Chapter 15 #2
A fist slammed into Julian’s left jaw, sending him sprawling backward and the knife out of his reach. Leaping to his feet, who was fighting who wasn’t clear in the smoke and mayhem of flying fists and broken glass.
A sailor swung a broken chair leg at his head.
Ducking, Julian came up and leveled him with a left.
He took a blow to his stomach, grabbed the man by his hair, and yanked him down into his knee.
He threw him aside. A bottle crashed into his arm, slicing through his sleeve as he worked his way to the door.
He flattened a man coming at Sam with a knife, and together they stumbled out onto the street as the night guards swarmed in.
They threaded through an alley. Sam laughed while Julian tested his jaw. He hoped Kitty was fast asleep. How disappointed would she be when she learned he had failed again and started an out-and-out brawl?
Kitty hadn’t planned on snooping. She had avoided Julian’s room, the memories of her attempt at being the wanton, of taking him in hand and failing to gain anything past his criticism, too painful.
But she had gone into her husband’s room to refresh her ink pot and answer Father Dunlevy’s letter.
She had been out of sorts, unsure how to be, since she had read Father’s apology for having to relay the sad news via letter.
Sir Jeffrey Babbington was dead. So she would never again have to face the man she had grudgingly called her father. She felt nothing except relief. Not even guilt for the relief.
In Julian’s writing desk, she reached for the ink and instead, traced a finger over a small, cut-glass bottle with a pink ribbon tied below the stopper. Perfume? In Julian’s desk? What woman had he purchased it for?
She reminded herself she was not to be jealous, if the sick weight in her stomach was jealousy. They had an agreement. Julian had made it clear she was intolerable to his base desires. Her husband was free to buy a woman perfume. And free to do other things.
She withdrew the stopper and sniffed. The scent of cherries plummeted her into childhood memories and the candies she had loved.
The color pink she had adored. She traced along the seam of her unsmiling lips.
What had become of her? Self-serving to wonder, because she knew.
Forsaking Julian had been the only way to protect Father Dunlevy.
What a horrid choice to have to make.
She returned the perfume to the drawer and picked up a letter.
A love letter? She really must cease this pitiful line of thought.
But she hoped it was a love letter, something to plunge her into the cold hard reality of her decision to stand by while Julian satisfied his needs with other women.
Yes, once she knew, she would feel better or at least get on with her life.
She unfolded the letter.
Her eyes rounded at the salutation. Andrew.
She dropped to the hard-backed chair and scoured the page.
The Earl of Tindall demanded Julian marry in alternately hateful and cajoling phrases.
What father called their son a worthless spawn?
She flipped over the paper and read the directions.
The letter fell to her lap. She shoved it off and stood, gripping the desk’s edge.
The earl knew Julian had returned to Southampton.
“Madame?” Althea Dixley said from the door. “Are you all right? You cried out.”
“Did I?” Kitty stared out through the gauzy drapery into the late night.
Even from her position on High Street, she heard shouts from the quay.
In her terrified state, it sounded like a riot.
Would Julian’s father visit Southampton?
Surely not. No, surely that would be lowering, for the Earl of Tindall to chase after his son.
The man had demanded Julian come to him.
She breathed out through pursed lips. A semblance of calm filled her. Her limbs were only slightly shaking when she turned to Althea.
“Mr. St. Clair’s father is a horrible man,” she said. “He belittles my husband and his accomplishments. Has since he was a young boy. He is controlling and—and evil in the extreme. I would put nothing past him. If you are ever to be in his presence, take care.”
Behind her most unfortunate lenses, Althea’s grey eyes darkened. Kitty hurried forward and clasped her friend’s hand.
“Do please take care,” Kitty said with more force. “And say nothing of this to Mr. St. Clair, what I have relayed.”
Althea nodded. “Madame, mayhap—”
A key scraped into the apartment door lock, and boot heels knocked in the entry. Althea hastily returned the letter to the desk and caught Kitty as she fled Julian’s room, plopping the ink bottle in her hand.
Kitty froze at the threshold to the main room.
Julian’s black hair was in wild disarray. His stock was missing and his cravat bloodstained and balled in his left hand. His cheekbone showed the beginning of a monstrous red bruise.
