The Redemption of Julian Price (7 page)

“Surely you aren’t leaving us already?” Lady Cheswick remarked disapprovingly.

“Needs must, my lady,” Julian replied. “I have a number of pressing matters.”

“When will you call again?” Lady Cheswick voiced Henrietta’s silent question.

“I’m not certain, my lady, but I will be sure to send word.” Julian made another bow and then took Henrietta’s hand. “Good-bye, Hen.”

A surge of panic struck Henrietta at the finality of his tone. Was he leaving for good?

“Why the rush?” Lady Cheswick asked. “That’s the trouble with this generation. None of you take the time to smell the roses. And there are some lovely blooms in my walled garden. Why don’t you take Henrietta for a brief turn before you leave?”

Henrietta glanced nervously out the window. They’d not been alone together since he’d kissed her at the inn. “I doubt Julian can spare the time,” she remarked, still stinging from his rejection.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Julian replied. “Of course I can spare time for a short stroll. Would you care to join us, my lady?”

“My dear, ’tis bad form to discuss one’s maladies, but these old knees are not what they used to be,” Lady Cheswick replied. “In my day, none could curtsy more gracefully or dance a more elegant minuet, but I fear those times are long past.” Henrietta wondered what the old lady was playing at. Last she knew, her aunt’s cane was a mere affectation she employed purely to intimidate. Lady Cheswick waved her hand in a shooing motion. “You both go along and enjoy it for me. It’s the hour of my afternoon repose anyway.”

***

H
enrietta guided Julian through the morning room and then onto the terrace overlooking the parterre gardens that were so popular in the last century. It amused Julian how tightly Lady Cheswick clung to all of the fashions of the past century. Henrietta matched his steps as they strode the garden path, her fingers resting stiffly on his arm and her gaze locked on the gravel.

After several minutes of cold silence, he finally prompted her. “Is something wrong, Hen?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong,” she replied too quickly.

“Was it last night?” he asked. His memory of the events following the brawl were hazy at best. He had a dim recollection of kissing Henrietta. Then he’d awakened in the coach with a grimy pillow, a throbbing head, and an aching body. Had he accosted her? “Please tell me, Hen.”

“I assure you
nothing
happened last night,” she said. “You were drunk. I gave you a pillow and then sent you out to the coach.”

So the kiss was only a dream? He exhaled in relief.

“Nevertheless, you are peeved about something. You can’t think to pull the wool over my eyes,” Julian insisted. “I know you too well. I can tell by your lips when something has annoyed you.”

She glanced up with a quizzical look. “By my lips?” Her fingers flew to her mouth.

“Yes.” He grinned. “They do this interesting little pucker-y thing when you are vexed.”

“I had no idea,” she replied.

“It’s quite fascinating, really,” Julian said, taking a moment to study her more closely. In addition to a pair of soft gray eyes, Henrietta Houghton had a very pretty and unusually expressive mouth. He knew he needed to stop thinking about her in that way, but the more he tried not to, the harder it seemed to become.

“All right, Julian.” Henrietta exhaled a huff of exasperation. “I confess it. I am most put out with you. Is it true?”

“Is what true?” he asked.

She halted and spun to face him, asking directly, “Do you keep a mistress?”

Tamping down his irritation, he replied blandly, “Whether I do or not is hardly your concern, Hen.”

“Then you do. Do you love her, Julian?” she asked, her gaze probing his.

“No,” he said. That’s not to say he felt nothing at all for Muriel. He liked her well enough, but he didn’t love her. They simply fulfilled each other’s needs—hers for a modicum of financial security and his for sex. It was an uncomplicated arrangement that had worked well these past months, and one he would surely miss—were they to end their association.

“Then keeping a woman for your pleasure seems a very foolish thing to do in your position,” she continued.

“A man has certain needs, Hen,” Julian replied deliberately. “I thought I explained that to you.”

“Are you saying a man’s carnal needs supersede his good sense?”

“More often than not, yes,” he confessed with a humorless laugh. “It is a flaw in our nature. It confounds me why you are you so angry. Do you expect me to live as a monk simply because I choose not to wed?”

“I-I . . . of course not!” she retorted. “I never thought of it at all, actually.”

