***
Henrietta guided Julian through the morning room and then onto the terrace overlooking the parterre gardens that were so popular in the last century. It amused Julian how tightly Lady Cheswick clung to all of the fashions of the past century. Henrietta matched his steps as they strode the garden path, her fingers resting stiffly on his arm and her gaze locked on the gravel.
After several minutes of cold silence, he finally prompted her. “Is something wrong, Hen?”
“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong,” she replied too quickly.
“Was it last night?” he asked. His memory of the events following the brawl were hazy at best. He had a dim recollection of kissing Henrietta. Then he’d awakened in the coach with a grimy pillow, a throbbing head, and an aching body. Had he accosted her? “Please tell me, Hen.”
“I assure you nothing happened last night,” she said. “You were drunk. I gave you a pillow and then sent you out to the coach.”
So the kiss was only a dream? He exhaled in relief.
“Nevertheless, you are peeved about something. You can’t think to pull the wool over my eyes,” Julian insisted. “I know you too well. I can tell by your lips when something has annoyed you.”
She glanced up with a quizzical look. “By my lips?” Her fingers flew to her mouth.
“Yes.” He grinned. “They do this interesting little pucker-y thing when you are vexed.”
“I had no idea,” she replied.
“It’s quite fascinating, really,” Julian said, taking a moment to study her more closely. In addition to a pair of soft gray eyes, Henrietta Houghton had a very pretty and unusually expressive mouth. He knew he needed to stop thinking about her in that way, but the more he tried not to, the harder it seemed to become.
“All right, Julian.” Henrietta exhaled a huff of exasperation. “I confess it. I am most put out with you. Is it true?”
“Is what true?” he asked.
She halted and spun to face him, asking directly, “Do you keep a mistress?”
Tamping down his irritation, he replied blandly, “Whether I do or not is hardly your concern, Hen.”
“Then you do. Do you love her, Julian?” she asked, her gaze probing his.
“No,” he said. That’s not to say he felt nothing at all for Muriel. He liked her well enough, but he didn’t love her. They simply fulfilled each other’s needs—hers for a modicum of financial security and his for sex. It was an uncomplicated arrangement that had worked well these past months, and one he would surely miss—were they to end their association.
“Then keeping a woman for your pleasure seems a very foolish thing to do in your position,” she continued.
“A man has certain needs, Hen,” Julian replied deliberately. “I thought I explained that to you.”
“Are you saying a man’s carnal needs supersede his good sense?”
“More often than not, yes,” he confessed with a humorless laugh. “It is a flaw in our nature. It confounds me why you are you so angry. Do you expect me to live as a monk simply because I choose not to wed?”
“I-I . . . of course not!” she retorted. “I never thought of it at all, actually.”
“Then why now and why so censoriously?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Julian. Perhaps I just credited you with more discretion than to consort with low women, especially after your horrid first experience with one.”
“Muriel is not a low woman, Hen. She’s the widow of an officer who is now in reduced circumstances.”
“Is that her excuse for turning to prostitution?” she replied, eyes flashing.
“She did nothing of the sort,” Julian said, growing more perturbed by the second. Why were they even having this infernal conversation? Even Harry didn’t ask such personal questions. “May we please cease this discussion now?”
“To think I actually felt sorry for you,” she continued heedlessly. “I had even planned to petition my aunt on your behalf.”
“I want neither your pity nor your aunt’s charity, Henrietta,” he snapped.
“That’s well and good, then,” she tossed her head, “because you deserve neither.”
“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
“It means good day, Julian, and good luck to you in Portugal. There is a gate over there.” She pointed imperiously. “I trust you can see yourself out of it.”
Julian watched in agitation as Henrietta performed a rigid volte-face and marched through the terrace doors into the house without giving him a backward glance. What had gotten into her? She’d always been the one person he could trust not to judge him. But now it seemed he could do nothing right in her eyes. Damn it all. Henrietta simply didn’t understand how it was. Telling himself he didn’t care anymore, he spun on his own booted heel and exited the garden gate. If that’s how it was going to be, Henrietta Houghton could go to the devil with all the rest of them.