Page 12 of Nice Earls Do

Did he want her—or the fabulous Mrs. Goode?

“It’s not entirely hopeless,” Oliver declared, spinning back to face her. The curtain behind him rippled with the movement.

“It isn’t?” she asked, before realizing that he had been referring to the house and not her feelings about its owner.

Oliver took a step closer to the table, curling his long fingers around the carved finials of a chair that would not have looked out of place in a Tudor throne room. But he made no move to sit down. Instead, he tilted his head and studied her with the same keen eye he’d applied to the painting. “Where would we be without hope?” he said. And she knew he had divined the direction of her thoughts when his next words were, “Strange, isn’t it, that Lord Stalbridge never married?”

“Well, he wasn’t Lord Stalbridge until recently,” she reminded him. “His prospects before the inheritance weren’t exactly grand. He was responsible for his widowed mother—”

“And his wastrel brother—”

Tabetha sent him a chiding glance. “His entire family, yes. At one point, he planned to go in for the law as a way of supporting them. I daresay he never had much ready money.”

His expression grew skeptical. “So he took a vow of chastity as well as poverty?”

“Oliver!”

Settling one forearm along the back of the chair, he leaned toward her and retorted in a mocking whisper, “Mamabet!”

She sent a glance over her shoulder and dropped her voice. “I don’t think you should call me that where others might overhear.”

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand but conceded enough to draw the chair back and sit down in it so that they could converse more easily. “What did the two of you discuss this afternoon?”

“What makes you think we spoke?”

“If you don’t wish to talk about it, then we won’t,” he replied with a little humph.

“How did you know?” She dropped her voice lower still.

“I wasn’t sure...until now,” he teased with a triumphant grin. Then his expression softened. “Let us say that something in your voice when you spoke of him—and something in his eye when he looked at you—made me think it likely you would seek out an opportunity to converse with one another. Reminisce about old times, that sort of thing.”

“Mostly we talked about the children,” she confessed at last. “This house. He...he wondered what Mrs. Goode would recommend to make it warmer and more welcoming. I—I didn’t really know what to say.”

Oliver picked up his goblet, took a sip, then smacked his lips appraisingly before shrugging and downing the rest. “I wonder,” he said, looking contemplatively at the empty glass, “whether we have the present Lord Stalbridge to blame for this appalling vintage, or whether the fault lies with his predecessor.”

“You must know I didn’t tell him the truth,” she insisted, leaning over the table. “When he seemed surprised by my inability to suggest improvements to the family parlor, I”—her whisper became something barely audible in the vastness of the room—“distracted him with a kiss.”

“Ah. How clever.” Oliver twisted the stem of his goblet between his fingers, his gaze focused on the gleaming tableware, his smile more than a little wry. “But what, pray tell, will you do the next time the subject comes up?”

She sucked in a breath. “That remark is unworthy of you, Oliver,” she said primly, despite the fact that she’d been wondering much the same thing. “And uncalled for. I suppose I’ve grown so accustomed to thinking of you as a friend, that I—I neglected to consider... Perhaps you find my behavior disloyal to the memory of your father, or—”

“Detrimental to the name of Manwaring?” His lips quirked. Then, disregarding her prior admonition, he murmured, “Mamabet...” and reached across the table for her hand. “I find it difficult to believe there’s a man on this earth who’s worthy of your affection. Certainly my father was not. But perhaps this Lord Stalbridge...” His shoulder rose and fell in a characteristic shrug, making their joined hands twist slightly against the tablecloth. “For once in your life, do what makes you happy. Tell him how you feel. Tell him the truth. Tell him...everything, if you must.”

Reveal Oliver’s secret? “But you—your publisher, your book—”

“Forgive me.” He squeezed her hand before releasing it and sliding back into his chair. The high, straight back made his usual pose of indifference impossible to assume. “But I never really thought this harebrained scheme of yours would work. I will survive—even if Mrs. Goode does not.”

Tabetha had to bite her lips to keep them from trembling. “Thank you, Oliver dear. But I won’t sacrifice you for an illusion.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she spoke over him. “Oh, Kit is a good man. A dear friend. And an excellent kisser, as it turns out,” she added with a quiet laugh, as heat spread across her cheeks. “But I daresay he’s painted a false picture of me in his imagination. In the end, I’m sure he’d be happier with someone more...domestically inclined.”

“A ‘Mrs. Goode’ type?”

“Exactly.”

For once, Oliver did not say whatever was on his mind, though he did cast her another skeptical look.

“Besides,” she went on, “you told me to do what makes me happy. Shouldn’t I make certain what that is, first?” She glanced around the room. She’d already endured one drafty old pile in the country—though to be fair, Ferncliffe wasn’t drafty. “I’m not sure this is the life I want.”

“Then what is?”