Page 34 of My Best Friend's Earl
Standing shoulder to shoulder with her—literally, as she was an inch taller than him in those heeled slippers—the older lady kept her voice low, and he was grateful for it.
“She is sending a message, and you do not appear to care one whit. Miss Thompson is practically begging for your attention, yet you stand here with all the warmth of a punch table ice sculpture. Will you not give her what she wants?”
As tempting as it was to play at not understanding her meaning, feigning ignorance would be a disservice to them both. “I don’t find I’m inclined to, no, because I disagree with your assessment. If she wants my attention, as you say, she could speak to me. Or maybe not dart to the opposite side of the room when I approach, so I might speak with her.”
Althea had shut him out entirely. Ignored his requests to call. When he visited uninvited, she refused to see him. She’d even stopped visiting Prince. The only times he laid eyes on his fiancée since she went on her shopping spree were nights like these, when her parents accompanied them. How the hell was he supposed to help her understand their situation if she wouldn’t talk to him?
Lady Agatha’s sigh lacked subtlety. “Youth does not appreciate passion. Your beautiful fiancée has not sat out a dance all night.” She gestured toward the center of the ballroom. Wine sloshed dangerously near the rim of Lady Agatha’s glass, although she didn’t take notice of it. “Not one of those partners has been you.”
“Her dances were spoken for when I asked.” Oliver gently removed the glass from her grip to spare her white satin gloves, fully prepared to hold on to it until the conclusion of this lecture.
“And whose fault is that? What kind of man does not ask in advance—especially for the supper dance? Miss Thompson endured that blowhard, Lord Balderdash, for endless courses.”
Oliver choked on his laugh. “Lord Baldridge, you mean?”
Lady Agatha shot him a condescending look. “I said what I said. Baldridge is a fool. He could not tell the truth if you held a gun to his head. Yet she sat beside him for a whole meal. Why would you leave her to that fate?” Taking back her wine, she raised an eyebrow and sipped.
Because he hadn’t remembered the supper dance until she’d already promised it to someone else. “Althea’s the one who agreed to dance with the man.” Shaking his head, he groaned. “I’ll forever think of him as Lord Balderdash, now. Won’t I?”
Lady Agatha’s smile was entirely unrepentant but fadedquickly. “Miss Thompson is a lovely young woman and promised to you. Why, when her hen-wit of a mother is speaking of nothing but a grand wedding, does she not assume you will want a set of dances?”
He couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. “Althea is enjoying the evening. You’re seeing problems when there are none.” Even as he said the words, he could taste the lie.
Silver curls quivered when Lady Agatha shook her head. “If you believe that, you are as great a fool as Lord Balderdash. Miss Thompson has flirted outrageously with each of her partners, while pointedly ignoring you. Lord Southwyn, she is perilously close to making a scene.”
Draining his glass, Oliver stuffed down a spike of irritation. How much easier it would be for everyone if she caught the attention of a wealthy, titled man who wouldn’t care that she came with debts instead of a dowry. Then Oliver could buy the land from her, build the locks in stages as money allowed, and all of them would live happily ever after. “Am I to play the jealous lovesick swain, then? Or the tortured hero? Everyone knows our marriage is an alliance of families. To pretend otherwise would be ridiculous.” He held up a hand to stall her interruption. “I care about Althea. We’ve been in one another’s lives as long as she can remember. And I’ll be a good husband to her, assuming her mother successfully persuades her down the aisle. But I won’t play these childish games. If Althea wants to dance and flirt the night away, so be it. I see no reason to stop her.”
“Do you not?” Something akin to disappointment crossed Lady Agatha’s face. “I am sorry to hear it, Lord Southwyn. I had hoped for better for you both.”
Oliver glanced at Althea, lovely and laughing with someone else, then back at his companion. “I’m not sure what you mean. This is exactly what I expected.” His intended wore adifferent face than a few years ago, but when one married for duty, that didn’t matter.
