The Redemption of Julian Price (6 page)

The taproom went silent when he entered. Gazes flicked and darted his way before the occupants resumed the low buzz of conversation, occasionally broken by a cough or a cackle.

“Whiskey,” Julian called to the barkeep. “Give me the bottle.”

The man behind the bar set a bottle of Irish whiskey in front of Julian and then leaned in with a whispered word of caution as he filled the glass. “The bloke ye dispatched. He be a bad ’un. I’d watch me back if I was you.”

“Your concern is duly noted.” Not that Julian was unduly concerned. In six years on the Peninsula, he’d acquired many deadly skills—knife fighting was only one of them. Had the innkeeper not pulled a pistol on the blackguard first, Julian would have had no compunction in slitting the pig’s throat with his own blade.

Julian raised his glass to the barkeep and then downed the first of many burning gulps that he hoped would dull the relentless drumbeat pounding in his ears. It wasn’t long before the languid lethargy that he sought settled into his limbs and calmed his mind.

His thoughts then turned back to Henrietta. The vision of that bastard’s filthy hands on her, and even worse, of dirtying hers on him, had sent bile rising into his throat. He tried to tell himself he was only being protective, but if he were being honest, his feelings went much deeper than that. He’d been almost sick with envy when Thomas had voiced his intent to wed her, but knowing his best friend was a far better man, he never would have tried to compete for her. But now Thomas was gone, and Hen was facing the prospect of spinsterhood. She insisted it was what she wanted, but he didn’t know if he believed her. Was she trying to convince herself?

He wondered how she could have gone so long unnoticed by eligible men. Surely all men weren’t so blind to her charms. What if she were to meet someone in London? That thought shocked him to the core. He thought once more of their ride to the lake and her comments about wanting to experience passion. Henrietta was a virgin. Of that he was most certain, but she was also ripe for plucking. What would happen if some silver-tongued rake came along? Maybe Julian wasn’t worthy of her, but he’d be damned before he’d let any other man have her. He wondered what he would have done if things had turned out differently. If he wasn’t in such dire straits, would he have given any thought to marriage? He wasn’t sure. The only thing he was certain of was that he didn’t want any man to touch her. Period.

***

S
hortly after Julian departed, two servants arrived bearing a hip bath. Although Henrietta had hoped to cleanse herself from the unsavory encounter in the common room, she was sorely disappointed. The water was tepid and barely sufficient to cover her ankles. After scrubbing herself as thoroughly as she could manage, Henrietta and Millie sat down to a supper of cold chicken, hard bread, and slightly molding cheese. The cider, however, was passable, albeit much more potent than she was accustomed to. Henrietta had two cups. Millie finished the pitcher, looked to Henrietta with a yawn, and then promptly passed out.

Henrietta sat up, indulging some time alone with her thoughts. She was still unnerved about what had transpired below and shocked at how Julian had handled himself. She had no doubt he could have killed her assailant. The thought of it both appalled and secretly thrilled her.

She knew he was still the same Julian, but war and misfortune had wrought many changes. There was a deep despair beneath his feckless facade. She didn’t know why she put so much faith in him, but her heart told her that Julian wouldn’t let her down if given the opportunity to make good. He could so easily have fallen into his uncle’s reprobate ways, but he hadn’t. He’d escaped and even risked his life to prove himself better than Winston. He deserved a chance. Why did no one else seem to see that? If only she could help him.

The hour was growing late, and Julian still had not returned. Had the brute come back? She was debating breaking her promise to stay put when a soft rap sounded on the door. She drew in a breath.

“Henrietta? It’s me, Julian.”

Thank God.
She swiftly rose, fumbled with the lock, and then swung the door open to find him leaning against the jamb, his coat discarded, hair mussed, and shirt open at the collar to reveal his tanned throat.

“You waited up for me?” He cocked a brow suggestively and then his gaze drifted lazily over her, making her suddenly aware of her state of undress. She wore her night rail, but no wrapper.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied. “Millie snores.” She inclined her head to the maid, who was lost in deep and sonorous slumber.

“As do I,” he confessed with a smirk. “Would you prefer that I bed down in the carriage?”

“No,” she said. “I worried the entire time you were gone. Please come in.”

“Worried? About what?”

“About you,” she replied. “Or for you. I feared something untoward might happen.”

