Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
En Route to Farendon Estate, England
Uncle William stared over his ledger at the bottle in Julian’s hand as the coach slowed and lurched west off the Great North Road. “You’ll be dead from a bilious liver in a year, if you don’t stop.”
Dead on account of drink or Greek. Which was worse? The earl had also demanded Julian learn French, natural science, oratory, and history. Mathematics had been dispensed with when, drunk on whisky, Julian had proven his proficiency at trigonometry and the calculus in an hour.
Over the years, Julian had come to respect his uncle’s ability to make his life hell, and also comfortable, depending on Julian’s response. He corked the bottle and resumed brooding. Each turn of the wheel, like a cart leading him to execution, brought him lower.
Four years of hard work, freedom, and lots of fucking, and he was a man. They expected him to be a boy again. He hated the golden fields of barley, ready for harvest, the marsh reeds surrounding the countless mud puddles and ponds, the silhouettes of trees as old as England.
How had he once yearned for this? Granted, it had been in the first year away from Huntingdonshire, when his memories had been entwined with a fairy and he’d been a coddled boy.
Time and distance, and willing women, had honed his self-reliance and freed him from the longing his fellow men talked about, sang about, and got drunk over.
Home was a farce, a concept prettier in a man’s imagination than in reality.
After setting sail, Julian had finally severed his attachment after penning Kitty one letter and providing no destination for her to write him back.
And here he was, riding up his uncle’s drive, soon to be accosted by children.
Julian’s hand gripped the bottle. To be fair, Kitty had been an excellent partner, protecting his earnings, studying profit and industry. But Christ, could he stomach her ignorance? She’d probably leap into his arms, giggle all over him, and he might like it.
What he needed to do was find a lusty maid as soon as he gained his room and fuck, fuck until he’d regained his bearings. Because the closer he came, the more he wanted to see Kitty, which made him wish to sulk. And sulking was for poets.
The coach halted and rocked in place in front of Farendon.
Neighboring Chedworth, his uncle had purchased the home and its string of racehorses for Georgiana from a marquess in desperate need of money.
Julian levered down to the coach well, scooted to the door, and angled the crutches under his arms.
One year. After which, the earl had promised to set him free. I can do this.
He swung with a determined pace toward his prison, replete with three grey-stone stories, arched windows, gardens and lakes, and the best stable block in England.
How was he going to lift a leg on a maid when said leg was splinted in willow cane and leather?
The lazy way, which was just as enjoyable and afforded an excellent view of the ride.
At least his favorite appendage wasn’t in a sulk.
His uncle halted at Farendon’s wide portico steps, turning left where a girlish shout merged with a rich, masculine laugh. Walking off toward the block, his uncle waved for Julian to follow.
Julian struck his crutches to the groomed gravel and studied a maid’s plump backside outside the solarium where she leaned over a rosebush.
Straightening, she cast Julian a coy look under her white cap.
He remembered her, a woman who’d offered to relieve him of his virginity when he was fourteen and he stupid enough to deny her.
“My room,” he murmured, “ten minutes.”
A flush rose on her freckled cheeks as she eyed his splint and imagined the freedom it promised.
“I’ll see you at dinner, uncle,” Julian called.
Uncle William kept walking. “Family first, boy. Come greet your cousin.”
Julian hobbled away, toward the ruckus. Adjacent to the east side of the stable, a bay filly raced inside a fenced pen. Georgiana attempted to herd her into the stables with a strapping Anthony Philips.
“Anthony, come behind her,” Georgiana ordered, while the filly planted her legs and sniffed with superiority. “Kitty, come out and show Minny the apple.”
A white cotton petticoat fluttered in the darkened doorway, covered by a faded work apron of pink. A dusty ankle boot stepped into the pen, the gown hitched to display the slim rise of a white calf. An arm lead, long fingers clutching the apple.
Kitty’s voice wavered like a wood thrush. “I—I think she means to run me over.”
“Stand firm, Kitty.”
Kitty’s voice lowered dully. “I am standing firm.”
Her jest brought the first grin to Julian’s face since he’d found himself dangling by a cracked leg above the Liverpool’s deck.
The horse made a break, sprinted toward Kitty, ripped the apple from her hand, and with Anthony threatening from the rear, the filly dashed into the stables.
Georgiana shut the door and leapt in victory. Kitty fell to the dirt, a riot of giggles spilling from her lips.
But was it Kitty? The twelve-year old he had left standing alone in front of Notfelle, her skinny arms hugging her waist?
