My Best Friend's Earl

by Bethany Bennett

Genres: Women's Fiction; Regency Romance; Family Life

Synopsis

A bold bookseller tries to matchbreak her friend’s engagement to an earl . . . until she finds herself falling for him instead.

The one thing Constance Martin wants most to avoid is a boring life. She walks her cat with a leash in Hyde Park and even called off her wedding at the altar to stop what would have been a monotonous marriage. So when an aristocratic friend comes into the store asking for help throwing over her fiancé, Constance is both sympathetic and eager for the excitement to come. What could be more fun than plotting ways to get a stuffy—but very handsome—earl to break an engagement?

    Oliver Vincent, Earl of Southwyn, likes his orderly life of duty and logic. Everything’s falling into place; all that’s left is marrying the girl next door. Except the girl next door is increasingly reluctant. But marriage is a business deal, after all, and Oliver is determined to keep moving forward with the plan. If only he wasn’t so distracted by her friend—a stunning woman best described as chaos incarnate. She thinks marriage should be an adventure, and he views it as a transaction. But Oliver can’t seem to remember the downsides of falling when Constance is near. . .
 

Release date: August 12, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

Brush teeth

Eat something (remember Monday’s dizzy spells?)

Mend apron strap

Contact publisher regarding latest order of Blanche Clementine books

London, Spring 1816

If her father had been a baron—or, God forbid, a duke—she’d have been ruined. However, as the youngest daughter of a modest bookshop owner, Constance Martin was merely notorious in a certain area of London.

Most days, she rather liked it. Being notorious was the opposite of invisible, after all. Invisibility was an all-too-familiar sensation after a lifetime spent in the shadow of a damn near perfect sister. It didn’t take long for her to learn that if you gave people something to talk about, they’d remember your name. Your actual name, not just Betsy Martin’s twin sister, who, despite being nearly identical in looks, could not be more different in ability and temperament. The implication being, that Betsy was a joy to her family, while Constance was… not.

“Inconstant Constance,” a woman in the map section of the bookshop whispered to her friend. Their giggles inspired an eye roll at her cousin, Hattie. Unfortunately, since Constance’s trip down the aisle—in the opposite direction from her groom—comments like these were common. At least the women weren’t mocking her to her face.

A week ago, her cousin Caro asked if Constance would have made the same decision if she’d foreseen the damage her reputation would suffer after leaving Walter at the altar.

There’d been no hesitation in her answer. Yes.

Even if she’d known about the name-calling, obnoxious men in the neighborhood, and the whispering customers, Constance wouldn’t have gone through with the wedding. The alternative simply felt wrong.

Constance slipped the missive to Blanche Clementine’s publisher—or rather, Caro’s publisher, since their cousin had finally announced to the world that she was the famous writer—into the pile of outgoing mail, while avoiding looking at Hattie. Hattie’s expressive face spoke volumes without words, and her eyes surely had things to say about the gossiping shoppers. An inexplicable snort of laughter from Connie would only draw more attention.

Blowing a blond curl out of her eye, Constance searched for something else to do. The ever-present stack of account books with their fine layer of dust silently mocked her, a clear reminder of everything she seemed unable to make time for. With a grimace, she looked away. Something interesting to do, she amended.

“If you will stay out front, I’ll put on the kettle for tea,” Hattie said. “The damp is settling into my bones today.”

“You sound like an old crone,” she teased. “Go on, then. A cup sounds lovely if you don’t mind making me one as well.”

Saved from the account books once again. Relief and guilt warred for a brief moment before Constance abandoned them to fiddle with the stack of bookmarks she’d embroidered last month. Perhaps the literary quotes she’d chosen were too esoteric. Silly little posies of violets, or something else equally insipid might have been a better choice. Or perhaps customers didn’t appreciate the colors of embroidery thread she’d used. Regardless, they hadn’t sold as well as she’d hoped.

