Page 31 of My Best Friend's Earl
Then, as if that feeling summoned her, he’d sensed rather than heard Miss Martin join him in the hall. Facing one another and saying barely a handful of words should have been awkward, but he didn’t remember it that way. For abrief time, she’d included Oliver by seeking him out. While the duke’s family tree grew without Oliver there as witness, someone had missed his presence. As devoted as he knew her to be to her cousins, Miss Martin still stepped away from their side to see him. The finger plaster might be a tiny thing, but her thanks made Oliver feel seen.
Of course, that moment when her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips, turning the cupid’s bow glossy and slick, his cock had nearly made a fool of him. In an instant, he’d gone thick and heavy, and vaguely lightheaded. Somewhere inside him, a primal urge—something he thought he lacked altogether—flexed its claws, and the feeling had been both exhilarating and fucking terrifying. No wonder Constance Martin haunted his dreams.
“Bloody fucking hell. This is unacceptable.” He threw the covers aside. A disgruntled “mew” made him flip the edge back. “Apologies, Prince. Go back to sleep.”
And unlike his still-turgid cock, the recently feral kitten did as it was told.
The day loomed before him, a schedule packed to the brim with meetings, objectives, and goals.
“Because it’s not Tuesday,” Oliver muttered, splashing water on his face, then shaking tooth powder onto a bone handle toothbrush.
At the end of the afternoon, he’d set aside two hours to visit Dorian, Caro, and their new son, Nathaniel. It was the one thing he actually wanted to do today, and part of him wished to cancel everything else, so he could indulge in the novel experience of seeing Dorian and Caroline as parents.
That would be entirely selfish, though, since the duchess would still be spending most of the day resting after the monumental task of bringing a human into the world. Outof respect for the new family, he’d held off this long before visiting.
Miss Martin might be there, helping her cousin. At the fleeting thought, his cock twitched, and he scowled.
Devil only knew what he could do about this new problem. It wasn’t as if digging erotic dreams from his brain was possible. Trying to replace Miss Martin’s face with Althea’s, Oliver attempted to simply rewrite the memory. Recast the dream, like a play. No, wrong blond woman, his inner theater director declared. Make the memory hold Althea’s voice, her laugh, and her scent.
Oliver froze, toothbrush in his mouth. What did Althea smell like, exactly? And how did he know with such certainty that Miss Martin used honeysuckle-scented soap?
He made a mental note to sniff his fiancée when he saw her the following evening. They’d promised to attend a ball, and no doubt there’d be plenty of chances to determine what perfume she preferred when he held her in his arms and twirled them around the dance floor.
Rinsing his mouth, he glared at the part of his body that had decided it would allow the front of his breeches to lay flat. Finally.
Padding barefoot into his dressing room, Oliver rang for his valet.
Ten minutes later, his mood darkened further.
Althea had stolen and replaced another waistcoat. Orange in that particular shade shouldn’t be possible, much less legal for purchase. This theft forced him to choose a different day’s color, further breaking the predictable routine of dressing that had served him well for years. Scheduling such things meant one less decision to make. One thing in his day over which he had complete control.
As he shrugged into his coat, the ace of spades fromSir William’s office caught his eye. Yellowed with age and fraying around the edges, it mocked him from the table on which he’d thrown it. Without overthinking the urge, he shoved the card in his pocket and went downstairs.
Two hours later, Oliver cradled his head in his hands and stared at the tidy stack of invoices.
Modistes. Shoemakers. Milliners—five of them. God, how many different bonnets did one woman need? Lace weavers. A random warehouse with a delivery address near the docks. He wanted to question that one specifically, since the idea of Althea wandering the docks and shopping terrified him. Unthinkable things happened to women at the docks.
Still resting his forehead in one palm, he reviewed the papers. “There’s even a cheese monger. Who, pray tell, spends this much oncheese?”
It wasn’t the expense, although that was enough to make King Midas’s eyes water.
It was the fact that no one needed that much cheese. Not even Althea.
Also, the waistcoats. Drinking too much and flirting with the footman at dinner the other night. The damned cat. Perhaps even stranger, the way things moved and resituated themselves around his house. These days, he spent the first few minutes in a room returning items to their proper place.
If Miss Martin was in on the plan—and the longer he considered it, the more obvious that became—it would explain why she moved the inkwell on his desk. Althea was not an unintelligent woman.
All of it was designed to deliberately provoke, annoy, and inconvenience him. Part of Oliver wanted to give them both, Althea especially, a standing ovation. The other part wished he could capitulate and give her what she wanted, even though it wouldn’t serve her well in the end.
Althea’s feelings on their marriage were quite clear, and God knew he didn’t desire an unwilling bride. However, with Sir William’s circumstances being what they were, becoming Oliver’s countess was the best she could expect.
Without him, Althea would face a father in debtor’s prison—or dead from shady moneylenders—no dowry to speak of, and yet another scandal on a family name that wasn’t illustrious enough to withstand the stain.
It would be so easy to walk away from the whole situation. Release her from their engagement and allow Sir William to reap the harvest he’d sown with his poor decisions. Yet, a lifetime of memories of a golden-haired, laughing little girl begging him for piggy-back rides refused to let him react as his father would have.
Once upon a time, that little girl trusted him. As had the thirteen-year-old; when heady with her first infatuation, she’d asked Oliver how to get the attention of the boy she fancied.
When Dorcas eloped and Sir William informed Althea she’d fulfill the marriage contract instead, Oliver had witnessed the swift death of her trust.