“Then why now and why so censoriously?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Julian. Perhaps I just credited you with more discretion than to consort with low women, especially after your horrid first experience with one.”

“Muriel is not a low woman, Hen. She’s the widow of an officer who is now in reduced circumstances.”

“Is that her excuse for turning to prostitution?” she replied, eyes flashing.

“She did nothing of the sort,” Julian said, growing more perturbed by the second. Why were they even having this infernal conversation? Even Harry didn’t ask such personal questions. “May we please cease this discussion now?”

“To think I actually felt sorry for you,” she continued heedlessly. “I had even planned to petition my aunt on your behalf.”

“I want neither your pity nor your aunt’s charity, Henrietta,” he snapped.

“That’s well and good, then,” she tossed her head, “because you deserve neither.”

“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

“It means good day, Julian, and good luck to you in Portugal. There is a gate over there.” She pointed imperiously. “I trust you can see yourself out of it.”

Julian watched in agitation as Henrietta performed a rigid volte-face and marched through the terrace doors into the house without giving him a backward glance. What had gotten into her? She’d always been the one person he could trust
not
to judge him. But now it seemed he could do nothing right in her eyes.
Damn it all.
Henrietta simply didn’t understand how it was. Telling himself he didn’t care anymore, he spun on his own booted heel and exited the garden gate. If that’s how it was going to be, Henrietta Houghton could go to the devil with all the rest of them.

***

H
enrietta had done all she could to contain her tears, but once she closed the terrace doors, she fell against them with a strangled sob. She was furious with Julian, but worse than that was the fact that she didn’t even fully understand why she was so upset with him. Was it that he had a mistress? Or was it that he didn’t even remember that he’d kissed her?

“Heavens, child! Why so distraught?”

Henrietta’s gaze jerked up to find her great-aunt perched on a chair by terrace door. “Aunt Iola! Were you spying on me?”

“I was merely enjoying the view, child. At my age, once must find entertainment where one may. Now tell me what that rapscallion has done to put your feathers in such a ruffle. Mussed hair and swollen lips, I expected,” Lady Cheswick chided, “but certainly not tears. I had much higher hopes given that young buck’s reputation.”

“Julian doesn’t want me.” Henrietta sniffed. “Not in
that
way.”

“Pshaw! If that is the case, it is easy enough to
make
him want you,” Lady Cheswick said. “Do you not think yourself capable of engaging his passion, Henrietta?”

“I don’t know,” Henrietta said tearfully. “I know nothing about inspiring a man’s passion. I haven’t even been able to entice him to kiss me since I bloodied his nose eight years ago.” She didn’t count a drunken kiss that Julian didn’t even remember.

“La! Child!” Lady Cheswick cackled. “’Tis no wonder you have not wed!” The dowager patted her hand. “Do not despair, Henrietta. It is never too late to learn.”

“It’s also true that Julian keeps a mistress.” Henrietta sniffed.

“Ah! That’s what’s troubling you?” Lady Cheswick waved a hand. “Most gentlemen do, my dear. At least those of my generation always did. Marriage and monogamy are quite distasteful concepts to most of the male gender.”

“But Julian is all but ruined. How can he do such a thing? It’s . . . it’s wasteful!” Henrietta declared with all the righteous indignation she could muster.

“Do not disparage what you do not understand, Henrietta,” Lady Cheswick wagged a be-ringed index finger. “There is often far more to these arrangements than meets the eye.”

“What do you mean?” Henrietta asked.

“My dear,” Lady Cheswick laid her bony hand on Henrietta’s arm, “there is something you must understand. Julian spent six years at war. You and I can have no idea what he has endured or what horrors he has witnessed. When a man suffers, bedding a woman is often his means of reclaiming a sense of his manhood, of regaining a sense of himself. It is entirely possible that his mistress supplies what he needs most.” 

Henrietta suddenly recalled Julian’s expression of apathy and emptiness, of feeling less than human. Those words had haunted her. Did this woman, Muriel, ease his despair? Understanding bloomed into compassion. She felt her anger abating.

“Perhaps you are right,” Henrietta replied with a sigh. “But Julian’s means are limited. What will happen when he can no longer afford to keep this woman?”

“Then he will have to find another way to satisfy his needs. Perhaps then he will look to take a wealthy wife?”

