Page 67 of My Best Friend's Earl
The noises she made, her restless movements as they urged one another closer to that peak, the delicious extravagance of her soft curves—it was so uniquely Constance. Oliver couldn’t imagine wanting someone else. It didn’t matter that a few months ago he hadn’t been ready to love her. Hell, a month ago he’d been determined to keep this gnawing need contained to fantasies.
To have her now, beneath him, welcoming him between lush thighs, was more than he’d ever expected to have. Those feelings he’d been collecting, suppressing, refusing to examine, burst from their tidy little mental boxes. “I love you. I’ve never loved anyone before, but I love you, Connie.”
Her eyes closed and her mouth opened around a cry of pleasure. Oliver couldn’t resist sucking that sensitive place where her neck met her shoulder. As she shuddered and squeezed him tight, he kept his relentless pace, chasing his own orgasm.
It wasn’t until later, when they’d dressed and welcomed Dorian and Caro home, that Oliver realized she hadn’t said she loved him too.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Talk to Caro about Martin House
He was a dunderhead of the first order. Oliver tended to make a decision, then stick to it, no matter what. Sometimes because his initial choice was the correct one, and sometimes out of sheer stubbornness. Before now, he hadn’t encountered many moments of regret regarding his lack of experience in love.
This, however, was one of those times. Would a man who’d fallen in and out of love with multiple partners recognize the ideal time to confess his love to a woman? Because clearly, he’d fumbled that spectacularly. Oliver made a huff of disgust at the paper on his lap desk, when another bump in the road made the letters scrawl over the page. Not that he was writing the right words anyway.
After visiting the property they’d come to see, today’s travel back to London mirrored yesterday’s initial caravan. Dorian, Caro, little Nate, and Constance were in one carriage, and he followed in the other. Had he expected Constance to join him today, and had he been anticipating more time with her on the road? Yes. Unequivocally yes. To his surprise, she’d joined her cousin outside the cottage this morning, leaving him wondering where things had gone wrong.
Damn it all, but he just didn’t have the right words. Everything he wanted to write sounded needy, or insecure, or too gruff, or cold and unfeeling. Ideally, he’d love to make this missive as simple as possible, with a short list of options for answers, thus removing all those pesky emotions from the situation.
Do you love me too?
A) Yes, marry me!
B) Maybe. Perhaps more sex will provide clarity.
C) No. You’re a disappointment as a lover. Go to hell.
She’d chosen to not ride with him back to Town, after sharing the best night and morning of his life. Not knowing what to do about it was tearing him up.
Slipping the paper into the lap desk, he slammed the lid closed and tossed the whole thing onto the seat beside him. Could he ask for clarification at the inn, when they stopped to change horses? If he couldn’t find a private moment with her, was he doomed to stew and fidget all the way to London? Either way, he needed to learn what he’d done wrong, so he could castigate himself accurately for the rest of his bloody life. Was he expected to read into her decision to ride with Caro, and draw a conclusion from that?
Unfortunately, if the only data available was someone not saying “I love you” back, followed by them choosing alternative transportation home, the obvious answer didn’t give him much hope. But—and the enormity of thatbutcouldn’t be overstated—this washer.
A rueful smile crooked his lips when he considered how drastically Constance’s reasoning for this morning might differ from his. If he could somehow walk through that woman’s brain, he imagined it would resemble a cluttered office,packed with haphazard stacks of interesting facts from random books and piles of unexpectedly practical skills. All interspersed with half-finished artwork and topped with a rock she’d kept because it resembled a frog. And the entire office would be run by seven squirrels and three mice subsisting on nothing but tea and iced lemon biscuits.
Oliver’s real-life workspace, on the other hand, was orderly and laid out so precisely that Althea successfully ruffled his peace by shifting items to the left by four inches.
They were vastly different people, and that was one reason he loved her. However, those differences meant that anything related to Constance Martin would be, by default, entirely new territory for him—which made him indecisive. Because that was the effect chaos had on the world. Indecision, and wandering about scratching one’s head, muttering “How didthatget there?”
Like now, when he’d laid his heart at her feet, only to have it ignored, and he didn’t know what to do.
His father would throw up his hands, mutter about fickle women, then stomp off and get drunk. Obviously, Oliver wasn’t going to do that—although he wasn’t ruling out a large whisky at the end of the day. If his mother were here, she’d urge him to ask for answers. After all, he’d fallen in love with Constance, baffling as she often was, for good reason. This wouldn’t be the last time she left him wondering which direction was up.
Thankfully, buildings flashed by the window, more frequently by the second. Which meant they’d stop at the inn soon. Calm settled over Oliver, knowing he’d speak with her in a few minutes.
When the carriages rolled into the inn yard, Oliver hopped down before a footman could reach his door, then waved away the Hollands’ servant and opened their doorhimself. Dorian’s surprise turned into a smirk when he saw Oliver.
“My love, why don’t we go inside and see if there are any private dining rooms available. I believe Oliver wants a few moments with Connie.” The duke hefted Nate’s traveling basket and climbed down.
Caro sent Oliver an encouraging smile when he offered a steadying hand from the carriage.
“Thank you. We’ll join you shortly,” he murmured, then turned toward the one person remaining. “Constance, I need a word.”
Her obvious surprise at his request baffled him, but she took his hand and didn’t drop it when she reached the ground.
“Not to be indelicate, but do you need to use the facilities, or can you walk with me a while?” he asked. “Since we left the cottage, I’ve been wallowing in questions only you can answer. I’m tired of my thoughts and need to hear yours.”
Her gaze darted toward the inn. “I do need to… but perhaps I could ride in your carriage the rest of the way to London? We’ll discuss whatever’s on your mind, then.”
