After Henrietta had departed in the garish yellow carriage, Julian spent the remainder of the day alternating between pacing and drinking while awaiting acknowledgment of the letter he’d sent to his solicitor. He was still stunned by Henrietta’s proposal. He despised himself for taking advantage of her offer, but what choice had he but to accept? His only other option was to embrace his fate as a mercenary, a life that would surely extinguish any flicker of humanity that remained in him.
For the first time, he assessed her purely as a woman rather than as a friend. Although Henrietta Houghton would be lost in the sea of beauties that habited the London ballrooms, there was some invisible force that drew him to her. That was not to say he found her physically unappealing. Quite the contrary. She had clear gray eyes that shone with good humor, a quirky mouth that he found most fascinating, and a softly rounded feminine form that most any man would appreciate. But there was something more. Something he couldn’t define. Perhaps it was her natural warmth? Her playfulness? Her lack of feminine guile. Or maybe it was her strong mind and quick wit? Although he hadn’t intended to take a wife, Henrietta suited him better than any woman he knew. He’d never been in love, but he cared about Hen more than he’d ever cared about anyone else aside from Thomas.
He just hoped she wasn’t entering into this with blinders on. He’d told her the truth about himself, or as much of it as he dared to tell her. If they indeed wed, he vowed to be a good husband to her, to treat her with all the kindness, consideration, and respect she deserved. He truly enjoyed her company and would do his best to make her happy, but the fly in the proverbial ointment was the non-consummation provision she’d insisted on.
Why had she put him off? Was it just virginal jitters, or something more? What did she expect of him? Was he supposed to live as a eunuch? He’d be damned if he would. How could he reside in the same household, as her husband, knowing he had full entitlement to all that entailed, and not go mad with the desire to bed her? But this was Henrietta. How could he bed her without ruining everything? Sexual relations with her would surely destroy the relationship he valued above all else. He could not, would not, take that chance.
He paused his prowling to refill his empty glass. A soft knock sounded on the door, a welcome interruption to his morose ponderings. Gibbs entered bearing a letter on a silver salver.
Was it news from his solicitor? Julian snatched it up and tore the wax seal. With breath bated, he scanned the brief missive while his alcohol-afflicted brain struggled to interpret the legal jargon. After reading it twice, he deduced that Lady Cheswick’s man of business had agreed to provide the proof of funds the bank required to forestall the foreclosure. There was much yet to be negotiated with the bank, but at least he had his prayed-for reprieve. He tossed the letter down and scrawled a brief reply, followed by a short message to Henrietta.
My Dearest Henrietta,
It is with the greatest gratitude and humility that I accept your proposal. I shall obtain a license from Bishop Howley with all dispatch and request that you make ready for our imminent return to Shropshire to perform the nuptials. I shall collect you at eight on the day after tomorrow (provided you have not come to your senses by then).
I only hope to prove myself worthy of your trust and confidence.
Your most devoted friend and servant,
Julian
Julian sanded, folded, and sealed both missives and then rang for Gibbs with a sigh. If it must be done, let it be done swiftly.
“You have another visitor,” Gibbs reported. “Are you at home, sir?”
“Another one? Who the devil is it now?”
“Sir Henry Houghton calls, sir.”
“Harry?” Julian repeated in surprise. “Yes, Gibbs, I’ll receive him.” He handed his servant two more missives. “Pray see these delivered posthaste.”
“Very well, sir.”
Julian followed his servant to the foyer, where he greeted Henrietta’s brother with an extended hand. “Harry! What are you doing in town? I thought you would still be in Shropshire dancing attendance on your bride-to-be.”
“I was,” Harry replied. “But a chap needs some breathing room now and again, right?”
“He does indeed,” Julian laughed. “But how on earth did you manage to extricate yourself?”
“Urgent business,” Harry said with a wink. “Penelope never questions matters of business. In truth, I urgently require a new hunter.”
“So you wish to take me up on my invitation to Tatts? Your arrival is ill-timed, my friend, as I have truly pressing matters of my own.”
“What is more important than a trip to Tattersalls?” Harry asked.
“I have personal business with the Bishop of London.”
“The bishop?” Harry screwed up his face. “Why would you be calling on a bishop?”
“I have need of a marriage license,” Julian replied.
“A marriage license? You? What the devil?” Harry looked like he’d swallowed his tongue. “Did you impregnate that Mathieson woman? She’s still your mistress, isn’t she?”
“It’s none of your business if she is or isn’t, and of course not! I take great care to avoid that kind of complication.”
“Then you’ve debauched a virgin?”