Page 56 of My Best Friend's Earl
Hattie shook her head. “I promise, it’s nothing you need to worry over. And you know we’d never deliberately hurt you, right?”
She nodded, since that was the expected answer. “Of course. We wouldn’t do anything to cause each other pain.” That, at least, she knew to be true. But they were up to something, and she didn’t know what.
Chapter Twenty
Review tax paperwork preparation with parents
Mail payment notices to lending library patrons
Ask Caro about next book release date
Forward letter from Mr. Wellsley to AltheaBookmarks
Franklin Wellsley was waiting when Oliver returned from visiting Dorian. The young man leaned against the townhome’s wall beside the stoop, with one booted foot propped on the house and his hands in his pockets. The picture of relaxed repose, and not at all the panicked man he’d dragged from Constance’s cleavage in that dark storeroom.
Wellsley held his hat in one hand and rested with his eyes closed and face lifted to the sky, like a flower seeking out the sun’s rays. Peaceful and unencumbered by things like regret, self-recriminations, and begrudging adherence to duty.
Oliver would dearly love to smack him with something. Given the few details he knew about the man’s relationship with Althea, it was intriguing that he’d call.
As Oliver drew near, Mr. Wellsley straightened and donned his hat. “Lord Southwyn. May I have a moment of your time?”
This should be interesting. Oliver swept his arm toward the door. “Of course. Come in.”
Rather than the study, Oliver headed toward the seldom-used blue drawing room at the front of the house.
The study was his sanctuary, where he stored his broken heart and unfulfilled wishes. Holding Constance in his favorite chair, knowing she felt safe enough to sleep in his presence, had forced him to assess how deep his feelings went. Yes, he desired her. After all, she was all curves and laughter and unruly hair that quivered with every movement. And she moved a lot. Being allowed to hold her while she dreamed, absorbing her honeysuckle scent, and feeling her breath on his neck, had been about more than desire. He loved her.
Sitting beside Constance on Dorian’s love seat, without touching her, had been a special kind of torture, and all he’d wanted to do was haul her back with him in time to that morning, when she’d been his for a brief while.
So, no. Oliver wouldn’t be opening his study to visitors anytime soon.
“Roberts, will you please bring some refreshments?” Knowing his butler, he’d read the tension in Oliver’s shoulders and would ensure there was something stronger than tea on offer.
Sure enough, a moment later, Roberts returned carrying a tray with a decanter and two glasses. “Will you be wanting further refreshments, milord?” Bless him and his priorities.
“Thank you, Roberts. This will be all. Mr. Wellsley, may I pour you a drink?” If nothing else, the manners his mother instilled in him would ensure the younger man didn’t walk away from this meeting thinking Oliver a monster. At his nod, Oliver handed him a crystal glass containing a generous splash of amber liquid.
Taking a seat, Oliver rested a booted ankle on his knee and indulged in a bracing swallow. “I assume this call pertainsto Althea.” Better to dive into the matter than waste each other’s time.
Mr. Wellsley’s sip became more of a gulp. Dutch courage, perhaps?
“I’m in love with your fiancée.” Twin slashes of pink colored Wellsley’s cheeks, but he held Oliver’s gaze. Interesting. Oliver’s estimation of the man went up at the show of bravery.
“Does Miss Thompson know you’re here?”
“Not exactly. She’d probably be livid if she knew.”
Oliver cocked his head, studying the man. Really, he was becoming more intriguing by the moment. “Why risk her wrath, then?”
“Because it’s not an honorable thing, is it? To love another man’s bride to be. So, I’ve come to do the only thing that feels right. I’m here to inform you that, if at all possible, I intend to marry Althea.”
He said it in a way that didn’t strike Oliver as empty bravado, or an attempt to urge them toward something truly unadvisable like pistols at dawn.
“Is that why you were in that storeroom the other night? Sending a marriage proposal via a third party?”
“Receiving a message from Althea, actually. She wanted to give me the opportunity to run away without feeling yellow-bellied. You see, if we elope, Sir William will withhold her dowry and raise such a fuss, there’ll be no escaping the scandal.”
Oliver sipped his drink and tried to identify the emotion coursing through him. Not the fiery spikes of anger, or even the inky sticky sensation of jealousy. This was warm, and a bit tentative. Like hope, afraid to bloom after feeling reality’s boots too many times before. Because perhaps this young man’s courage and honesty could be the sliver of sunshineneeded to light their way to a different path. Already, Oliver’s brain buzzed with starts and stops as he attempted to imagine a new course of action.