As she arranged the bookmarks, the gossipy ladies moved toward the shelves of romantic novels, occasionally casting glances her way and whispering too low for Constance to hear. Even though she knew better, the urge to defend herself to strangers pulled at her. Given context, the women might understand the reasoning behind her most public social failure. Going through with the marriage would have ensured a life that was… boring. Days, then years, of the predictable, logical progression from one utterly monotonous life event to another.

A customer set his purchases on the counter, and she welcomed the distraction. When he paid his gaze raked over her bosom, as if he could somehow see through her gown’s modest neckline, work apron, and linen fichu. She clenched her teeth, then blew out a relieved breath when he left the store without additional comment. Men were, on the whole, such ridiculous creatures. Some more than others.

Married life with Walter Hornsby would have been hell. Especially because Walter didn’t lead an uneventful life. They’d even postponed the wedding once because he’d been off mucking about with smugglers to avoid the Crown’s taxes on the goods he sold. Did he include her in his adventures? No. And when pressed, he’d made it clear she never would be welcome on his moonlit illegal jaunts.

The rat.

Also, despite a thriving merchant business built through routine, if illegal, acquisitions of fine French muslin, silks, and lace, Walter offered only a few scant yards of trimmings for her wedding gown. Her. Wedding. Gown. And expected thanks.

A rat, indeed.

Hattie appeared from the office, wiping her hands on her apron. “It will be a few minutes. Perhaps one of us should run to the shops for pasties and make a proper meal of it.”

Before Constance could answer, the two women approached the register. Pasting on a wide smile, Constance asked, “Did you find everything you were looking for?”

Beside her, Hattie stood stiffly, and Constance suspected she was fighting the urge to comment on what they’d overheard. “Hattie, would you mind checking the kettle?”

The water wouldn’t be boiling yet, but Hattie embraced the excuse to retreat until the ladies left the store. Once the shop was free of customers, Hattie returned with two cups in hand and a folded scandal sheet tucked under her arm.

“Extra sweet, ” Hattie said, handing one cup to Constance. “To combat the bitterness I feel on your behalf. And”—she held up the paper—“the latest society high jinks for entertainment.”

“Excellent. Let’s see if we recognize anyone.” Blowing on the dark brew, she pulled the day’s to-do list from her apron pocket, and examined the remaining items while Hattie perused the scandal sheet. Her stomach growled, causing a fleeting thought that perhaps they really should run out for meat pies. However, she didn’t voice it before returning her attention to the list.

“Ooh, here’s one. ‘Lord H—recently examined by his peers and found wanting after being discovered reeking of spirits while sans breeches in the dark walk at Vauxhall.’ Goodness. There’s a gentleman who could have used the aid of Lord Bixby to snuff that story.”

Constance smirked. “That piece of gossip would be worth a pretty penny to the likes of Bixby. Maybe this Lord H doesn’t have anything London’s friendly neighborhood blackmailer needs.”

Lord Bixby’s barony suffered notoriously from generational debt, which led him to find—ahem—alternative means with which to secure his unwed sisters a place at the finest tables.

Blackmail.

The Duke of Holland, now married to their cousin Caro, had needed the man’s help to find his first wife’s lover. The lover was Bixby’s cousin. Since there’d been no love lost between the two, the baron had happily shared every bit of damning information he’d held on the man. And there’d been a lot.

Although they’d never laid eyes on Bixby, Constance and Hattie had been fascinated by him ever since learning of his existence.

“No matter how difficult the day, we didn’t begin it by waking up half naked in a public place,” Connie mused.

Hattie clinked their mugs in a silent toast. “Hear, hear. Offers perspective, I suppose, when I’ve been pouting over having finicky customers this morning, and no one to fob them off on because you were busy with your own. I realize it’s not the same as ‘waking up to people laughing at your penis,’ but in the last hour I’ve endured impertinent questions about Caro’s career and marriage, disposed of a dead mouse your cat left us by the window, and gone on a wild goose chase for a man who saw a book last week, couldn’t recall the title, and now desperately needed to buy it.”

“Let me guess, the book was blue?” Constance grinned, then stifled a moan of pleasure when she finally sipped her tea.

