To Con a Gentleman (Dalton Family 1)

t beau.” He tossed a smirk at his socialite friend.

Oliver returned the smirk but added a hint of mockery to it as well as a squint. “You know very well that I would have rather been at the fight than at the ball, but I had already given my word to Lady Summers that I would dance attendance on her dowdy niece.”

“And how did that go?”

Oliver shuddered. “Took me half the night just to draw a smile from the stone-faced girl.”

Poor Oliver. Or—no. The man did it to himself with his overly engaging manners and freely given smile. Those two things alone made him not only a favorite of every young lady in London, but every matron who needed their daughter, granddaughter, or niece to feel special and noticed during her come out. That was one reason why Carver refused to accompany Oliver to any society events. The thought of preening society misses fawning at his feet gave him the irrational urge to go lock his door.

And besides, no other woman would ever compare to—

“It wouldn’t kill you to attend a ball or two yourself, Kenny.” Oliver had made that nickname for him when they were still just kids, saying that his title of Kensworth sounded much too old for him. Oliver shortened the title and from that day on called him by the name of Kenny.

“Probably not, but I’d rather not risk it.”

They both walked into the parlor adjoining his bedchamber and sat in the chairs by the fire.

Oliver settled into the leather chair, making it creak as he stretched his legs toward the fire and crossed his ankles. “But you know you’re quickly gaining the title of eccentric recluse, don’t you? It’s about time for you to step back out into society a little.” Carver didn’t like where this was going.

“Miss dancing with me, my dear? I should warn you, I won’t waltz with you anymore.” He raised his hands and wiggled his fingers. “Your hands travel too much.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed, but he was clearly trying not to smile. “Be serious.”

“Why? So you can read me a lecture?” said Carver. “No, I thank you.” He had no desire to hear whatever Olly was going to say next. And he had a pretty good idea of what that next thing was going to be. “Now, besides informing me of your travels, what was so deucedly important that you felt the need to wake me?”

“Well...actually,” Oliver looked a little shy which was odd. “It kills me to ask, but…I need to borrow some money.”

Carver looked down and inspected the swollen and scabbing cracks on his knuckles, not feeling the need to ask any questions. Oliver was more like a brother to Carver than a friend. He would give him any amount of money he needed. “Just tell Jeffers the amount and he’ll give it to you on your way out.”

“Thank you.” Oliver smiled at Carver with an almost challenging sort of look. A look that said he was prepared to defend whatever his reason was for needing the money. But Carver just looked at his friend with a grin. They looked at each other like that for a minute before Oliver’s smile dropped along with his shoulders and he broke. “Don’t you want to know what it’s for?”

“If I say no will you go away and leave me alone?”

Oliver just smiled even broader. “I’m in love.”

Carver barely suppressed his groan. Was it possible for Oliver to go a week without ‘falling in love?’

“I believe you can expect to wish me happy before long,” said Oliver with a notable amount of pride in his voice. It was the same pride Carver had heard the last five times his friend had entered his bedchamber saying almost the same thing. The time to wish him happy would never actually come.

“Famous,” said Carver. “I’ll go ahead and do it now so you can take yourself off.”

“I can see you don’t believe me,” said Oliver, not looking offended in the least. “But I swear it’s real this time. I’ve never met another woman like her. She’s perfect.”

Not true. The only perfect woman to ever walk the earth died three years ago.

Carver heard the door to his bedroom open and knew that Brandon, his valet, must have entered. He stood and stretched the ache from his arms as he prepared himself mentally for the task of listening to a story that he had no desire to hear. But the sooner he heard the story the sooner he could go down to breakfast.

“Alright,” said Carver. “Tell me about this woman.”

Brandon entered the room with Carver’s wardrobe draped over his arm and then began to help him dress without ever saying a word.

Oliver leaned over to rest his elbow on his knees, watching as Carver stepped into a pant leg of his breeches. “She’s perfect.”

“Yes, you’ve said that already.”

“Well, she is.” Oliver took on a far off expression as if the woman’s portrait was being painted onto the wall. “She has the most captivating eyes I’ve ever seen. They are brown yet gold, yet somehow red. I swear I could get lost in the stories they tell.”

Carver turned his back to Oliver under the pretense of allowing Brandon to help him shrug into his jacket. But really, it was so that he could roll his eyes. Get lost in the stories they tell. How stupid. Eyes were eyes. They could be beautiful but they did not tell stories. Oliver was becoming too much of a romantic.