Lady Agatha took his empty glass and placed it with hers next to a vase of lilies atop a short Greek-inspired column. “Have I ever told you about my first marriage?” When he shook his head, she continued. “It was typical of those in our set. A merger of families and lands, like yours. While my husband was not cruel, he was entirely apathetic about me, my happiness, or my needs. Refused to come to Town. Kept me away from my friends and did not care when I cried over the loss. And you know I threw the kind of fit only the young can get away with. If he had not beaten me to it and died in a riding accident, I likely would have expired from boredom, just for a change of scenery.”
Lady Agatha grasped Oliver’s hands in hers, holding his gaze with a fierceness that caught him by surprise. “Because I was a gently bred young lady, it was exactly what I expected. I did not know any better, but I knew I was lucky the marriage was brief. When Alfred asked for my hand, I did not realize the joy awaiting me. At the time, I chose him because he waskind. As a younger son without a title, he was everything my family would have rejected. And he is the best part of my life.” Her voice gentled. “To love your spouse is a gift, Lord Southwyn. One I have enjoyed for nearly forty years, and one I hoped you would have with Miss Thompson.”
“Love can grow over time,” Oliver said, but the phrase felt like reciting sums with his tutor as a child. Something he’d heard so often, he’d memorized, then stored away in a little brain compartment in case he needed it at a future date.
If Lady Agatha was correct, and God knows she often was, then people were watching Althea and making their own assumptions about his relationship—which was none of their bloody business, but he didn’t intend to add kindling tothe gossip pyre. And, since he wasn’t about to charge across the ballroom floor and cut in on her dance, the least he could do was pretend to be infatuated with her.
Oliver fastened his attention on Althea once more, attempting to mimic the way Dorian looked at Caro. The soft expression in Dorian’s eyes when he watched his wife do the most mundane tasks. How his mouth curved slightly as he delighted in the smallest things. In fact, Dorian had once gone on for nearly five minutes about the way Caro focused so completely on her writing, that he could stand and observe her for hours, unnoticed, if he wished.
While Oliver didn’t understand why Dorian admired the way his wife ignored him in favor of her imaginary friends, he could appreciate that the duke genuinely received joy from the experience.
The way Caro’s cousin always seemed to be doing two things at once was far more impressive to his way of thinking. When they’d been on the floor of his study that first week with Prince—unbidden, a smile curved his lips at the memory—Miss Martin had masterfully called him to task while soothing the kitten. He’d be hard-pressed to think of another woman with the same combination of sharp wit and gentle hands, who would have handled the situation with the same blind eye to the casual setting and his state of undress.
“Perhaps there is hope for you yet, lad,” Lady Agatha murmured. “As long as you can gaze at her like that, love may grow after all. Ah, I see my Alfred.”
Oliver watched her silver hair weave through the throng of people as she made her way toward her husband. Mr. Darylwrimple’s face creased into a wide smile at the sight of his wife. He excused himself from the gentlemen he’d been speaking with, then pushed through the crowd to meet LadyAgatha. Without hesitation, he clasped her hand and led her to the dance floor, as the opening strains of a waltz signaled an opportunity to hold her close in public.
Unexpected longing stole Oliver’s air. Someday, when his hair faded to gray, or fell out altogether, what would it be like to greet every opportunity to hold his wife with that kind of enthusiasm? The idea brought a sharp sting, as that primal, instinctualthinghe’d experienced in Dorian’s hallway flexed its claws again. Some part of him, long thought dead, craved what his friends had.
He searched for Althea’s pink gown amidst the couples on the dance floor. A familiar man bowed before her, although his name escaped Oliver at the moment. From what he remembered, he was from a good, but not excessively wealthy, family. A younger son. Not even the spare behind the heir, but the fifth or sixth born. Poor man would have to find a way to make his own way in the world, as was the burden of all younger sons.
Yet, the way he regarded Althea was enough to make one believe that young man thought himself the luckiest blighter on the planet. As he—damn, what was his name—pulled Oliver’s fiancée close and set them spinning to the music, his face resembled the way Dorian looked at Caro. Like Alfred looked at Agatha.
Glancing about the room, Oliver noted no less than five men watching Althea dance, all wearing expressions of desire or interest. She was, objectively, a lovely woman. In what many considerd the height of her beauty and youth. The ready smile she gave her current partner probably made him feel like the center of her world.
Althea had never looked at Oliver like that. Not once.