Thank God she hadn’t seen the mouse first. She and Hattie had a strict “you see it, you deal with it” policy when it came to Gingersnap’s gifts.

“Red, actually. You have the right idea.”

“Did you find it?”

“Of course not. He bought a sketch pad for his niece’s birthday though, so he didn’t entirely waste my time.”

Caro wrote salacious erotic novels and had the audacity to not only be a lowly clergyman’s daughter, but also be married to a duke in a rather public love match. People were going to talk, no matter what. Especially after everyone pieced together the clues and realized the Duke of Holland was her hero inspiration. Aristocrats nattered on about one cousin, while the laborers fed on stories of another. You couldn’t say the women in their family didn’t provide conversational fodder for the masses.

With the Duke and Duchess of Holland recently returned to London, the gossips were greedy for fresh information. Especially once it became known that the duchess was due to give birth to their first child very soon.

The bell over the shop door signaled another customer’s arrival, and the cousins turned to greet them. A familiar blonde shook droplets of rain from her cloak and sent them a smile. Miss Althea Thompson craned her neck as she looked around, as if expecting danger to spring out from behind a bookcase. “Good morning. Connie, may we speak privately?” That was when Constance noticed that despite the welcoming smile, Althea stood stiffly, with her fingers knit together at her waist.

“I’ll go chip away at the stack of paperwork on the desk,” Hattie said to the room at large. “I really miss Caro,” she muttered to herself. Caro had kept the office in pristine order when she’d worked at Martin House. The cluttered desk with its pile of ledgers and papers was proof enough that things weren’t the same these days.

“Althea, the kettle should still be warm if you’d like some tea,” Constance offered.

Her friend shook her head, then blew out a breath and flexed her fingers as if pushing blood back into them as she sat in front of the window. Constance rounded the counter to join her, taking the other chair. “You seem out of sorts. Has something happened?”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I would say so. Granted, we haven’t known each other for long, but I think of you as a dear friend.” When they’d met in Caro’s drawing room a month prior, Connie had liked the young woman immediately. Althea was engaged to the best friend of Caro’s husband, so in the weeks since their initial meeting, Connie and Althea had ample opportunity to deepen their acquaintance.

“And I can trust you.”

Constance nodded, concern mounting by the second. “Of course. You’re worrying me, darling. Whatever is on your mind, I’d like to help.”

Taking in another gulp of air, Althea released it with a gush of syllables that ran together so quickly, Constance needed a moment to decipher what she’d heard. Surely, she’d misunderstood.

“I beg your pardon. Could you repeat that?”

“I need you to help me break my engagement. There’s no one else I can ask. Connie, you were brave enough to run away from your wedding—literally from the altar.” Color rose in her cheeks as she spoke. “If people can hire matchmakers, why can’t I hire a matchbreaker? That would be you. I trust you. Please say you’ll help me. If I have to marry Oliver, I’ll just die, I know it.”

For once, the loud clutter in Constance’s mind quieted, leaving few rational thoughts. No words. She had no words for this situation. Her mouth opened and closed around silent questions that simply wouldn’t form.

“I see you may require some time to think about my proposal.” Humor crept into Althea’s voice for the first time. “It’s unusual, I admit.”

Finally, one word pushed through. “Why?”

“Why do I want to break my engagement, or why am I asking you specifically?”

“Yes.”

“I know our acquaintance has been brief. Regardless, I trust your discretion. No one else can know or would understand why I’d want to end my engagement…” Althea trailed off, while her fingers twirled and stroked the tassels on her reticule.

Constance reached to pet the silky fringe as well. “This is lovely. Is it new?” Jerking her hand back, she winced and felt her cheeks heat. “I apologize. Easily distracted. I am paying attention, I swear it.”

Althea waved away the momentary lapse in focus. It was one of the things Connie appreciated about her. She never appeared annoyed by Constance’s quirks. Unlike Althea’s fiancé, who grew more tense and tight-lipped each time they found themselves in one another’s presence.

