Page 85 of Better Love Next Time
“The day after Easter. The dowager insisted the night I tossed my accounts, and Clara says she literally seized Staverton’s ear and dragged him to their coach.”
She tucked her head at his bare chest, at peace. She had worried Julian might not return for no reason except the world seemed verily against her. But Clara had delivered him a note that morning and he had returned, swooping her up and taking her to bed. Of the nights they had spent before her purge had begun, tonight had been the most passionate.
Kitty rubbed her palm up his chiseled abdomen and came to rest over his heart. “I hope the dowager lives long enough for me to marry. Else, I’m certain he will return.” She shuddered at the possibility.
“Who’s the lucky man?” Julian clasped her hand on his chest and thumbed the ring upon her finger. The one she had dug up and wore when she was alone. Or now, with Julian.
“I don’t know.” Her voice sounded far away.
The lucky man should be Julian, but he had vowed never to marry. It would conflict with his success at shipbuilding. A man could not reach his full potential worrying for a wife and family. But his question hurt, and she couldn’t allow herself to hurt when Julian had been honest and she had accepted their situation.
“Maybe,” he mused, “Father Dunlevy can persuade Sir Jeffrey to take you to London. There are many men who will marry you for your beauty alone.”
She hadn’t told Julian about Father Dunlevy’s dowry scheme. It would seal in his mind her paternity. He would lord it over her. In a funning way, of course, but still, if Father Dunlevy was her natural father, it was a tragic secret. Something to cherish and yet, mourn. The night he had admitted he had loved her mother, she vowed never to ask him.
“What sorts of men?” she asked lightly. “Dukes? Earls? Should I settle for a viscount?”
He tipped up her chin to angle a lingering kiss on her mouth. “Enough about marriage.” His hand cupped her breast, thumbing her nipple until it beaded and strained at her nightshift. He groaned, coming over her, jutting his hips to hers. She matched his urgency, kissing him with abandon, remembering her first kiss and how it hadn’t foretold the wild passion and depth of feeling, the love she felt now.
She drew back as Julian slipped his palm up her nightshift. “What of Anthony Philips?”
Julian froze. “Anthony?”
“Yes. The last he wrote to me his affections were not engaged.”
“Anthony writes to you?” He shifted off of her and caged her with braced arms. “A girl does not allow a man not related to write to her.”
“But you do more than write to me,” she said, rising up to kiss him.
He averted his face. “I am different.”
“How so?”
His eyes scoured her in the half moonlight. “I am your best friend’s cousin.”
“And so is he.”
His lips flattened. “I have known you for ten years. We are friends. You and I have devised a business. We have the same dreams. We have exchanged hundreds of letters. You are my partner. Myfairy.”
He sounded angry for the association and time put in. “True. But Anthony has written me 123 letters the last I tallied.”
“A hun—” He looked her over as if seeing her for the first time. “How often have you written him back?”
She shrugged. “I endeavor to answer each and am successful in the main. You know, he is a person of great feeling and generosity.”
“He is not.”
“He is a philanthropist. Donating a portion of his wealth to those in need.”
“Otherwise known as high-flyers. Whores. Mistresses.”
“He collects rare gems.”
He gnashed his teeth. “Otherwise known as high-flyers. Whores. Mistresses.”
“He wishes to establish a lucrative business to support the less fortunate.”
“A gaming hell to support those otherwise known as high-flyers. Whores. Mistresses. Kitty, I have known Anthony Philipssince we were in leading strings. His goal, since he was seven, is to be the greatest rake of the century.”
