Page 45 of Better Love Next Time
Smoothing her skirts, she turned with what she hoped exuded confidence. “What is our first order of business?”
“We need work and men. And with all diligence and haste, you must prepare the accounts.”
“I suspect,” she said, “we will need work before men.”
He shook his head. “Men first, which we will have to pay to ready the yard and wait, if need be, until we find someone foolhardy enough to trust us. As you can see, I failed quite publicly.”
“Could you find a captain whose ship requires repairs? We could use the graving dock.”
He rose, tall and athletic, from his seat with that lazy swagger in his stride she so loved. The swagger that saidI can do anythingand she believed him now as she had then. In his eyes was the daring boy she had loved, afraid of nothing, who had given her courage to dream.
He reached to touch her face and dropped his hand to lock it behind his back with the other. “I spoke too harshly in my desire to rouse you. You are a beautiful woman. When I said?—”
“Please. Say no more.” She did not require a retraction nor his pity. “I have always valued your honesty. And I have been a miserable person. But I promise you, this will be a time you will remember most fondly.”
She would remain a wife in name only. There would be no holidays, nor the home she had dreamed of as a young girl. She would never share in the joy and heartache of children. She was incomplete and would remain so for the rest of her life. But she had this. And it would have to do.
CHAPTER TWELVE
September 1758
En Route to Farendon Estate, England
Uncle William staredover his ledger at the bottle in Julian’s hand as the coach slowed and lurched west off the Great North Road. “You’ll be dead from a bilious liver in a year, if you don’t stop.”
Dead on account of drink or Greek. Which was worse? The earl had also demanded Julian learn French, natural science, oratory, and history. Mathematics had been dispensed with when, drunk on whisky, Julian had proven his proficiency at trigonometry and the calculus in an hour.
Over the years, Julian had come to respect his uncle’s ability to make his life hell, and also comfortable, depending on Julian’s response. He corked the bottle and resumed brooding. Each turn of the wheel, like a cart leading him to execution, brought him lower.
Four years of hard work, freedom, and lots of fucking, and he was a man. They expected him to be a boy again. He hated the golden fields of barley, ready for harvest, the marshreeds surrounding the countless mud puddles and ponds, the silhouettes of trees as old as England.
How had he once yearned for this? Granted, it had been in the first year away from Huntingdonshire, when his memories had been entwined with a fairy and he’d been a coddled boy. Time and distance, and willing women, had honed his self-reliance and freed him from the longing his fellow men talked about, sang about, and got drunk over.
Home was a farce, a concept prettier in a man’s imagination than in reality. After setting sail, Julian had finally severed his attachment after penning Kitty one letter and providing no destination for her to write him back. And here he was, riding up his uncle’s drive, soon to be accosted by children.
Julian’s hand gripped the bottle. To be fair, Kitty had been an excellent partner, protecting his earnings, studying profit and industry. But Christ, could he stomach her ignorance? She’d probably leap into his arms, giggle all over him, and he might like it.
What he needed to do was find a lusty maid as soon as he gained his room and fuck, fuck until he’d regained his bearings. Because the closer he came, the more he wanted to see Kitty, which made him wish to sulk. And sulking was for poets.
The coach halted and rocked in place in front of Farendon. Neighboring Chedworth, his uncle had purchased the home and its string of racehorses for Georgiana from a marquess in desperate need of money. Julian levered down to the coach well, scooted to the door, and angled the crutches under his arms.
One year. After which, the earl had promised to set him free.I can do this.
He swung with a determined pace toward his prison, replete with three grey-stone stories, arched windows, gardens and lakes, and the best stable block in England. How was he going to lift a leg on a maid when said leg was splinted in willow cane andleather? The lazy way, which was just as enjoyable and afforded an excellent view of the ride.
At least his favorite appendage wasn’t in a sulk.
His uncle halted at Farendon’s wide portico steps, turning left where a girlish shout merged with a rich, masculine laugh. Walking off toward the block, his uncle waved for Julian to follow.
Julian struck his crutches to the groomed gravel and studied a maid’s plump backside outside the solarium where she leaned over a rosebush. Straightening, she cast Julian a coy look under her white cap. He remembered her, a woman who’d offered to relieve him of his virginity when he was fourteen and he stupid enough to deny her.
“My room,” he murmured, “ten minutes.”
A flush rose on her freckled cheeks as she eyed his splint and imagined the freedom it promised.
“I’ll see you at dinner, uncle,” Julian called.
Uncle William kept walking. “Family first, boy. Come greet your cousin.”