She and the handsome earl first met when Caro invited them to join her and Dorian in their search for the man who’d had an affair with the late Duchess of Holland. To Connie’s recollection, Lord Southwyn spent most of the day watching her as if she were an unknown species of animal. His regard hadn’t warmed since.

Constance said the only thing that felt vaguely appropriate. “When I saw you with Lord Southwyn, I thought you made a lovely couple.” Stiff, formal, and everything she expected of the ton, but lovely as they sat, untouching, side by side. Like attractive bookends awaiting their moment to be useful.

Miss Thompson snorted at that, and Constance grinned at the indelicate sound. However, all traces of humor disappeared when a suspicion gripped her. “Is Lord Southwyn unkind to you? Has he given you reason to fear him? Is that why you need help?”

Althea’s face went slack. “Oliver? Heavens, no. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Except perhaps through neglect, supercilious lectures, or general disinterest. He’s not unkind, exactly. However, he’s clearly not romantically inclined toward me either. As a gentleman, he can’t cry off, but my father would make life unbearable if I ended the engagement.”

“Thus, the need to force his hand.” Clarity began to make itself known.

“Exactly. I must either give him a disgust of me so he will have no choice but to look elsewhere for a bride, or somehow muster the courage to run away from my own wedding, like you did. If at all possible, I’d rather the former. My attempts before now at being intolerable have had little impact, I’m afraid. That’s why I need your assistance.”

“I have to ask. Have you told him in plain terms you aren’t interested in the match? Perhaps you could work together to deal with your father.”

Althea’s laugh didn’t resemble the tinkling trill she’d used in Caro’s drawing room the week before. “I’ve tried. He dismissed it as nerves and suggested a long engagement so I could acclimate to the idea. Since then, I’ve misbehaved at events, thrown fits in private, and generally acted like the furthest thing from a loving fiancée. He ignores all of it. My parents are at their wits’ end. After three years of being engaged, it’s time to pay the piper, as they say. My mother is planning the wedding of the Season. Father is over the moon because he will get the connection to an earldom he’s coveted for two decades. Not one person has asked me if I am ready to walk down the aisle. It’s as if they all agreed my time is up, and they expect me to meekly go along.” She rubbed her forehead and winced. Come to think of it, Constance’s temple was beginning to throb in sympathy. “I’m not an unreasonable woman. Every time I imagine making vows to Oliver, my stomach turns and I feel faint. This is more than nerves, and it’s not going away. I need a matchbreaker.”

Constance sighed. “There’s no way you can force him to listen? To see reason? Lord Southwyn and I may not see eye to eye on… well, anything. However, he doesn’t strike me as the sort to marry an unwilling woman.”

“I’ve known him my whole life. We grew up together as neighbors. There is no one more rigid and duty-bound than Oliver Vincent. Our fathers drew up the betrothal contract when we were children. In his mind, it’s done. I’m running out of time. Please, Constance.”

“If I do this—” Althea’s crow of triumph ended abruptly when Constance shot her a stern look. “If I do this, we will need a plan. The world is not kind to women who defy powerful men, especially when weddings are involved. We must try to protect your reputation.”

How she’d do it, she had no idea. Finding a way to give the Earl of Southwyn a disgust of this perfectly charming, attractive woman whom he’d already waited years to marry, would be… Well. Not boring.

Matchbreaker meeting—make a plan

Find a book on military tactics. Maybe it will help?

When Oliver Vincent’s mother, the late Countess of Southwyn, had been in residence, his father had referred to their ancestral seat as Bitchwood Court instead of Birchwood Court.

Suffolk was normally a lush, verdant landscape by this time of year. Today, as a freezing drizzle spit down with a relentless sort of inevitability that soaked him layer by layer until his very bones ached with the cold, his surroundings were brown and gray. Mud and fog dominated everything he’d seen since rising with the sun—such as it was—in his childhood bedchamber that morning. Pitifully few scraggly plant shoots dotted the fields.

