Page 37 of My Best Friend's Earl
“Miss Martin. We are enjoying some breakfast. Would you care to join us?” Oliver motioned to the cat in silent explanation for his use of the wordwe.
God, when she smiled, that dimple made it damned near impossible to look away from her mouth. Pink and plump, her lips were the stuff of dreams.
Quite literally, in his case. Oliver gripped the cloth napkin tighter.
A footman placed a teacup beside the dishes and silverware on the other side of Prince. “That’s very kind of you, milord. Perhaps I’ll join you for a cup of tea, if you don’tmind. The sky is gray and spitting mad as usual, and the wet is already finding its way through my boots.”
Oliver knew the precise moment she truly took notice of the way Prince sat in his own chair with his own place setting, because her smile transformed into something altogether otherworldly. With a surprised laugh, Miss Martin grinned at Oliver, making warmth creep into his cheeks. Delight shone from her features, turning her blue eyes a shade he had difficulty defining. It wasn’t the blue of a summer sky, or the gray-toned blue of the sea. It might be closer to a—“Bloody hell,” he muttered. Waxing poetic about her eyes? Who was he becoming?
Realizing he’d sworn aloud, Oliver prepared for her to take him to task about his language.
However, she ignored him entirely and knelt beside Prince’s chair. “You’ve grown used to him, haven’t you? Even when that big man curses, you know you’re safe.” Scratching the cat behind his ear, she peered up at Oliver. “Well done, milord. You’ve won him over.”
Since her position put her directly at crotch level, Oliver resumed his seat and cleared his throat. Unfortunately, no words came to him. In fact, the normally organized and neatly categorized brain he’d cherished all his life was devoid of everything but his recent dreams of her. Instead of answering and embarrassing everyone involved, he gently stroked the soft fur behind Prince’s other ear, then smiled when the kitten’s purr rumbled between them.
“I’d forgotten what a loud purr he has.” Miss Martin shifted to perch on the chair before the extra place setting. Pouring a cup of tea from the pot in front of the cat, she spoke to Prince. “You don’t mind if I steal a bit of your tea, do you, my darling?” The cat purred, giving her a slow, adoring blink. “Thank you. That’s most generous.”
It seemed the two of them could continue in this vein for the foreseeable future, and part of Oliver wanted to let them. Just to hear her converse with a cat and see what topics this unpredictable woman chose to discuss.
“Thank you again for your insight. He’s settled in nicely. The servants dote on him.”
She pointed at the porcelain dish on the cat’s chair. “I don’t think the servants are the only ones doting on him. It makes me happy to see how well he’s cared for.”
“Is that your only reason for calling? To ensure I wasn’t abusing the cat?”
She shrugged one shoulder, and it struck him how compact she was. With her halo of curls, large personality, and boisterous way of simply existing, Constance Martin took up more space in his mind than she did at the breakfast table. Slender shoulders, delicate fingers wrapping around the handle of the cup… how had he never realized how petite she was? Generous curves abounded on a small frame. She was a pint-size tornado of a woman. The idiom about a storm in a teapot came to mind, but she embodied the opposite of its meaning. She wasn’t a fuss blown out of proportion.
Instead, she was a teacup-size tempest. The most literal interpretation of the words. Small, unpredictable, and the perfect size for his hands. Well, perhaps not his hands specifically. Some other lucky bastard’s hands.
But did she know that? Did she realize that any man who caught her fancy should be thanking the bloody stars? Because after meeting her sister and seeing the way Miss Martin accepted teasing from her family, he wasn’t so sure. He’d hated the way she’d smiled while comparing herself to her sister and saying nothing positive. Hated it. It made him want to shake every adult in that room who laughed at her expense. Which was a novel experience for Oliver. Thatnearly overwhelming urge to somehow protect Miss Martin from believing the nonsense she spouted from those plush lips had taken him by surprise. Neither the shaking nor the desire to defend her made any kind of sense, so he’d sat immobile until the subject changed.
“What does that expression on your face mean, milord?”
Oliver then took a bite of eggs that had gone cold. It would be impossible to explain his thoughts without initiating a conversation he couldn’t have. Besides, his head was too muddled. God only knew what would come out of his mouth if he tried to speak, so he held his tongue.
“I’m on my way to visit Althea and thought I’d stop and see Prince.” A nervous lilt to her words made him think she spoke to fill the awkward silence he’d created, which meant he’d made her uncomfortable. Again, the need to soothe and protect reared its head, and some part of his brain made a note that the urge didn’t stem from any part of his groin region.
Which was worrisome. Finding someone attractive was one thing. But this—
“Thank you for the tea. It will fortify me for the rest of the walk.”
“No need to walk. I’ve plenty of room in my carriage and planned to call anyway. Sir William is expecting me.” After a second’s hesitation, he finished the thought, allowing each word to be a brick in a wall between his troubled thoughts, and the reality of his duty. “I’m picking up the marriage contracts today.”
Beside him, Miss Martin went still. Understanding her reaction or asking about her feelings wasn’t something he could allow himself to do, however, so Oliver drained his tea, then offered a final scratch on the kitten’s head. “You’re sure you’ll only take tea?” At her nod, he rose. “Then I’ll gather my coat and be ready to leave when you are.”
If she worried over his odd mood, it wasn’t any of his concern. Or at least, that’s what he told himself when he left the room, refusing to look back.
Men were the most confounding creatures. Welcoming and offering a woman tea on a drizzly morning one minute, then distant and cold the next. For a short time, Constance had felt a kinship with Southwyn as they sat in the domestic environment of his breakfast table.
The warm welcome had been more than she expected when the impulse to call struck. She’d used the excuse of checking on the kitten, but the reality was that she wanted to see what would happen if they were alone again. Would he be Lord Stuffy Pants, or would she catch another glimpse of the man who’d sprawled on the floor half-dressed and spoken so openly with her?
During the time it took to drink a cup of tea, he’d been the man from his study. If she could, Connie would have spent the whole day at his table, befriending that side of him.
Lord Southwyn had been kind, and even—dare she think it—admiring. Then, quick as a slamming door, he’d changed and shut her out. No instigating action on her part, and God knows she’d examined the conversation in her head from every angle since climbing into his carriage.
It reminded her of that moment in Caro’s hallway, when she assumed he wanted to kiss her. Then, as today, he’d coolly dismissed her instead.
Rejection stung, no matter how overt or subtle. Once again, without warning or communication, he’d judged her and found her wanting.