Her waist was still tiny. With undeniable curves above it. Her breasts thrust up, high and higher, with her breath. There were appealing curves below her waist, too, where her apron lay smooth against her pelvis and the thin cotton layers fanned out over her hips.
Julian wrenched his shoulder, uncomfortable with the direction of his thoughts. Bad thoughts. On Kitty.
Anthony rushed to Kitty from behind and hooking his arms beneath hers, dragged her to her feet. He bent to her neck. “Magnificent apple-baiting technique, sweet fairy. May I have a bite?”
Fairy?
Julian strangled the brace of his crutch. At the same time, Kitty covered her face and laughed. And laughed prettier. And squealed as Anthony swung her in a circle. Which looked like a man hurling a giggling female into bed before climbing on top of her, with a growl and a kiss and…
Julian growled. He had done exactly that. Not to Kitty. Never to Kitty, and this, this was only anatomy. She was still Kitty. The girl he’d never make children with.
Anthony set Kitty to the soles of her dainty ankle boots. Kitty twisted and playfully pushed him away. A cascade of black, curling hair swayed at her hips, gleaming in the sun.
His uncle leaned against the fence beside him. “Like what you see, don’t you, Julian?”
Julian peeled his gaze from the beautiful girl, shocked that his uncle had called him Julian for the first time in his life. “No.”
“Lie to yourself. While you were taking prizes, your fairy caught her own prize. The Earl of Wetherden’s son. Only son, I’ll add. Though it remains to be seen if Babbington desires a title and lands for his girl more than a Catholic husband.”
The image of Anthony Philips despoiling Kitty wrenched him in a place he hadn’t known existed: his soul.
His uncle jostled him with a shoulder. “But what you want has nothing to do with marriage, does it?” He rapped the fence rail with his walking stick. “George, look what I dragged back from London. A real pirate in the flesh!”
Kitty turned. She had grown taller, her limbs were longer, lissome like a willow. Grief strained at her eyes. “Julian?”
Anthony shouted a greeting and, with Georgiana matching his strides, loped toward Julian. They embraced him, marveled at his height, asked him about his leg, if he was a pirate. Kitty stared unmoving from across the pen.
“Kitty! Come see!” Georgiana called. “He’s not dead after all!”
Finally, Kitty started walking. Slowing at the gate, she swung it wide and closed it. On her left hand was his ring.
Taking her place next to Anthony, she curtsied. “It is good to see you, Julian. I hope your leg does not pain you.”
“Well, I hope it does,” Georgiana said. “Not writing you for a year.”
“I’m certain he had good reasons,” Kitty replied.
Anthony smirked. “Many, I’m sure.”
Kitty worked his ring on her finger, turning it, slipping it off and pushing it into her apron pocket.
Julian stared at her face, awed by how it had blossomed from waif to a beautiful young woman.
He studied the generous curve of her lower lip.
The straight nose with the slight tip that he wanted to graze his finger against. Had he ever appreciated the slant of her brows?
How green dominated her eyes but black rimmed the edges?
“Kitty,” he said finally. “It is good to see—”
“I’m glad you’re not dead, Julian.” She split the circle and brushed his uncle’s sleeve. “Uncle William, would you please drive me home? I promised Sir Jeffrey I would return for dinner.”
Georgiana booted Julian’s backside at the top of Farendon’s imperial staircase. “I hope you’re as miserable as you look.”
Anthony looped an arm at Julian’s right shoulder so he had to drag his friend’s six-foot frame along with his own.
“Serves you right,” Georgiana said, adding her weight to his left. “At least I won’t have to visit your memorial anymore.”
“Memorial?” Bloody Hell.
“Yes, Kitty put you right next to her mother and Daisy. Buried two strands of your hair and a drawing of your ship. I suspected you weren’t dead, just being an arse.”
“I have assisted her with her grief,” Anthony said.
Julian glared at his friend, eye to eye. “She’s not your fairy.”
“She’s not yours.”
Julian didn’t think anything could rival the pain of a broken femur. How wrong he was. “Georgie, get me a bottle.”
“Brandy or whiskey?”
“Rum, if you have it.”
Georgiana trotted off, humming.
Slapping his back, Anthony sent him smacking headlong into his bedroom door. “That’s the spirit. Drown your sorrows. I wonder, with the firsts we’ve shared, do you win the challenge of the first broken heart?”
Julian twisted the knob and shoved open the door with his crutch. The maid lounged naked on his mahogany feather bed.