He let out a harsh laugh. “Don’t fear for me, Hen. Didn’t I prove that I can take care of myself?”

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, suddenly filling the tiny chamber and looking more dangerous than the thug he’d bested in the taproom. Instinctively, she stepped back, hugging herself. Julian regarded her with a dark look. “Are you afraid of me, Henrietta? Of what you witnessed in the taproom?”

“N-no,” she said. “I just caught a chill from the open door.”

“You’re lying.” He grasped her shoulders and leaned in close, indecently close. His gaze dropped to her lips. “I can tell by your mouth.”

“All right,” she confessed. “Maybe I was a little afraid.”

“Of me?” he asked fiercely.

“No,” she insisted. Although she’d found his actions most unsettling, she would never fear Julian. “I’m just unsettled by it all,” she corrected him. “I was worried that man had returned.” Julian still had not released her shoulders. His brown eyes were hazy and unfocused, and he reeked of spirits. “You’ve been drinking,” she accused.

“I have indeed,” he replied with a smirk. “My bloodlust, once incited, is like the devil unleashed. Getting pissed is one of two remedies for it.”

“What’s the second remedy?” she asked.

His gaze dipped to her breasts. “The other isn’t available to me at present.”

Her cheeks flushed with sudden understanding. “Julian, did you mean what you said down there? Would you really have killed him?”

“Do you truly wish to know the answer?” he replied darkly.

“Perhaps not,” she said, suppressing a tremor.

“I’ve killed many men, Henrietta.”

“That’s to be expected,” she said. “As a soldier, one must kill or be killed. It’s a sad reality of war.”

“It is reality,” he said. “Thomas almost couldn’t bear it. He once confessed that every man he killed took a small piece of his soul to the grave with them. If that is truly how it works, then I have no soul left. Maybe that’s why I feel nothing anymore.”

“Nothing, Julian?” she asked softly.

“It’s true, Hen. Killing makes one less human.”

“You appear perfectly human to me.” Unable to resist the urge, she reached out her hand to cup his bristled face. He drew in a sharp breath as she placed her other hand on his chest right over his heart. “It beats strong and steady.” She glanced up at his face. Hers was growing warmer as the heat of his body permeated through the linen of his shirt into her fingers. “Yes,” she said. “You feel perfectly human too.”

“You shouldn’t touch me like that,” he warned, his voice low and gruff.

“Why not?” she asked, growing a bit breathless. And reckless.

“Because I’m a man. Because I’ve been drinking.” His pupils were huge, turning his brown eyes almost black. His gaze drifted slowly lower, as if burning through the thin linen of her shift. “Because that thing you are wearing is nearly as transparent as the shift you wore swimming.”

Her chest constricted as if her stays were too tight, but she wasn’t wearing any stays. Her breasts were free of confinement beneath her night rail.

“Do you remember what I told you before?” he asked.

“That men are easily aroused by the sight of a woman’s body?” she replied. Her nipples tingled with awareness, hardening into tight peaks. Had he noticed?

“Yes,” he confessed, his whiskey-scented breath fanning her face. His gaze locked with hers and then dropped once more to her mouth.

Would he kiss her? Would she let him? Yes. She would. Worse, she feared she’d let him do very much more. She gasped as his hand came up and fisted in her hair. Then his mouth was on hers. There was nothing warm or tender in Julian’s kiss. It was fierce and marauding. His hot tongue demanded entrance, and she yielded to his plundering. This was not the kiss of her dreams but something dark and dangerous, but her body responded to it in a way she didn’t understand. Her heart pounded inside her chest as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Her legs grew weak and unsteady. He gripped her buttocks, jerking her closer, tighter. She grasped his broad shoulders and clung tightly as if to a runaway horse. Her breath hitched at the sudden awareness of his manhood, hard and hot, pressing against her body. Then suddenly, he pushed her back from him with a growl. “Now do you understand why you shouldn’t have touched me?”

“No.” She licked her swollen lips in confusion. “I don’t.”

“Bugger it all! I’ll sleep in the coach.”

“You’ll freeze your arse off in the coach.”

“Mayhap so, but if I don’t leave now, I may do something we’ll both sorely regret.”

Regret?
She jerked back as if dashed with cold water.

