Page 88 of Better Love Next Time
“I use whale oil. This is tallow.” He sniffed his finger. “They used turpentine. I don’t use anything but boiling water.”
“Sir, I know nothing about?—”
He butted the gun to the floor. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.” She clutched her mother’s cross at her neck. “I was curious about rifling. Mr. Delaney had spoken of it the day I took ill.”
He snatched her hand. “Where did you get this ring?”
She had forgotten to remove Julian’s ring. She gawked as he wrestled with the gold band.
“Keeping secrets from me? It’s that St. Clair hellion, ain’t it?” The ring resisted his attempts to unseat it. He yanked her finger nearly out of its socket. “What’s he done to you?”
“Nothing. I swear.”
“Don’t lie to me. I’ll have a physician exam you.” He dropped her hand. “Take it off and let me have it.”
“Sir Jeffrey, I gave her the ring.” Father Dunlevy tread forward from the door. “On her last birthday. As a symbol of chaste womanhood. Which your daughter adheres to unswervingly.”
Father Dunlevy met her gaze. Kitty looked away. He knew. He knew he lied on her adherence to chastity. But he had saved her. Sir Jeffrey dismissed her. Kitty rushed out the house to the north wood, and where Julian inclined in casual grace against a tree, she ran into his arms.
“Julian. Oh God. Thank you. Thank you. He would have killed me. You were right. He would have killed me.”
He held her tighter as she shook. He soothed her with shushes and kind phrases she couldn’t hear over her weeping. Terror grew inside her instead of abating. A foreboding nearly crushed her, that one day there would be no one to rescue her. She wasn’t stupid. Nor rash. She was resourceful. But in the month last, she had been saved four times. The pianoforte, the antimonial, the gun, and the ring.
“When will my life cease to plague me?” she cried into his coat. “When will I be free from worry?”
“Never,” he murmured. “But it will lessen. And remember, real courage is going forward when the outcome is uncertain.”
“Only with you I do not worry.”
He drew back and lifted her wet face. “You should worry. I’m a blackhearted scoundrel.”
“Julian.” She worked the wool of his coat in her fists. “The other night I sipped laudanum. Because I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid. I fear something bad is to happen.”
His eyes widened. He clasped her head and eased it to his shoulder. “Nothing bad will happen. Rest assured, I won’t allow it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A Fortnight Later
April 1759
Dear Miss Babbington,
I am to Huntingdonshire tomorrow to celebrate Julian’s birthday and hope that fate is benevolent in gracing me during the course of my stay with your charming presence.
I remain hopeful.
Anthony Philips
Kitty folded the letter and secreted it under her mattress. It was true that a female should not accept the association of an unmarried man, but Anthony Philips never tread nor crossed the line of propriety. His letters were polite not flirtatious. He spoke of his family and his hobbies. He solicited her opinions. Could he truly be the young man Julian described? One who associated with high-flyers, whores, and mistresses?
Kitty blushed at her thoughts. Along with being resourceful, she was romantic and, when forced, practical. She did not wantto marry Anthony Philips when she was in love with Julian so much it hurt. But her options were few.
Sir Jeffrey had resumed keeping his distance. Clara still had her position, and Father Dunlevy had announced he was staying in residence through June. Julian continued to visit every night, and Kitty had not summoned the nerve to ask him about gushing.
She grimaced at the word and smoothed her hand over her flat stomach under her dressing robe. She really must ask him.