Anthony edged past him. “Ahhh. Look who’s here to offer you solace.” He tugged at his stock. “Care for two, Hannah?”
“You know her?”
His friend winked. “Firsts, friend.”
Half an hour ago, the prospect would have had Julian licking every one of the woman’s freckles. But his cock was as a dead as a mutinous sailor hanging from a mizzen mast. She needed to leave. Now.
“Hannah, there’s been a change of plans.” A Kitty change of plans who hated his guts and threatened to send Julian into a vow of celibacy. “I’m sure Anthony here will oblige you elsewhere, but I require you not be here.”
Julian turned and swung himself into the nearest chair while Hannah took her sweet time dressing.
All Julian needed was Georgiana seeing the maid, and any chance Julian had to reclaim Kitty would be blown like a ship’s hull meeting a cannonball.
His cousin would relay the maid’s presence to Kitty as a parliamentary speech: theatrical and detailed.
When Hannah departed and his friend remained, Julian asked, “Why are you here at Farendon?”
“Georgiana is my cousin.”
“Please tell me we’re not related.”
“On her mother’s side. But interesting you should ask.” Anthony kicked a chair to face him, reclined back, and stretched his able legs. “I delivered your allowance, hmmm, about six months ago, and discovered this charming girl whom you had forsaken while still writing me.”
“I had to write to you. And you know it.”
“So there I was, facing a dilemma. Allow her to believe you dead or tell her you were very much alive and crush her belief in you. I like to think I chose the noble path.”
Julian hung his head.
Anthony nudged Julian’s splint with his boot. “I know why you did it.”
“Because I’m a bloody fiend.”
“That too. But she’s easy to love. Too easy.”
Julian lifted his head, swallowing the truth of it. What he refused to name love, but what had always been an affection bordering on a necessity.
“And we can’t be men and cling to a woman’s love,” Anthony continued. “We’ll doubt ourselves, make decisions outside of our best interest. And even as love makes us feel complete, we know we will never achieve our dreams if we take it into account.”
The only dream Anthony had was to be the greatest rake of the century. This vowed at the age of seven. “Are we talking about feelings? Your feelings? Rest easy, Philips, she’s not yours to love.”
The heavy silence was broken by a rap. Georgiana stood at the bedroom door with the rum, one leg kicked at the threshold and arms folded at her blue frock coat. “Who’s talking about love, and who loves who?”
“No one loves anyone,” Julian said.
Georgiana crossed the room and shoved the rum in Julian’s hand. She placed two glasses on the side table. “Anthony loves Kitty and Julian, you just realized you’re a first-rate scoundrel. Are we to have a duel? I know the perfect pla—”
“No,” they replied in unison.
“I suppose it’s for the best. I’m not sure which cousin I would place my wager on.” She dove onto the bed, landing on her stomach and bracing her hands at her jaw. “So how then will you settle it?”
Julian and Anthony exchanged looks.
“I will settle it,” Julian said.
Anthony nodded to the bottle.
Julian poured them both a glass, and without a toast, they drank in silence. Anthony, with his air of sensitivity and innocent blue eyes, looked poised for victory. Julian’s chances of succeeding, just winning Kitty back as a friend, were as slim as his ability to scale a ratline at present.
Georgiana broke the peace. “So why are you here, Cousin?”
Julian relayed the events which had brought him to Farendon. The two stared in shock until the laughing started. And how they laughed.
Georgiana clutched her stomach. “The funniest thing I’ve ever heard! You—a man of letters! What next, a poet?”
Just like his father, no one thought he had a brain.
“Kitty can teach you French.” Georgiana snorted. “And I’ll torture you with Greek.”
Anthony wiped at the tears leaking down his cheeks. “And I’ll tutor you on natural sciences. Rest your fears, I’ll make it easy.”
Julian drawled into his rum, “I suppose I should learn to read first.”
A footman scratched at the door, two bandboxes balanced in one arm. “Sir, your uncle instructed me to deliver these to you directly.”
The blue boxes were painted with pink cabbage roses. Another footman placed three more boxes, these decorated in green and pink pagodas.
Julian waved the man in. He set the boxes two high and on the lone box, he laid a letter. Along the rim of each lid, the numbers one through five had been painted.
“Visited your modiste in London, I see,” Anthony said with a smirk.
Scowling, Julian cracked the wax seal.
Dearest Julian.
I wrote to you every day, with the hope that God had not taken you from me, and when He answered my prayers and you did write to me, I could give these to you.
Katherine