Page 100 of Better Love Next Time
Julian needed commissions, and Gilbert, an owner of numerous interests in importing, with foreign interests in thecolonies and Europe, was Julian’s man. He pondered leading Gilbert on without outright lying about his marital status.
He said instead, “I am married. Happily married.” Why did he add the last? Insanity, he supposed.
But if one needed reputable money, they didn’t dare let on, much less ask for it. And so Julian purchased four greys, when chestnuts would have suited him fine, and a coach with silk lining and down squabs fit for a royal posterior.
Gilbert invited him to dinner, and Julian brought the man a bottle of forty-five-year-old cognac. But Gilbert, after all of Julian’s attempts at appearances, did not agree to anything. Didn’t so much as hint of an interest, even after Julian shared his belief in a looming colonial revolt and plans to take advantage.
The night before his London departure, Julian tried. He got roaring drunk and followed Louisa to her boudoir. Really trying, he stretched out on her bed. But when she came to him in a fog of lilac, he finally resorted to the truth.
“Lou, I’m not going to sleep with you,” he said. “But I’ve had fun. Thank you.” He closed his eyes and was rendered dead to the world.
It was morning when Julian awoke in his clothes in Louisa’s bed with her arm draped over his chest. Abruptly, he rose from the bed and at the window yanked open the drapery to Louisa’s screech.
After reviving the banked fire, he went to the bed. “Goodbye, Lou.”
“Farewell, sir,” she said, dropping her scowl to smile at him. “I do believe this was the most fun I’ve had without sleeping with a man.”
He grinned. “And I the same.”
He let himself out, meeting the overcast morning with a headache.
He had once told Kitty there was no such thing as love. He had proclaimed it an affliction that preyed upon weak-minded men and all females and distracted them from what was important: success and the things it attained. He had pointed to an oak tree that had existed in the parkland for over two hundred years and the grass beneath her and the sky above. He had pronounced them all worthless. Kitty had disagreed.
At Oxford Street, Julian hailed a hackney carriage after nearly being run over by a carter while deep in his thoughts. Inside, he grimaced at the stench of liquor and a crusty stain by his shoe that looked like vomit.
When had he ever been squeamish about a bit of vomit?
Had he grown up? Was herespectable? When had it happened?
Two things were certain. He was married, and he was going home.
But could he call his apartments at the Dolphin a home? Kitty clearly did not. She wanted a house, one she could celebrate holidays in. She wished for children, always had, to fill the rooms.
He alighted from the carriage at Charles Street and took the stairs two at a time to his room. His new best friend, Ollie (on account that Oliver was a little too masculine) dropped one of his hose she was tearing to pieces and bounded down from the bed as Julian’s plans took shape.
Kitty’s brother, Shelley, had longed to have an officer’s commission his entire life, but Sir Jeffrey had refused for lack of funds but more the desire to keep his son for a hunting companion. Notfelle had to be crumbling around Shelley’s ears, and if he hadn’t yet sold it, Julian was sure he would soon. Kitty’s mother’s grave was there. And Daisy’s. And the memorial Kitty had made when she had assumed him dead.
The last still made him cringe.
No stranger was going to buy Notfelle and Kitty’s memories.
He dashed a letter to his wife with Ollie on his lap. “What say you, girl? Care to ride along to Notfelle with me?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Present Day
St. Clair Shipyard
London, Sept 17th
Dear Katherine,
I have arrived safely in London. If any concerns arise during my absence, please direct them forthwith to this address. I foresee no obstacles to my return within the fortnight.
Julian
Kitty frowned down at the letter. One, two, three sentences, she counted.
