Page 79 of Better Love Next Time
He dropped his hand to her thigh.
Kitty held her breath. How could he touch her when he was deliberating the company of a mistress? When their attempt at a normal marriage had failed so horribly?
“I’ll search out Gilbert and a few others,” he said. “We need more lumber. More workers. How much may I spend?”
She looked down, studying the strong sinews at the back of his hand. “I will write out a budget, making allowances for unforeseen expenses. Or needs.”
“Thank you.”
“You are ever so welcome.”
They reclined in silence. It felt as if they were truly married. This was how, as a girl, she had imagined her nights would be, sitting with Julian, enjoying their time together without a need to fill the gaps between conversation. They had never filled silences because they had always been friends.
“Shall I inquire on your pater?” he asked. “See if the man’s still galloping over the county killing everything that breathes?”
“Oh—I—” She had not informed Julian about Sir Jeffrey’s death. How would it appear if she dropped the truth like passing gossip? “Yes, please, if you would. And perhaps, while you are in London, I might look for a more permanent residence here. One I may entertain in. Host visitors. Spend holidays. A home.”
“A home?”
“I’ve always wished for one of my own.”
“That you have.” He still held her leg, his fingers gentle on her flesh. Had he forgotten it was there? “Go ahead. If you like.”
He turned, his strong shoulder butting into the settee cushion. His gaze drifted over her face, landing upon her mouth. His eyes warmed and his hand slid up her thigh. Her heart throbbed in her chest. She could not do this. She could not be rejected again. And again.
She stood swiftly. “I must write out your budget. If you please, I will add a few items I require.”
Hurrying to her room, she was surprised at the peace that came over her without his presence. She was beginning to understand herself. She would always love Julian, but he was right. She had changed. And what they had been could never be again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Present Day
St. James, London
Four days after departing Southampton,Julian stepped into Oliver’s stifling sickroom. Until this day, he had believed his father’s summons a dramatic gesture wherein the earl meant to broach his favorite subject: Julian’s complete disregard for his father’s opinions.
Against the windows’ sealed copper silk drapery and the room’s white paneling, Oliver was the shade of gruel. His brother sifted through official-looking correspondence on the bed, much to the chagrin of his nurse. The green pillows surrounding him did nothing to improve his color nor the brown wig he’d donned, obviously in protest.
Oliver slapped down the papers with a squint. “Come to take my place, have you? Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
Julian strode to the bed. “Ollie. Bloody hell. You look like hell.”
“Thank you. Now be a good brother and bring me a brandy and cigar.” At the nurse’s objection, Oliver shot a finger at her.“If I’m forced to drink another glass of buttermilk, Iwilldie before forty. And fetch my daughter, Sophia. If you’ll not allow my secretary, I’ll have her write my letters.”
Oliver had beads of perspiration at his brow. Julian leaned over, pressing the back of his hand there to feel for a fever. Not that he knew what a fever actually felt like.
Oliver slapped his hand away. “I’m not feverish. I’m mad with boredom. And insufferably hot.” He jabbed at the roaring fire being fed by a discreet footman. “The quack believes roasting me alive a damn cure.”
Julian rubbed the sweat forming at the back of his own neck. It was hotter than a bonfire on Guy Fawkes Night.
“Get me a brandy,” Oliver said.
Julian acquiesced, dousing the fire with a pitcher of water, pouring a scant glass of his brother’s favorite beverage, and returning to sit on the bed. Oliver smacked his lips in appreciation while Julian did something he had never done. He took hold of Oliver’s clammy hand. His brother was not going to live forever. He was grey and short of breath. Who was going to see to Oliver’s four daughters? Who was going to care about England’s affairs as much as Oliver St. Clair?
“Christ, Ollie.”
“If you cry, I’ll clout that pretty face of yours.”