“We wouldn’t want my brother to have to call you out now, would we?” she replied tartly. “I’m afraid we don’t have an extra blanket. Take it and go.” She tore a pillow from the bed and tossed it at his head. In truth, she wanted to beat him with it.

“Good night, Julian,” Henrietta said tightly and then climbed into the bed beside Millie, who was still dead to the world. Julian had only desired her because he was drunk. He’d as much as admitted it. She turned her back to him and shoved her fist in her mouth to stifle her sob.

A moment later came the heavy clomp of Julian’s boots on the wooden floorboards, followed by the click of the door. For hours after, Henrietta lay in bed fighting the tears that had threatened to choke her. She envied her maid the serenity of sleep, but that peace of mind eluded her. She’d all but offered her precious virginity to a man who didn’t even want her.

Cursing herself for being ten kinds of fool, she finally fell asleep.

––––––––

H
ENRIETTA AND JULIAN ARRIVED AT CHESWICK HOUSE in Chelsea just before afternoon tea. Dispatching the under footman to look after the baggage, the majordomo, who stiffly introduced himself as Clemmons, escorted them to the salon where the grande dame awaited, reclining on a chaise longue. Taking skirts in hand, Henrietta dipped into a full curtsy while Julian followed with an equally formal bow.

“Pshaw!” Lady Cheswick waved an obscenely bejeweled hand. “We shan’t stand on ceremony here. Come and greet me properly, child.”

With a grin, Henrietta crossed the room, bent to embrace the tiny lady, and then planted a kiss on her paper-thin powdered and rouged cheek.

When Henrietta stepped back, Lady Cheswick raked Julian over appraisingly. “You must be the notorious Lieutenant Price.” Her lips curved in an approving smile. “I imagine you cut quite a dash in your colors.”

“I regret to say I have recently resigned my commission,” Julian replied.

“That’s just as well,” the lady replied. “The ton is flooded with half-pay officers these days. So what do you intend to do with yourself now that you no longer serve king and country?”

“I have yet to decide, my lady,” Julian replied.

“Hmm.” Her gaze narrowed. “Then I suspect you’ll seek a wife. ’Tis the normal course of action once a young man has finished sowing his oats.”

Julian responded with a bitter laugh. “I must disabuse you of that notion, my lady.”

Lady Cheswick arched a painted-on brow. “Of wife seeking or of oat sowing?” she asked.

“Wife-hunting,” Julian replied. “I assure you a wife is the last thing I seek at this juncture in my life.”

“I see,” Lady Cheswick replied with a nod. “Then you have come to town to see your mistress.”

Julian responded with a choking sound.

Henrietta hid a giggle behind her gloved hand. The old bird positively lived to play these entrapment games. Julian’s reaction was precisely what she sought, but Henrietta had always seen through the ploys.

“So we have the truth at last!” the dowager chortled and reached for the bell.

“I came to London take care of some matters of
business
, my lady,” Julian insisted, his color suddenly rising. Henrietta’s giggle ceased. Had the old woman hit close to the mark? The footman quietly entered with the tea cart.

“Come now, my dear, there’s no need to be coy,” Lady Cheswick cajoled. “We both know how young gentlemen prioritize their
affairs
. Sit beside me, Julian.” She patted the cushion. “Humor an old woman. While Henrietta pours tea, you will tell me all about the good Duke of Wellington. And none of this rubbish from the papers. I want to know the true cut of the man.”

Henrietta watched them through her lashes as she poured steaming hyson into three delicate Sèvres porcelain cups. Julian had a mistress? She didn’t understand why the revelation came as a shock. Of course he would have one. Yet knowing it for a fact gnawed at her insides. Her ire rose that a man in his position would throw away money he could not spare to keep a woman for his pleasure. Was that why he’d sold his commission? She wondered what kind of woman she was. Dark and sultry-eyed? A voluptuous redhead? She had no clue what manner of beauty appealed to him. But why did it even matter to her? She served Lady Cheswick and then turned to Julian, stifling the powerful urge to dump the hot tea in his lap.

Julian’s brown eyes sought hers with an inquiring look. She frowned back. His dark expression said he divined the direction of her thoughts. She resolved to give him a very large dose of thoughts once she had him alone again, but then she feared she might not get the chance when Julian rose to take his leave.