Page 18 of Better Love Next Time
Well, bloody surprises. His wife was full of them, and most had brought him to his knees. “You want to be a widow?”
She faced him, lifting her chin. “Yes.”
To hell with her. If she wanted to revisit their dreams as someone else and see how he had failed, then so be it.
“I’ll make arrangements,” he said. “If the weather holds, we should arrive in Southampton by July.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Twelve Years Prior
June 1753
Chedworth Estate, Huntingdonshire
Eton changed a boy,Kitty thought from where she stood at Chedworth’s library door, her heart pounding, barely able to stay in her chest with Julian finally,finally, arrived from school after a whole year.
It had felt like eons. And now she knew what an eon felt like and the joy that novelists spoke of, of love’s reunion.
At the library’s wall of mullioned windows, couched between soaring shelves with every book imaginable, Julian plied his pencil to paper at a writing desk. A thick lock of wavy black hair draped his cheek. He brushed it away with a frown and it fell right back, like it couldn’t bear to be away from him.
In his shirtsleeves, his arms were longer, stronger. As were his legs swathed in buckskin and riding boots, one hardened limb stretched out, another angled beneath his chair.
Would her own body craft the dramatic changes between her thirteenth and fourteenth year as Julian’s?
“Julian.” She thrilled to say his name and him be here to answer her call.
He glanced up from his sketch. “Oh you.”
Oh you?
No, she was not going to be put off. His voice was a dream of rich bass notes like steaming chocolate. Rushing across the thick red carpets, she threw herself in his arms. Not really his arms because they were still at his side.
Julian set her off, his mouth screwing in a grimace. But what she noted was the increased vigor of his hold and…
“Is that hair on your chin?” She ran her palm across his chin. Gritty. And strangely exciting. Like running in the rain with lightning chasing her. She squeezed his arm, surprised at the bulk.
“Must you?” he grumbled.
“Oh yes, I must.” She poked his chest.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” After a quirk of his shoulder—much broader than a year ago—he turned his attention back to his sketch.
“Aren’t you pleased to see me?”
He shrugged. “I suppose I’m pleased you’re alive.”
“How gracious your concern.”
“Isn’t it?”
She leaned over his shoulder, pressing her chest to his back.
His left hand paused. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” She wriggled closer, sniffing his hair. Exotic spices, oranges, and home.
She studied the drawing between his gathered sleeves. Another section of a boat, this one wider than his previous models, cut in half longways.
