***
Julian left the bishop’s offices late that afternoon with a marriage license in his pocket, deliberating his next move. His thoughts were random as he navigated the congestion of London traffic from Fulham Palace to Covent Garden Square, where he parked his phaeton in the mews behind the row of nondescript town houses. He’d left Shropshire days ago with plans to call on Muriel as soon as he’d arrived in town, but strangely, had found himself avoiding her. He didn’t know why.
Although she’d proposed marriage, Hen had made clear her aversion to conjugal relations with him. Why had she rejected the idea out of hand? Was she also afraid of souring their friendship? She’d even gone so far as to imply she’d turn a blind eye to Muriel. The more he considered it, the more distasteful Julian found the notion of wedding one woman and bedding another. If he were to take Henrietta to wife, he wanted her to be a true wife—one who would share his life as well as his bed. What was he to do if she refused him? A man had needs, and he’d already denied his far too long. Although he’d come to Muriel tonight to take his pleasure, his sense of wrong grew stronger the nearer he approached Muriel’s door.
By the time he reached for the knocker, the desire to bed his mistress had waned almost completely. Had the time come to end this arrangement? Was that why he’d dragged his feet? Because he’d really come to say good-bye? He realized it was so.
Having come to a final resolution, he raised his fist and sounded three impatient raps on the door. “Is your mistress at home?” he inquired of the middle-aged woman who answered his knock.
“Aye. She be at home, sir. Is my lady expecting ye, Mr. Price?”
“No, Mrs. Tillman. Could you please inform her that I have come to call?”
“Aye, sir.” She stepped back and opened the door to him. “If ye’d be pleased to wait in the drawing room, my lady will attend ye directly.” The servant bobbed a curtsy and disappeared.
He wondered what she thought of his arrangement with her employer. If she disapproved, she’d never let on. Feeling like a caged animal, Julian paced the length of the tiny drawing room until Mrs. Tillman returned.
“My lady is dressing for the evening but says she’ll receive ye in her boudoir, sir,” she replied with her gaze respectfully averted.
Julian ascended the stairs, his thoughts and emotions still jumbled. Would this be a fond farewell or an awkward and tearful good-bye? He rather hoped for the former but steeled himself for the latter. He entered to find Muriel in the midst of her toilette.
“Julian?” She rose from her dressing table to greet him. “I didn’t expect you back so soon from the country.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t send word,” he said. “But I honestly didn’t know when I’d return. Did you have a prior engagement?” he asked, eyeing the gown that lay ready for her, an emerald green silk, the first gift he had given her.
“None that I can’t easily break,” she replied with a smile and entwined her arms around his neck. “I’ve missed you.”
Muriel Mathieson was a well-born woman with the kind of voluptuous beauty that any red-blooded man would appreciate. Yet he’d always regarded her with the kind of appreciative detachment that one felt while viewing a work of art. Her gaze met his with a puzzled look when he withdrew to arm’s length rather than pulling her into an embrace.
“You may feel differently after you hear me out,” he said.
“Oh?” Her dark brows arched over a pair of vivid green eyes.
“I came to tell you I’m to be wed.”
“You are?” She blinked. “But this is so . . . so abrupt. You’ve said nothing about it!”
“Because I didn’t know myself. Until yesterday, I was determined to return to Portugal.”
Her brows furrowed. “You were?”
“Yes.” He scrubbed his face with a sigh. “I had little choice, Muriel. My affairs are a mess.”
“So your bride has money?” Her lips pursed. “I did not think you were that type.”
“Why type is that?” he asked.
“A fortune hunter.”
He pulled his brows together in a frown. “I know that’s how it appears, but it’s not what you think. I’ve known Henrietta Houghton all my life. It was actually she who approached me.”
“She asked you to marry her? How . . . extraordinary.”
“Yes,” Julian responded with a low chuckle. “That word quite describes her.”
“It sounds like you are very fond of her.”
“I am. We were exceptionally close as children. She’s one of the few people in this world that I truly care about.”
“When will this take place?” she asked.
“Within the week,” Julian replied. “I procured the license today. We will be wed in our home parish in Shropshire.”
“I see,” she said, her expression impassive.