As the Earl of Southwyn, he owned acres upon acres of muck. If anything, his estate manager had understated the situation in the last letter. Oliver stood on the bank of the river dividing his property from Sir William’s and lifted his mount’s foot to inspect her hoof. Using a stick, he pried out clumps of dirt and a decent-size stone. No wonder the mare had been limping. Unfortunately, she was still limping as he led her along the riverbank to test her gait.

“At least you waited to get a bruise until we’d finished our rounds. Thank you for that.” The mare whuffled in his face with warm, hay-scented breath, and he chuckled.

Wandering along the bank, he nudged a rock into the water with the toe of his boot to ensure the horse didn’t step on it.

For years, he’d envisioned a locks and transportation system in this spot. After the wedding this summer, ownership of this river would revert back to the earldom, and Oliver could monetize this narrow strip of land in a way that would eventually support the entire estate, and help farmers and artisans in the surrounding area.

Much of England teemed with canals full of narrow boats transporting goods to market. Thanks to his father’s fiscal mismanagement and lack of caring about anyone other than himself, this part of Suffolk remained underserved. Soon, that would change.

To fulfill the original agreement between Sir William and the late earl, Oliver would marry a Thompson daughter and get the land back. Unfortunately, Althea Thompson wasn’t eager to become a countess, which meant the plans he’d been meticulously laboring over for years might never see fruition.

More than once, the subject of purchasing the river outright had been set before Sir William, and each of those conversations had been nothing short of disastrous. So, in light of Althea’s reluctance, the logical and most direct solution was out of the question. As was simply scrapping the whole endeavor and walking away, because given what he knew of Sir William’s character, Oliver refused to end his engagement without some assurance that Althea’s future would be taken care of. Her father was likely to refuse her a dowry out of spite.

What an awful muddle.

Plunk. Another rock kicked into the river. Stuffing his hands deeper into the pockets of his greatcoat, he let the reins hang loosely from his fingers as he meandered toward his favorite tree. It boasted a thick branch that jutted out over the deepest part of the water, making it the perfect place to launch oneself into the river on summer days.

A frayed length of rope dangled, bedraggled by time, from the ancient oak on the Thompsons’ side of the bank. In the distance, he could just make out the orchard. Branches struck up at the sky, alarmingly gray and nearly bare of foliage, despite the time of year.

Worry gnawed at him, as it had for weeks. Staring at the reality of barren trees and empty fields made his concern grow exponentially.

This afternoon he’d visited the estate storerooms and tenants to glean an idea of what they’d need to make ends meet. He hoped that looking the farmers in the eye would soothe their rising panic. Oliver might not have the power to make the weather cooperate, but he could reassure them that no one would starve. It didn’t matter if it cost him dearly. Their welfare was his responsibility.

Please, God. Don’t let it come to that. The weather has to turn soon.

Many families working the Southwyn estates remembered the erratic, unreliable late earl, and still viewed Oliver with distrust. Or, if not outright distrust, they treated him the way his mother had taught him to interact with the animals housed in the menageries she’d loved. Cautious, careful, aware of his ability to hurt them.

“No one is ever truly tamed,” he remembered her saying as she held his hand in hers, gliding over the leathery hide of a young rhinoceros. “Our wild nature lingers under the surface, relying on instincts rather than logic. Humans are no more than animals that have declared ourselves in charge. Be cautious, my love. Even though we treat this beast with respect, and although he’s accustomed to people, we aren’t safe from instinctual urges.” As a grown man, Oliver wondered if she’d referred only to the rhino or was subtly speaking her piece about his father.

In the distance, the house loomed from the fog like some kind of legendary castle. His childhood home looked exactly as it always had. Imposing and solid. It gave the impression of something that had been standing since the beginning of time and would remain in place until the end. Birchwood Court had once been an abbey. During the Reformation, Queen Elizabeth gifted it to the first Earl of Southwyn—after stealing it from the Catholic church, of course.

