct solution was out of the question. As was simply scrapping the whole endeavor and walking away, because given what he knew of Sir William’s character, Oliver refused to end his engagement without some assurance that Althea’s future would be taken care of. Her father was likely to refuse her a dowry out of spite.
What an awful muddle.
Plunk. Another rock kicked into the river. Stuffing his hands deeper into the pockets of his greatcoat, he let the reins hang loosely from his fingers as he meandered toward his favorite tree. It boasted a thick branch that jutted out over the deepest part of the water, making it the perfect place to launch oneself into the river on summer days.
A frayed length of rope dangled, bedraggled by time, from the ancient oak on the Thompsons’ side of the bank. In the distance, he could just make out the orchard. Branches struck up at the sky, alarmingly gray and nearly bare of foliage, despite the time of year.
