Page 99 of Better Love Next Time
“I depart Thursday next,” he said. “And a man must always defend his wife. Mrs. St. Clair is neither feather-headed nor convenient.”
“Is that so? Hmmm. She is conniving then? And tiresome? I would name her a shrew, but then I do try to avoid insult.”
“You are all courtesy,” he said.
“And lucky for you, I am here. You’ll be in my bed by Saturday and utterly relieved of your troubles by Monday. Why the frown, brooding husband? Has misery wrapped itself around you like a blanket? Are you so very safe and secure in it? I amhere now, darling. You may let it go. When did you last have fun? We will have it. Loads of it. In bed.Whereveryou wish.”
He pulled her arms from his neck and offered his escort. “Let’s have some fun then, shall we?”
Tonight it would not happen.
They returned to the party. Julian had lost a hundred pounds and a huge chunk of masculine esteem. But what he had lost had somehow been made up by the gain of general self-respect. He vowed to try again later.
Louisa Daniels forced upon Julian hours upon hours in the society he had been born into. People puffed up with their own self-importance and noble breeding. She dragged him to balls, dinners, the theater and opera, and card parties. At the tables, Louisa admonished his wagers as timid, and she was right. His bets were as stingy as an elderly aunt relying on family charity. But what would Kitty say if he lost their money on wagering? He imagined her disappointment, her eyes stripping him down.
He watched Louisa pass her time in a frenzy of inconsequence and the promise of uninhibited sex anywhere. Julian declined her offers at every turn and had extended his visit by four days just to test himself further.
Each night ended the same, alone, with a plethora of excuses to remain out of Louisa’s bed that ranged from the ordinary to the bizarre. He had business to conduct. He was tired. He was drunk. He had promised to meet Anthony at Arthur's. He spilled claret on his silver waistcoat, he really had to return home to have it cleaned. And the most desperate excuse given at Carlisle House, when he was completely sober, his clothing unsoiled,Anthony in attendance, and no business but the present pleasures: his dog was ill.
Anthony folded his arms and grinned.
Louisa leaned over her midnight supper. “You have a dog?”
He was going to after this, he thought. “Are you surprised?”
“I’ve never seen it. Nor have you spoken of a dog before.” She arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “What’s its name?”
“Er…” Julian glanced right to a table of men, recognizing an MP from his brother’s inner circle. “Oliver.”
“Oliver?” Her eyes narrowed. “I should like to see this dog.”
“I have,” Anthony quipped.
Louisa twisted in her seat. “Well I?—”
“Got to go.” Julian stood. “Seven o’clock at Almack’s tomorrow. I’ll see you there.”
Out on Soho Square, Julian realized he still held his napkin and threw it to the cobbled street. As luck would have it, a rough-coated, flea-bitten terrier bounded from the shadows at the Old White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly.
Julian peered at the night sky. “Thank you.” He then clucked at the unkempt cur. “What do you say, Oliver? Care for a temporary home?”
Oliver followed him home, wolfed down a plate of meats and cheeses, and howled through a bath where Julian discovered the newly christened Oliver was a female. The next day, Louisa, accompanied by a smirking Anthony, insisted on calling at three to see this Oliver, who had by that hour moved all her possessions into Julian’s bedroom, a mouse, a shoe of unknown origin, and the housekeeper’s wig.
Louisa cringed at Oliver scratching at her petticoat. “You do have a dog!”
Julian rescued Oliver from Louisa’s ill-aimed kick. “Do you think I would lie?”
And thus Julian was stuck with a dog.
During his visits to Oliver’s bed, Julian discussed the colony’s furious reaction to the Stamp Act. Before this had been the Sugar Act. The Quartering Act had been passed in March, requiring colonists to provide sustenance, quarters, fuel, and transportation to the King’s Army. Reports of the colonies’ fierce resentment had reached England by summer. Britain had spent seventy-million during the French and Indian War and was choking on their national debt. There would be a revolt, and if Julian could wager on it, he’d stake all. Because if taxation without representation wasn’t a rallying cry for revolution, then what was?
Julian decided St. Clair Shipwrights would build merchant vessels with cannon decks and gunports that could be converted to war ships. He reworked Kitty’s figures and contracted with the Limehouse merchant for 6500 standards of Baltic timber and 1200 standards of Norway deals. He also purchased fifteen Russian fir masts at auction, ten for the ships and five for repair commissions. Masts like the one he had almost died on needed frequent replacing.
The next day, he visited Coutts and set in motion the mortgage of his London house.
At Mr. Bever’s Repository, an auction house on St. Martin’s Lane, he met John Gilbert and knew what the man was about in less than five minutes. The doting father mused on finding a mount to match his daughter’s flawless seatandcountenance.
Gilbert didn’t aim for a title. He wanted a family for his daughter to marry into. Like Julian’s, with an earldom, a marquessate through marriage, close-ties with a dukedom from two-generations back, his father prominent in the Lords and everyone’s favorite, Oliver St. Clair.
