Page 60 of My Best Friend's Earl
Strangely, she did. Lord Southwyn might be manythings—logical, sometimes overly cool and emotionally detached—but he’d also proved himself to be the opposite of those very characteristics. Passionate, loose with his language and humor when unconcerned with propriety, and direct with his declarations, like now.
“You want me, Lord Southwyn.” Her pulse fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird at her bold statement.
His knees widened, legs bracketing hers, as the toes of his boots flirted with her hem. “I want you, Constance. More every day. You’re the only woman I’ve ever said that to or about. I’m in uncharted water, here.”
“Feeling a bit vulnerable?”
A raspy chuckle titillated her senses. “Very. It has never been about not wanting you enough.”
“It was about making the decision your father wouldn’t,” she acknowledged. The tip of her boot nudged up his calf. “I still want you too. Although I’m not clear on what you intend to do about these mutual feelings.”
His smile grew wide. Open and unfettered. Constance wished it was possible for him to always have such a smile readily available. Inspiring an expression like that in a man such as him was a heady thing.
So, of course, her natural inclination was to make light of it. “If I were a lady of quality, it would simplify things, don’t you think? A maid or chaperone would be watching us, and we’d never have to decide the best way to spend our time.”
That smile of his turned wicked, and heat blossomed between her thighs.
“But then, we wouldn’t find ourselves in delightful circumstances like these, together in a carriage.”
Constance’s earlier suspicions returned. This time, she shared them, since they’d clearly abandoned their previousdecision to pretend their kisses never happened. “We might find ourselves alone for longer than this drive.”
“Why do you say that?” They sat on the edge of their seats, and it amused her to no end to see the way his breathing stuttered when she placed one hand on his knee. The poor man was trying so hard to have a conversation, and she relished making things difficult.
“I may look foolish for this prediction if I’m wrong. But I suspect Dorian and Caro will experience an overnight delay once we reach the cottage.”
It was fascinating to watch his analytical brain fight with desire. Oliver cocked his head in thought while the muscles of his thigh jumped under her touch.
“Based on what clues, exactly?” The words came out breathless, as he clenched one hand in his. Her free hand explored freely, sliding high on his leg before sweeping toward his inner thigh. Tempting the earl might be her new favorite pastime.
“Althea wants you to shift your attentions to me, rather than her—”
“Done,” he interrupted, making her laugh.
“Plus, my cousins know I’ve been harboring an irritating attraction toward you for weeks now. Of course, there’s also that meeting we interrupted between Althea and my cousins the other day.”
“That means Dorian knows about this scheme as well. I went to him for advice after our first kiss.”
No matter how much Dorian adored his wife, he wouldn’t put his closest friend in a compromising situation without believing it was for the best. Which meant the Duke of Holland fully believed Constance, a bookseller and runaway bride, was a suitable match for the Earl of Southwyn.
What a realization to have, while facing the damnablyattractive man in question. Who, it turned out, was reaching the same conclusion.
“Dorian approves of a romance between us. Otherwise, he’d have warned me away when I told him about the storeroom.”
One word struck her as significant. Romance. Not match. Not marriage. Romance.
Disappointment settled in her gut, followed swiftly by self-recrimination.
It was as she’d told Hattie. One bookshop cousin marrying above her station was rare enough. Two of them doing so would be inconceivable.
A rueful laugh built, but she refused to set it free. It would be the height of foolishness to believe, even for a few moments, that an earl—anearlof all things—would choose her. A common-born nobody, slightly notorious in one area of London. A shopgirl. A woman who often couldn’t keep a thought in her head for longer than five seconds and lived by lists to keep track of basic tasks. Lists with things likeremember to eat todaywritten on them.
It would be silly to assume any of this meant more than what he said it was—wanting. Lust. Their places in society were so disparate, she couldn’t logically expect him to marry her.
Given the reality of the world in which they lived, a romance with the Earl of Southwyn was the most she could enjoy with him.
The inevitable end might hurt beyond measure. It might crush when they eventually said goodbye. Hell, she’d mourned the loss of him after sharing one passionate encounter. Becoming his lover would permanently imprint him on her soul.
Could. Might. Maybe. Constance swallowed down herdread over something that hadn’t happened yet. It was a risk. However, when she recalled the details of her life, she wanted to smile at the memories of this man and how fiercely she’d loved him. How bravely she’d loved him—knowing all the while they wouldn’t grow old together.