“But Julian is not marriage-minded. He told you himself that he has no desire to wed.”

“Perhaps not at this moment, but lack of funds is a powerful incentive,” Lady Cheswick replied. “If Julian is experiencing such difficulties, he may be more persuadable than you think. Most men are when their purses get light.” Lady Cheswick smiled. “Perhaps it is time to discuss why I invited you here.”

“I understood you desired a companion, my lady, and thought I might suit you.”

“I am certain you would,” Lady Cheswick said. “You are wasted in the country surrounded by imbeciles, but I begin to doubt my arrangement would suit you nearly as well as it would suit me. I sent for you under the misapprehension that you had no desire for marriage, but it seems I was mistaken.”

“But I don’t desire to wed,” Henrietta insisted.

“What of your Julian?” Lady Cheswick asked, painted brows arched.

“Julian is not mine,” Henrietta insisted. “He is merely a childhood friend, my lady, not a suitor.”

“If it is only sisterly affection you feel for him,” Lady Cheswick argued, “why this distress over his mistress?” Her gaze was too sharp and her questions too pointed.

“Because . . . because . . .”

The old woman smiled. “I think you have deeper feelings for him than you care to admit. One should never pass up a grand amour, Henrietta, but we face a dilemma. As an unwed woman, a liaison is quite out of the question. Were you a widow, ’twould be quite a different matter. With an appropriate degree of circumspection, most of the polite world would turn a blind eye to an
affaire de coeur
. But sadly, you must first take a husband before you can lose one, which returns us back to you and Julian Price. If indeed you truly want him, you have no choice but to take him as your husband.”

“But it doesn’t matter if I want him or not. I am not the least inclined to set my cap for someone who does not want
me
.”

Lady Cheswick ignored her rebuttal. “If you have quite decided you
don’t
want Julian, you will have no dearth of marital prospects once word gets about that you’ve become an heiress.”

“An heiress?” Henrietta repeated blankly. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Five hundred pounds is a paltry dowry, but I’m quite certain ten thousand is sufficient to entice even a minor nobleman. Perhaps a baronet or even a viscount?” she suggested.

“You are giving me ten thousand pounds?” Henrietta repeated incredulously. It was a fortune that could grant the dream of independence she’d always desired.

“Yes. And you will receive considerably more upon my passing,” Lady Cheswick continued, “but let us keep that part a secret between you, me, and my solicitor. We don’t wish to unearth
every
gold digger in England.”

“I don’t even know what to say,” Henrietta whispered, her mind racing.

Lady Cheswick patted her hand. “I merely give you options you didn’t have before. Ultimately, my dear, the choice is now completely yours.”

***

H
enrietta spent a restless night, deliberating this new and unexpected course her life had taken. Thanks to the generosity of her exceedingly wealthy and overly indulgent great-aunt, her dream of independence could soon become reality. But for the first time, she considered the facts rather than just the fantasy and found it lacking. As a widow, Lady Cheswick could do as she pleased, but unmarried women could not live alone. Even with a fortune at her disposal, if Henrietta chose not to wed, she would have little choice but to remain with her aunt or set up her own household with a paid companion. Neither option permitted the full freedom she’d always envisioned.

She was suddenly reminded of Julian’s careless remark.
“It is indeed too bad you weren’t a chap, Hen. We rub along well enough that I would have invited you to stay with me.”

“Julian,” she sighed his name. Why had she been so angry with him? At least he was honest with her. She’d told herself it was disappointment that he’d followed in Winston’s footsteps, but that wasn’t the entire truth. Deep in her heart, she was jealous that another woman had laid claim to his affections. She knew he cared for her, but sisterly devotion wasn’t enough.

Her dreams that night were once more filled with Julian, but this time he wasn’t stealing a kiss from her at the fair or galloping hell for leather over the dales. Instead, he was lying alone on a battlefield covered in blood. She awoke with a gasp. Was it merely a dream or an ominous premonition? Had he survived six years only to die a mercenary’s death in Portugal?

The thought sent a sharp, stabbing pain deep into her left breast. Although they’d parted in anger, she couldn’t let him go without trying to help him. All the money in the kingdom meant nothing compared to the prospect of losing Julian. Whatever it took, she had to convince him to stay.