Oliver’s earliest memories were of playing hide-and-seek with nurses, nannies, and occasionally his mother in the many priest holes built into the place. They hadn’t been able to find him on one occasion, and he’d fallen asleep in the narrow space, only to wake hours later hungry and disgruntled. Apparently, after some time had passed, the nurse tried to raise the alarm, but the earl declared that if his “boy was stupid enough to get himself lost, he deserved whatever he got.”

The mare snorted in his ear, pulling Oliver back to the present.

Every negative feeling about his home involved his father in some way. The rest of his memories—and there were many, because the late earl was rarely in residence during those early years—painted the picture of a privileged and happy childhood.

Unfortunately, that childhood had been too short. The games and laughter stopped when his mother died. After that, the only play he found was with the girls next door.

Dorcas, the older Thompson girl, whom he’d expected to marry, and Althea, the blond pigtailed little sister who followed them everywhere. It would have been nice to simply enjoy them as playmates, free of the ever-present duty that damned betrothal agreement brought. None of it seemed real back then. More a reoccurring topic of make-believe they created as children were wont to do.

“Pretend you’re a knight, and you have to rescue me from the dragon.”

“Pretend we are exploring ancient ruins and this tree is a doorway to the land of the fairy folk.”

Pretend our fathers bet our futures in a card game and we have to live with the consequences.

Many important life decisions stemmed from hating the old earl. When a comely barmaid had given Oliver his first kiss, his father had been drinking with friends on the other side of the pub. He could still feel his shame and humiliation when the earl lumbered over, drunk off his arse, and slapped a coin on the table.

“Here. Your first time is on me. She’s a sweet one, Oliver. You’ll enjoy her.” Like he’d been recommending a bottle of wine, rather than a woman.

Oliver had run, ignoring the riotous laughter from the table full of his father’s drinking partners. He’d vowed not to be like his sire. He would be reliable. Honorable. Honest. Steadfast. Responsible. Loyal.

The cold bit at his extremities, urging Oliver to return to the house. Saying a silent farewell to the river and depressing orchard, he led his mount away from the bank. With each step, his boots squelched in the muddy turf.

Birchwood Court sent memories—good and bad—flitting through his mind like ghosts. They didn’t lessen the trepidation he felt about Althea’s continued resistance to their engagement. Once upon a time, he and Althea had been friends. Perhaps that old relationship would help them create a peaceful marriage. Provided, of course, Althea ever stopped hating him for going through with the wedding.

His parents had been ill-suited and never had a chance at happiness. They’d had no prior friendship upon which to build. By the end, they’d despised one another, and the earl never forgave Oliver for his devotion to the late countess. She’d been intelligent and kind, deserving of devotion. Loving his mother so deeply had been the easiest part of his life.

This mare, in fact, was the offspring of her favorite mount. Oliver ran a hand down the wide flat of the horse’s cheek, then patted her thick neck. “What do you think about going home with me to London? If your hoof is fine by morning, I’ll bring you along.” And bring a piece of his mother with him.

The advice she’d given that day with the rhinoceros lingered as he made the uphill trek to the house.

Mother had been wrong about one thing. Unlike that rhinoceros, there was no wilder nature lurking beneath Oliver’s calm facade. Any baser instincts had been well and truly ground to dust long ago.

“All right. What have you tried so far?” Connie settled a writing box on her lap and smoothed a fresh piece of paper on the scarred wood. It had been three days since Althea enlisted her help as a matchbreaker, but this was the first opportunity they’d had to sit and plan.

Althea plucked a ginger biscuit from the tin Connie brought with them to the darkened bookshop’s sales floor. With only a lamp sitting on a small table by their side, the quiet store felt cozy. Meeting at Martin House had been ideal, as it offered privacy and a place out of the weather.

“Well, when he agreed to the engagement and didn’t listen to my protestations, I immediately stopped considering him a friend, obviously. Since then, I’ve griped and complained at every opportunity and tried to be as unlikable as possible. Honestly, Connie, I sometimes fear I am genuinely becoming the shrew I pretend to be with him. The longer this engagement goes on, the deeper the bitterness burrows into me. I hate it. And I ha. . .