Page 6 of My Best Friend's Earl
Connie added a note to the top of the list.How to Be a Matchbreaker: rule #1 girls before earls.
Chapter Three
Determine if cats make him ill. If yes, get a dog
If no, find a feral cat
Bloody hell. Her. That damned woman was everywhere. The only places Oliver could successfully avoid the bookseller were ballrooms and society matrons’ drawing rooms during calling hours. Of course, it seemed everyone in London was in the park today, celebrating a rare sunny day with temperatures that hovered near warm. Almost.
Hope for more days like this one sprouted. Much like he prayed the plants in his fields would grow under this sunshine. Despite the clear day, and that it was early May, people still wore their winter cloaks and fur muffs. Miss Constance Martin’s red cloak stood out in the sea of dark wool.
Oliver of all people was achingly aware that one could not choose their family. So, he did not hold it against his best friend, the Duke of Holland, for marrying a woman whose cousin was nothing short of a nuisance. From the moment Oliver met Caro’s cousin, he’d recognized her for the problem she was. Chaos incarnate. A distraction. And God, he hated both of those things. They caused ripples in schedules and moods in those around him that he could neither predict nor control.
She was beyond anyone’s control, and that was obvious. In fact, if Miss Martin heard someone discussing ways to control her, she would likely laugh in their face, flaunt that annoyingly insistent dimple, then flounce off to do whatever the hell she chose. Which seemed to be her entire life. Doing whatever the hell she chose.
And for reasons beyond his comprehension, what she’d chosen to do for the last week was cross his path every time he was with his fiancée.
Never mind that Constance was not highborn enough to be part of the parade of aristocrats through Hyde Park. Commoners gawked from the sidelines, no doubt appalled at the excess shown by the fashions, horseflesh, and flashy carriages of the ton. However, those commoners knew to stay out of the way—not make themselves known by waving merrily while shouting Althea’s name.
Which in turn meant Althea, normally a very levelheaded miss aware of her place in society and the expectations that came with it, grinned broadly and demanded he stop his carriage to greet her friend.
Why had they become friends? They’d met in Holland’s drawing room, and for some inexplicable reason, found a kindred spirit in one another. God help him. It didn’t make sense to his way of thinking. Althea was usually rather quiet. Uncomplicated. If she was in a poor mood, she could be a termagant, so he knew she had it in her to make his life difficult. She’d been a scamp as a child, but until their engagement, it had been years since he’d seen any sign of that sort of behavior.
Perhaps that’s what she had in common with Miss Martin. Unpredictable emotions. Which might explain Althea’s recent behavior. She’d been acting strangely during the last few days. Not just smiling, but simpering. Touching his armwhen they spoke. Laughing at things he said, when they weren’t terribly amusing. This afternoon, she’d adjusted his cravat and picked at something in his hair while he drove. It was unnerving.
“Pull over the carriage, Oliver.”
He sent his fiancée a look he hoped showed every bit of his indignation. “I most certainly will not. I am responsible for driving these horses; thus, I’ll stay exactly where I am. You may greet your friend while we are at a standstill. However, I won’t veer off the path or hold up traffic.”
She huffed. He gaped. “Did you just roll your eyes? Good God, Althea. Are you still in the schoolroom? This friendship with Miss Martin is a bad influence, if you ask me.”
A mulish angle tilted her chin. “I didn’t ask you, Lord Southwyn.” Lovely, now she was in a mood. Having known her for her entire life, they’d long ago passed formalities. She only used his title when annoyed with him. “Until I say my vows, you may not dictate whom I allow into my social circle.”
A headache brewed at the base of his skull, threatening an afternoon of pain instead of productivity. Taking a deep breath, Oliver searched for a thread of calm within himself. She was right. They were not married—because he couldn’t convince the woman to walk down the damn aisle. That would change.
Thanks to Sir William putting his foot down, wedding plans were unavoidable. Oliver had winced when Sir William claimed his daughter required a firm, authoritarian hand. Sure, Althea might act a little spoiled. Spoiled, but otherwise a decent person with whom he couldn’t find fault beyond her flappy emotional bits.
Despite his current mood, Oliver was not the kind of man who would limit her social circle. Not as a fiancé, or ahusband. The late earl had been overbearing like that, and his mother suffered as a result.
Lowering his voice while keeping one eye on the unruly blond curls weaving through the crowd toward them, Oliver said, “I apologize. Of course, I am not going to dictate who you may befriend. That would make me a brute. I may be many things, but I’m not a brute.”
Althea’s stubborn expression softened. “I know you’re not a brute. Thank you for apologizing. Won’t you please consider giving Constance a chance to win you over? I’m sure you’d like her if you tried. She’s become very dear to me, and I fully intend to deepen my acquaintance with her in the years to come.”
Grow accustomed to the interfering woman, in other words. He could try. Tolerance might be the best he could hope to achieve. Oliver forced a tight-lipped smile as his unwelcome guest stopped beside their carriage and swung a large wicker basket onto the seat beside him.
“Miss Thompson, Lord Southwyn. Well met!”
“A pleasure to see you again, Miss Martin.” It wasn’t. He detested liars, and he’d just become one. Blast it all.
“What do you have there?” Althea leaned over Oliver to peer into the basket. In the process, the carved wooden bird and white feather on her bonnet whacked him in the face, then settled halfway up his nose.
Blowing out a huff of air, he jerked away, trying to remove the feather from his nostrils. “Althea, would you mind…”
“Gingersnap! Oh, precious kitty. How are you, my love?” Althea didn’t heed him at all.
“He’s missed you,” Miss Martin said, a second before Althea lifted an animal into her lap, cooing all the while.
“You brought your cat to Hyde Park?” Oliver was hard-pressed to do more than blink at the creature.
