Page 41 of My Best Friend's Earl
Searching the crowd for Miss Martin and her astounding cleavage, Oliver gritted his teeth when he spied a flash of her coral gown slipping through a door at the edge of the ballroom.
Whatever her reasons for being here, there was a 100 percent chance they’d lead to disaster. Not only for her, but her connection to society, the Duke and Duchess of Holland. Even if Oliver wasn’t battling an inconvenient attraction to the woman, he’d intervene to protect his closest friend.
Besides, if some half-drunken randy buck with too much money and too little common sense realized a shopgirl had infiltrated the event, Constance would be in genuine danger, from more than whispers and glares. The idea made his heart race and a cold sweat bloomed on his brow. Having a father like his meant Oliver knew all too well how some men of so-called quality thought of women in general, but especially commoners. They were disposable. During his childhood, their estate cycled through housemaids as quickly as coal and firewood, even before his mother died. After she passed away, things went from bad to worse.
Concern and curiosity compelled his feet across the room to the door through which she’d disappeared.
In the room beyond, there was a distinct lack of the decor their hostess had strewn about the ballroom, and not a servant in sight. The lights were low in an attempt to discourage guests from venturing beyond the event itself.
A faint click echoed from the far wall. Oliver swiveled his head to follow the sound. That had to be another door latch closing behind her. Sure enough, a cleverly camouflaged opening in the wall led to a steep stairwell, then down a short hall. The faintshushingof silk drew him around a corner, to a dead end with a single closed door.
This wasn’t a rambling promenade. Someone had provided Miss Martin a map of the servant’s domain—specifically an area away from the main bustle of the kitchen, where the staff were no doubt rushing to handle a gathering of this size. What purpose did she have for being this deep in the house?
A tremor rocked his hand when he reached for the doorknob. Oliver clenched his fingers in a fist, breathing until the trembling passed. Worry and curiosity, titillation and fear, need and anger—all writhed so violently within him; it was no wonder he shook with it. If he could, he’d climb out of his skin to escape this discombobulation.
Emotion lurked too close to the surface for comfort. Through sheer force of will, Oliver donned reasoning and rationality, like a well-worn coat.
There had to be a purpose for her presence. Dashing toward a hidden corridor and whatever this room contained had been deliberate. Should he leave her in peace?
Had she fled to the gardens, Constance would be vulnerable to the kind of men he’d worried about as he’d watched her go. But here in this barely lit hall, with the event nothing but a distant thrum of muted music and chatter, there were fewer dangers.
There were also fewer reasons to justify her presence. No doubt it all came back to some plot she’d embroiled herself in, beyond what he could imagine. Probably involving an underground spy network of footmen and boot boys. Or—oily unease churned in his gut. A tryst, perhaps.
The logic of William Ockham dictated that the simplest theory was often the correct one. A tryst.
As if to confirm the centuries-old principle, the deep tones of a man’s voice drifted through the closed door. Even though it confirmed his suspicion, when Oliver reached for the knob, it wasn’t logic compelling him.
Drury Lane would be hard-pressed to set a scene better than the one he found inside. A small lantern sat on a short wooden table, casting meager light on what appeared to be a storeroom. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with metal canisters and glass jars. A copper contraption in the corner that might have been a still. How much cordial did one have to drink to warrant having a still in one’s home?
None of that mattered, because as quickly as Oliver took in these details, he noted one thing more important than anything else—Constance’s face. Even more damning was the man whose hand hovered near the creamy flesh of her neckline.
The distressed emotions twisting her lovely features told Oliver everything he needed to know. Whatever their reasons for meeting, or the circumstances that brought these two people to this time and place, Constance was not happy to have this man touching her.
Dimly, in a corner of his mind that stood separate from the animalistic rage threatening to overtake him, Oliver recognized the man as the younger son who’d danced with Althea while wearing a besotted expression.
Did Constance know he was wooing her friend as well as her?
It didn’t matter. Because whatever had transpired in the moments before Oliver entered the room had clearly made her uncomfortable.
That same reserved area of his mind examined her face.Blue eyes wide, eyebrows pinched together, mouth open in a silent cry.
In the mental file of memories of her he’d kept, and not realized existed until that instant, she was a lively whirlwind. Chattering, laughing, scolding, teasing, silently contemplating the world, or fidgeting as she tried to hold her tongue. But seeing Constance in pain was alien and…
Absolutely. Unacceptable.
“Unhand her this instant, or so help me God, I’ll throw you from the nearest window.” Oliver didn’t recognize the growl in his voice, but the threat made the couple before him freeze.
“Lord S-Southwyn,” the man stuttered. Despite his obvious shock, he didn’t move his hand.
Red crept in around the edges of Oliver’s vision, and those baser urges flared to life. The sound he made was nearly a roar as he clutched the young man’s lapels and flung him away from Constance. She shrieked, then clapped a hand over her mouth.
“I didn’t—I don’t—” Damnit, what was his name? Sir Wellsley’s fourth or fifth son. Anthony? No, Franklin. Maybe it was Franklin. Whatever his name, he seemed prepared to plead for his life, but the words came out choked and disjointed. If Oliver had to guess, it was partly due to panic, and partly from the bruising grip he had on the whelp’s neck and shoulder as he dragged him to the door.
They charged out into the hall, which was thankfully free of servants, because Oliver shoved the other man’s body against the wall with an echoing thud. “You don’t touch her again unless she sends you an engraved invitation. Otherwise, I will end you. Do I make myself clear?”
Wellsley’s jerky head movement was as close to a nod as he could manage, since Oliver had pinned him to the walllike a butterfly on a board. The young man fell to the floor in a graceless heap when he let him go.
Oliver returned to the storeroom and Constance, then slammed the door on the sight of Franklin Wellsley. Breath bellowed from him as he examined her. Thoughts of calm fled at the sight of her tears.
