“From your tone, I assumed you already heard what people are saying. Miss Thompson will need her friends now more than ever,” Lord Bixby said.
“I’m not sure to what you’re referring, milord,” Hattie gritted out.
He openly assessed her now, that scarred mouth tilting in a subtle grin. “You’re wise enough to protect your friend and not reveal what you know. Admirable, but ultimately useless. Soon enough everyone will hear about Southwyn jilting her because he’s in love with another woman.” Lord Bixby leaned closer, but Constance noticed he didn’t lower his voice. “And we understand how the ton works. They’ll be all aflutter because not only is he throwing over a lovely woman like Miss Thompson, but he’s doing so for a commoner. She’s a bookseller, of all things. First the Duke of Holland, now the Earl of Southwyn.”
Despite her frayed emotions, Constance’s reserves of sarcasm ran deep. “Oh no.” Her patently false dismay made Hattie smirk. “Well-read women are infiltrating the ton? What is England coming to when such a thing is possible within the hallowed halls of Mayfair?”
Outwardly, she seemed flippant, but her damned brain spun with new questions. How did the ton already know about their affair? Would being involved with her—publicly choosing Constance over someone suitable like Althea—cause irrevocable damage to Oliver’s place in society?
In forty-two minutes, according to Lord Bixby’s timepiece, Althea planned something that would send moretongues wagging. Or, was this part of what Oliver had prepared for?
Hattie clamped a hand around Lord Bixby’s biceps. “Who told you such scurrilous gossip? You’re going to point them out to me, then I expect you to keep what you heard to yourself.”
Lord Bixby looked both startled and amused, as if Hattie were a kitten who’d surprised him by hissing instead of purring. “On whose orders?”
Her cousin, bless her, who kept her head in nearly any situation, reached the end of her patience. White shone at her knuckles as she squeezed and stepped close enough that her nose nearly touched his chin. A hint of Scotland laced her words like the subtle peaty undertones of good whisky. The accent was a remnant from her childhood, and something she’d actively tried to lose since moving to England. That it made an appearance now was indicative of exactly how close she danced to the edge of her temper.
“On whose orders, you ask? Hattie McCrae, cousin to the bookseller in question, and friend of Miss Thompson. If your loose lips cause either of them so much as a wince, you will live to regret it.”
Lord Bixby’s chuckle put him in genuine danger, and the foolish man either didn’t know or didn’t care. “What, no empty death threats?”
Hattie’s smile turned calculating. Anticipatory. “I’m not a killer. But Iama woman prepared to hunt down the next man who hurts one of mine, then dismantle his world piece by piece, and laugh as I bring him low.” She jerked him around to face the room. “Now, show me who told you.” Hattie glanced at Constance. “Try to find the others and keep an eye on the clock—you can’t be late.”
“Right. Girls before earls. I’ll be there.”
Hattie’s lips twitched at the quip, then flattened before focusing once more on the man in her grip. Lord Bixby smirked at something behind Connie and allowed Hattie to lead him away.
“Constance, my love, I’ve been searching for you all over London, and here you are.” Oliver’s voice flowed over her senses like warm honey, magically soothing some of her frazzled nerves.
When she spun to face him, his welcoming smile faded. In an instant, he looked ready to fight dragons on her behalf. Oh, this man. “Have you been crying? I saw you enter, then lost you in the crowd. What’s happened?” Strong fingers gently swept under her eyes, then fell to trail down her bare arms.
Constance took a steadying breath and her senses filled with… him. Oliver must have applied cologne right before leaving the house, because the top notes of sandalwood hadn’t yet faded enough to allow the citrus undertones their moment to shine.
His dark hair needed a trim. A tuft stuck up where he’d run his fingers through it. For some reason he hadn’t dressed in evening attire, and he wore one of those godawful waistcoats they’d sneaked into his wardrobe. Tonight, his angular jaw was freshly shaved, which brought to mind the area of beard burn high on her inner thigh that had yet to fade.
There were probably men present who were taller, or broader, or more classically handsome. But this was the one who made her pulse race while soothing her rough edges.
“Today has been emotional.” Rather than the witty retorts she’d hoped would come to her in the moment, Constance said the first thing that came to mind. Which she’d always done with him, from that first meeting. Something about Oliver had always allowed her to be comfortable beingher verbally impulsive, unvarnished self. And he’d still fallen in love with her.
“When I left the shop, I wanted to thrash you, milord. You have things to answer for.”
Concern etched his features. “Perhaps we could speak somewhere more private and you can tell me what I’ve done?”
After her conversation with Hattie, she felt slightly freer from the emotional muck of insecurities. Her typical humor asserted itself. “Does our hostess happen to have a spare storeroom?”
His grin flashed white teeth and made a fan from the creases of his eyes. “Would you settle for a music room? The Forsyths have closed theirs to visitors, but it’s just down the hall. We could sneak in and no one would notice.”
That was another reason she loved him that others might not understand. This logical, dutiful man would bend rules to be alone with her. Oliver’s willingness to soften his rigid control meant more to her than a love letter or posy of flowers.
“Lead on.” She tucked a hand in the crook of his elbow. “Although I must warn you, I have somewhere to be in—what time is it?” He pulled out a pocket watch and showed her the mother-of-pearl clockface. “Thirty-four minutes.”
The hum of conversation and laughter grew when they stepped into a room filled with tables and guests playing games of chance.
“The amount they’ll lose at these tables would probably feed my entire neighborhood for a year,” Connie commented in a low tone.
Oliver leaned closer. “It’s enough to turn your stomach if you consider it for longer than a few seconds.” Disgust colored his words. “My father was a gambler. That’s one vice you never need to worry about me embracing.”
A ripple of conversations followed them through the crowed as more guests realized the Earl of Southwyn escorted an unfamiliar woman rather than his fiancée. The heavy weight of everyone’s stares poked between her shoulder blades. Part of Connie wanted to spin around, throw her hands in the air dramatically, and say,Yes, I’m the lowly bookseller who’s compelled the Earl of Southwyn to jilt Althea Thompson. Look upon my common-born charms and be…Amazed? Impressed? Constance laughed quietly at her own ridiculousness.Look upon my common-born charms and be as confused as I amfelt more accurate.
