Page 66 of Better Love Next Time
“Everyone.”
“And provided my card, explaining to all that we are permanently settling in Southampton to run the yard.”
In the middle of his rage, he noticed she had changed little in the years he had last seen her in a state of undress. She was a woman now, but she was still young and achingly innocent, and why in hell was he thinking about her body when he had a dead chicken at his elbow?
“That is not what we agreed upon,” he said.
“No one will care if you leave. It is the appearance of permanence they care for. Just as you said. We have plenty of funds for my?—”
“Scheme?”
“Yes, and as to the merchants and market vendors, in time we will settle on our preferences. No, I will. You will be gone, but that is neither here nor there. Miss Dixley and I have sorted through our purchases. These crates I will give to Sam and his family.”
“Good to know the chicken’s not staying.”
She giggled and cast him a sheepish glance. “Miss Dixley is to sew clothing for the workhouse residents on Bugle Street. This crate is for you. Drawing supplies and such. A cologne I found appealing. A lathering brush. A few ribands. A bottle of whiskey. And this is mine.”
She lofted a peach in the air, caught it, and sank her teeth into the flesh. Juice glistened on her chin before she wiped it off and held out her hand. “Care for a bite?”
His body roared in response. She looked just like Eve. Just like any temptress ever painted on canvas or portrayed on the stage. He had not made good on his vow to seek out other women. How could he when he worked every day from dawn to dark and shared apartments with a wife? He was filthy and exhausted and ready to bed his wife. The woman who should never be on his beddable list. But suddenly she was. He had lost his pride, and now he was in the midst of losing his mind.
“Christ,” he muttered.
“Oh, that reminds me. We are attending service tomorrow at Holyrood.”
“Weare not. I pay my tithe. The vicar and I have an understanding.”
“Julian, you wanted me to be your wife, and this is what wives do.”
“You best”—he cut a hand to the room—“unwife this.”
“It is a fait accompli.”
He twisted away and poured himself a drink, blowing out a steady breath. He thought on the toss she had given him months ago. Which he remembered too vividly and obsessed over. She had called him herfait accompli. Her fact. Her certainty. The room was suddenly stifling and small. He pulled out his shirt from his breeches and wrangled the stinking thing over his head.
“I met Miss Carleton,” she said. “Poor woman, she’s in love with you. And deranged. She believes you are a gentleman.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her throw the peach at him. He turned just in time to catch it. He hurled his shirt at her head. “I am a gentleman.”
She dragged the shirt from her face but not before she sniffed it. “What did you do to her?”
“Nothing. Very well. I kissed her once. A peck. I swear on my mother’s life.”
She flitted away, looking over her treasures. “Vicar Dumphries sends his regards. Miss Dixley painted you as a saint. By the by, if he should ask, your favorite verse is Ephesians 1:7.”
“Is that Shakespearean?”
She lifted her hair from her shoulders, drawing her shift taut across her breasts. He averted his eyes, trying to remember why he couldn’t want her. Because he did, in the idiotic nineteen-year-old part of his brain. He promised to return to take the food to the Worthings’, walked into his room, and slammed the door.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
April 1759
Farendon Estate, England
A west windbuffeted his face as Julian untied theFairy’starpaulin on the riverbank. “Good afternoon, girl. It’s been a while.”
One day to be exact. If boats could talk, his ten-foot sailing skiff would say,fool. Boats didn’t possess the capacity for cruelty like Julian nor the ability to fathom the lengths a man must go to repent for it.
