Page 48 of My Best Friend's Earl
Which might have been enough, until he realized the scented oils from his shaving soap were leaving marks of their own on the fabric. Thus, a morning spent in the scullery with a laundress who now thought him an “odd duck.”
He wasn’t supposed to overhear that, but with his cheeks burning and every nerve on alert from embarrassment, the whispers in the room might as well have been shouts to his ears.
It was better than the alternative. He’d rather they believe him fancifully indulging in maid’s work, like Queen MarieAntoinette milking cows at Versailles, than they know he’d shot off like a firework in his sleep due to a certain dimpled blonde.
Besides, the laborious task could act as a deterrent to whatever part of his mind created such dreams. Reddened, chapped hands should convince his brain to never put him in this position again. A man could hope.
One inescapable truth lingered as he scrubbed, rinsed, boiled, then pressed the sheets through the rollers of the mangle—things couldn’t go on like this. Keeping his hands off his cock clearly wasn’t enough to dull the ache of need pounding at him, as his body apparently had its own agenda.
He’d told Dorian that only one version of the future allowed him to act with honor. With each passing day, it grew clearer that there wasn’t any honor in marrying Althea when he desperately desired Constance. Even if he kept promises and fulfilled obligations, fantasizing about his wife’s friend would make him a shit-stain of a human.
Thanks to Maxine’s thorough instruction and chatty nature, Oliver now knew how to remove shit-stains as well as a host of other marks from various fabrics. If only removing offending marks on his conscience was as straightforward.
Two hours later, with hands pink and sensitive from his brief stint as a laundry maid, Oliver sat at his desk. First order of business was to raise the wages of the servants. He’d peeked into the kitchens on the way to his study and had been a little ashamed to see the level of industriousness happening there as well.
They kept his house in order and a score of people fed besides him—all while he worked in this padded chair, in a comfortable room, reading and writing letters and examining account books. Yes, the work he did was important,but it wasn’t the backbreaking sort expected of those in his employ.
Constance’s imaginary reaction to his morning crossed his mind and he chuckled, shaking his head. No doubt she’d roll her eyes, then tease him about being a soft, pampered lord. She would be proud of him for raising the wages of his servants, though. Somehow, he knew that.
Would she ever feel comfortable as a woman in charge of a house like his? Caro brought changes to the ducal household, and Oliver had seen firsthand the way Dorian dealt differently with people in the working class since falling in love with a bookseller. Maybe witnessing those changes prepared Oliver for this, he thought. If placed in a similar position, Constance would likely rise to the challenge, as Caro had. Somehow, he knew that too, with a steady confidence in her abilities that took him by surprise when he paused to examine it.
Constance, for all her cheerful chatter and vivacious presence, was entirely competent.
Not the stuff of poems, or ballads, but the truth. She was eminently capable and didn’t seem to need him or anyone for a blasted thing. Whether blending in at a ball, running a bookshop, or navigating the streets of London alone, Constance didn’t wait for assistance.
It left him at loose ends, to be honest. Oliver stared, unseeing at the stack of mail on the corner of his polished wood desktop. Althea hadn’t visited since her parents began restricting her movements, so everything was in its place.
What Constance told him about Sir William’s treatment of Althea had been circling Oliver’s brain like a vulture. The information scavenged the tattered remains of any delusions regarding the kind of fiancé he’d been up until then. He’d been negligent. Uncaring, cold, and aloof to the point of notnoticing when his fiancée’s parents essentially put her under house arrest.
While he might not be Althea’s adoring swain, he did consider himself a friend. Somewhat. Frankly, he’d feel more inclined toward friendliness if he didn’t have to marry the woman. Enough commitment to her remained within him to make the thought of causing her harm untenable. Yet he had. Then he’d made it worse.
After Constance’s revelations, he’d paid a call on Althea’s parents. Sir William told him, in no uncertain terms, that Oliver didn’t have any say in Althea’s treatment until they married. Since that visit, he’d only seen her with her parents present. By trying to defend her, he’d tightened the collar around her neck.
Althea needed him if she was to have a decent life away from her family.
His mother had needed him as a like-minded companion. Then toward the end, as someone to stand between her and his father’s blows.
Constance Martin didn’t need him for anything.
He remembered the way a flush pinkened her cheeks and chest as he’d draped his coat around her shoulders and sneaked her out of the ball. The furtive glances they’d shared. How she’d surprised him with a final toe-curling kiss after he bundled her into his carriage. It had been sheer hell to send her home alone. Perhaps she needed him for one thing, he silently amended. But it was something he’d lived without all his life.
Blinking, he adjusted the snug fit of his breeches and got to work. The faster he dealt with estate business, the faster he could puzzle through to a solution that would solve the problem of his pending marriage to the wrong woman. There must be an answer to all this; he just hadn’t found it yet.
The hopeful bent of his thoughts lasted until he reached the final letter on his desk. Outside, the day was gray and damp, although not outright raining. He stood at the window and studied the garden beyond the glass.
Each year, Cook and her staff planted a vegetable and herb garden for the household’s use. Not that the yield met the need of a house this size, but it contributed.
The view on the other side of the window showed a different landscape than it usually would by this part of summer. Instead of green plants, bursting with potential, the garden was a muddy wasteland. Herbs grew in pots rather than the ground, and Oliver suspected the staff brought them indoors as needed, to save the plants from the miserable onslaught of rain and cold. Even with that intervention, the green bushy things they’d coaxed into existence were nowhere near as large as one would hope.
Lines from the letters he’d just read played out over the bleak scene before him.
I fear the worst, milord. At this rate, even if we’re blessed with sunshine every day until October, the yield would be slim. Without the sun, our harvest will be nothing but mud.
Crops are rotting in the ground.
The cost of oats has nearly doubled. We may have to choose between feeding our livestock and feeding our tenants.
Landowners in the area are divided in their response. Some are forgiving rents and providing aid in the form of supplemental food to their tenants. Most areignoring the situation. Due to our long history, I dare hazard a guess as to which tack you’ll take. However, I must warn you. The costs will be dear, indeed. Once we deplete last season’s stores, we will need to slaughter livestock for food rather than take them to market.
