Page 37 of Better Love Next Time
He had spent his life wondering why his father refused his dreams at every turn and then, the answer had finally come, while visiting home to see his mother before he had left for sea.
His father had beamed over Julian’s forged school marks and said, “You see, boy, I was right. You are a scholar.”
The earl didn’t give a damn if Julian sailed, engaged in trade, or picked rags. His dreams had simply not been his father’s idea.
Glaring at the willow-board splint on his right leg, from the top of his thigh to his ankle, Julian refused to give quarter to the useless limb. Moving it might alleviate the pain but he hadbecome used to the unabated throbbing, and with nothing better to do, he fought it.
Julian wiped the sweat from the back of his neck.
“As a second son myself, I commend his abilities,” his uncle said.
“Pirating abilities,” the earl retorted.
“Abilities that will serve him well, in light of his position, without a title like you and Oliver.” So Uncle William held a grudge, did he? “Moreover, along with insecurity, freedom is generally bestowed upon the son not afforded the luxuries of birth.”
“So I should be happy to have my son live in the gutter, if he so chooses, without any consideration to the duties which might fall to him.”
“What duties?” his uncle asked, pressing the earl to a corner where he’d be forced to admit his eldest son’s health was tenuous. That Oliver’s marriage had begotten four daughters and no sons.
Oliver was going to live forever, and if he didn’t, Julian would never step in as the heir. As if by stage direction, Oliver called from the study door, treading to Julian and dropping his hands where they hooked at his unfussy, grey coat. “Good God! What the hell happened?”
“Your brother is a pirate.”
Julian extended his hand. “Good to see you, Ollie.”
Oliver shook his hand, gawking at Julian’s leg brace and the leather ligatures and toggles holding his femur together.
“Your profligate brother did not attend Eton nor Oxford,” his father added. “Instead, he has been hammering nails in ships and stealing booty with a Captain Hutchinson.”
A gleam shone in Oliver’s eye. “William Hutchinson? The privateer?”
“Pirate,” the earl barked.
Oliver frowned in light of his father’s displeasure like a good son, but a grin threatened his mouth. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, profligate brother?”
Julian nodded to the chest. “That.”
The earl smacked a hand to the top of the chest. “It is mine now, in repayment of the tuition I forfeited for the education you never had. And where is my money? Hmmm? Wasted it all on drink, didn’t you?”
Safe with Kitty at Mr. Cox’s. “You forgot trollops.”
“You’ve the French pox, no doubt.”
“Actually, there are these useful devices, English riding coats, for when a man craves a lusty gallop.”
Uncle William chuckled and Oliver blushed.
“Good to know you safeguard your appendage while ignoring your duty,” his father said.
“It is, by far, my favorite appendage. And the trollops’ too. Are we done here?”
His father purpled. “No, we are not.”
If Julian ever saw Greville’s pretty mug again, he’d unpretty it. Once he could walk again. Surrendering to the pain screaming at his hip, Julian adjusted his leg where it propped on a chair. He’d had to fight for his leg when the ship’s surgeon—a bosun good with a saw—had recommended preventative amputation.
Julian had gritted between his teeth, his leg cocked at an ungodly, excruciating angle and said, “How about I prevent you from talking again, and amputate your bloody tongue?”
Julian had slept with a pistol the entire way to Mersey.
