After seeing Henrietta to the door, Julian declined an offer of tea and made a brisk departure, wondering what fiend had taken hold of him. Why had her most innocent remark conjured such salacious thoughts? It was probably her earlier comment about experiencing all that the marriage bed had to offer. He took a moment to emphasize those two words he’d never thought to couple together in a sentence—marriage and bed.
Hen had asked him if he’d ever considered marriage, and he’d answered her truthfully in the negative. While it wasn’t his habit to consort with camp followers or common street doxies—at least not since leaving Winston’s sphere of influence—his experiences with women were limited to brief affairs. He’d never contemplated anything beyond satisfying the immediate needs of his flesh. Nor had he ever lacked for opportunity. Lonely widows were plentiful since Napoleon had set out to conquer Europe.
His current mistress, Muriel, was such a woman, the widow of a fellow officer, Captain Charles Mathieson, a decent chap who’d fallen at La Victoria. Julian had called upon her to pay his respects and deliver some of Mathieson’s personal effects. Although it had been well over a year since he’d died, as soon as he’d recounted the full story of her husband’s death, she’d flung herself tearfully into his arms. Intending only comfort, Julian had held her. What had begun as simple consolation quickly became much more. Although he liked her well enough, and his body responded to hers, his heart had always remained untouched. He did not love her, nor she him, yet they met each other’s needs—his need for sexual release and hers for comfort and a small measure of security.
Security. That was the other reason he’d never considered marriage—because he had nothing of value to bring to the union. He’d returned to England to find his estate nearly as bankrupt as his person. Oh, not in the moral sense, although many in Shropshire might argue that. In comparison to his Uncle Winston and his cronies, Julian was a model of virtue. He referred to his emotional state. After six years on the Peninsula, watching men die, he was numb inside and almost utterly depleted of feeling.
Henrietta had also asked what would make him happy. He truly didn’t know if he was capable of feeling happiness, of feeling anything at all ever again. Even his mistress had failed to spark any life in his insensible soul. His time with Henrietta had been only a temporary balm, just as the bottles of port he’d drunk with Harry had been.
It was now time to return to London to face the ugly reality that had greeted him almost from the instant he’d set foot back on English soil. Julian had returned to Shropshire to make a thorough account of every asset in hope of finding some way to keep Price Hall. Though he made light of the state of his affairs to Harry and Henrietta, he was on the brink of losing everything, through no fault of his own. Winston had had control of it all until only three years ago. Once he’d reach his majority, Julian should have come back home then to claim what was rightly his. Mayhap then he could have still salvaged something, but duty and loyalty had prevailed while Winston the wastrel had stayed true to form right to his inglorious end.
Now, after risking life and limb for king and country, nothing remained of Julian’s inheritance but a heavily mortgaged estate. Many men mended themselves through an advantageous marriage, others through good fortune at the tables. But neither of these were viable options. He had no title to offer a wealthy bride and no luck at gaming. Other men in similar straights dealt with their debts with a muzzle strategically placed at the temple. Some called it the gentleman’s way. Julian called it the way of a coward. Having eliminated all of these possible solutions, Julian was left with only one option—a return to Portugal and a lonely life as a mercenary. Determined not to act in haste, Julian resolved to pass the next few days in careful contemplation of his future. Given the circumstances, the drive with Henrietta would be a much-needed diversion.
CHAPTER THREE
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JULIAN’S WISH FOR DIVERSION WAS GRANTED, yet it proved to be thoroughly unsettling. He’d become far too physically aware of Henrietta in the past few days and now his buckskin-encased thigh rubbed against hers each time the phaeton jostled, an almost constant occurrence on the rutted roads. He wished he could concentrate on something besides this case of unseemly lust for his best friend. Did she feel it too? She seemed unusually tense, sitting rod-straight beside him. He resolved to call upon Muriel immediately after delivering Henrietta to her aunt. He hoped a few hours with his mistress would effect a cure for this most annoying of maladies.
“Julian, may I drive for a while?” Henrietta’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
“I think not, Hen,” he replied.
“Why not?” she asked. “You know I’ve driven almost as long as you have.”
“But you’re never driven a high-perch vehicle. It’s quite different from the gigs you are accustomed to.”
Her tawny brows met in a scowl. “You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not so much you as the vehicle that I mistrust,” Julian responded evenly. “Phaetons have a precarious tendency to overturn.”