Page 81 of Better Love Next Time
Julian was sure Oliver had slept with only one woman—his wife.
“Who is that black-haired bit of fluff you’ve been rutting on?” the earl asked.
Julian silently cursed his father’s spies. He had joined Anthony Philips and the black-haired Lady Daniels at Drury Lane on his first night in London. He hadn’t rutted on Louisa Daniels or any woman in two years except Kitty. Once.
“My men saw you disembark at Southampton with her and take her to your apartments. A French whore, Joseph says, you brought back from the Continent. Cyril relates she is of no account. Which is she?”
So his father had spies in Southampton as well.
Julian’s reply was contrary to his desire to plant the earl a facer for calling Kitty a French whore. “You mean, Madame Féline?”
“Madame is it? Don’t dare think of marrying her. I won’t tolerate it. She’s a Frenchy. Whores, all of them. You need a gently bred English girl. One with a large dowry to support your spendthrift ways and keep you out of trade. One who will turn a blind eye to your love of whoring. A worthless husband you will be, but you will. I’ve had your mother draw up a list of the best candidates. I struck a few off on account of their common blood.”
The earl withdrew a sheet of paper from his desk. Julian didn’t read it. He was too furious. He had been about to admit Kitty was his wife. Now, not even screws could get him to talk.
“Well, boy?” he asked with a wink. “Any of them suit your fancy?”
Always disconcerting, the way his father shouted his son’s worthlessness and then went on as if there were no hard feelings. “I am not marrying any of them.”
“It is time to fulfill your duty to this family, the expectations of your existence. By God, you will marry. And those girls will suit. All have sizable dowries and titled, influential families.”
“Good to know your requirements for a lifelong companion. Thank you.”
“I’ll cut off your allowance.”
“That allowance has not been used in years and would be best served if you stuffed it up your arse.”
His father rushed him in a rage. Julian leapt to his feet, seized him by his waistcoat, and stuffed him down to the chair he had just vacated. Nose to nose, he said coolly, “I draw the line at violence.”
His father’s cheeks broke into a grimace. “Andrew.”
They stared at each other, father and spawn, both of them aware that Oliver could not be replaced. Not even a close second could be had. Julian was the spare heir that had survived, untouched by the childhood illnesses that had killed two of his older brothers. The scarlet fever that was finally conquering Oliver.
The earl beseeched in a broken whisper, “My son cannot die.”
It softened Julian’s heart enough to cup his father’s shoulder. “He’ll turn around.”
“Oliver would have wanted to see you settled.”
“He’s not dead. He’s currently drinking brandy and likely has bullied the nurse into fetching him a cigar.”
His father ground the heel of his hand at his eye. “He always had faith you’d make an excellent father.”
Julian snorted. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”
The bastard was going to cry. Was the grief real, or was this display a calculated tactic to have Julian wed? The latter, he was sure. Julian tested his assumption by saying, “I’ll find a wife.”
His father jerked up, a gleam in his watery eyes. “I knew you’d come around, boy.”
A smirk hardened Julian’s mouth. “Didn’t you, though?”
He returned to Oliver’s sick room and sat with his brother, who finagled Julian into taking dictation. He kindly ordered Julian not to smear the ink lest his correspondence become unreadable by Julian’s left-handedness. A few hours later, his brother shooed him off, and just for being shooed, Julian kissed his brother’s stubbled cheek in goodbye.
Oliver squinted, not wiping off the peck. “Don’t you bloody look at me as if you’ll never see me again. I’ll be a thorn in your side, brother.”
Julian took a long look at the best man he had ever known. “Promise?”
“Mark me.”