He strolled to the liquor standish and reached for a decanter. With his right hand he unstopped the brandy and poured two fingers. That arm was bleeding through his fawn-colored sleeve.
“I’ll get a surgeon,” Althea said and hurried from the apartment.
Kitty fetched a basin and cloths. Returning with a pitcher of water, she found Julian reclining on the vast sofa, his bare feet kicked to the silk cushions. The corner of his mouth was split and swollen.
She wedged in at his side, facing him. “Julian, what happened?”
“Good evening, wife.” His eyes traced the line of her breasts beneath the claret velvet robe. He finished his brandy. “I hoped you’d be asleep.”
“Who did this to you?”
“Hard to say exactly.” He yanked the wet cloth from her hand and sat up, swiveling around her until he was at her back.
She twisted around and studied his left hand while he scrubbed his face with the right. Kitty shivered at a deep, oozing knife wound across his palm. A faint nausea crept up her throat. Althea was right to fetch the surgeon.
Julian peeled off his coat, brushing her off when she tried to inspect his arm. She gasped at his blood-soaked linen sleeve.
“I need no mothering,” he said. “Or a lecture.”
“Why would I lecture you?”
“For obvious reasons. I’m drunk. I’ve been in a brawl.” He pulled a shard of glass from his forearm and tossed it on the table. “I caused it, actually. And still we’ve not one more man gained for your business than we had a week into this.”
“I don’t care about the men.”
“Yes, you do.” Grabbing his glass, he pressed to his feet and stepped around her to pour more liquor. “Don’t deny it. I can smell your disappointment. See it. And here’s a thought. If you wish to feign optimism, try smiling. Why don’t you smile?”
His question took her back. “I am not disappointed in you.”
He sipped from the glass. The liquor had to sting, but he acted as if the cuts on his knuckles, a bruised face, and knife wounds were a matter of course. “I didn’t say you were disappointed in me but you are, aren’t you?”
This was his father’s doing. Kitty wanted to race into his room, grab the earl’s letter, and tear it to pieces in front of him. And stomp on it. And shake Julian until his father’s hate fell out. And then she would overfill him with her love. But it came out all wrong.
“Hang your pride,” she said.
“Pride is about all I have left, love.” He considered his drink as he turned it in his grasp. “Do you know why we have no men?”
“Labor is scarce. Most men—”
“Because they do not trust me,” he said quietly.
“You are well-liked—”
“But no longer respected. And for those who trust me, their wives do not. No woman wants to see her children go hungry because their husband loses his job on a toff’s whim.
I left them, Kitty. I left them because I could.
Because I had money, an inheritance from an aunt.
And instead of investing it in the families of Southampton, I threw it away on gaming and fucking.
I was as worthless as my father proclaims me to be. ”
“Julian, stop! It is not true.”
“It is true. And their memory is long. I have ventured to the western side of the Solent, to Buckler's Hard, south to Portsmouth, and north to the New Forest. Everyone remembers what I did.”
Julian must have known this would happen when he had agreed to help her. He had pursued the path anyway. He had faced this truth for two months and shielded her from it for fear of disappointing her.
Rising from the sofa, she went to him, sliding her arms about his waist and resting her head at his chest. “Oh, Julian.” I love you. I love you.
He stiffened. “Do not pity me.”
“I do not pity but thank you,” she said, pressing her palm between the round musculature framing his heart. “You are not worthless. You are a good man. I can feel your heart. And it is a good one.”
He chuckled. “Lower, pet. Where it actually resides.”
“That is not so.”
“So. An unfortunate incident with a fairy put it there.”
She had broken his heart long ago. And broken hearts often mended with scars formed of anger. “I am so sorry I made you feel small. I have nothing but respect and admiration for you.”
He jerked back. “Now I am small? How many insults can you cloak in apologies?”
“Shh. You know my meaning.”
He lifted his bristly chin. “Did you just shush me?”
“Mm-hmm. And regardless of where you believe your heart resides, I know it to be good and true. And strong. We will weather this together. You will be respected again.”
“Ah,” he said, sighing. “Making me feel better than I ought.”
“’Tis what you deserve.” She rose on her toes and kissed the cut on his lip and then, his cheek. She brushed the hair from his face. “We will never be lovers again, will we? But I shall always be your friend. That I promise you.”
He searched her face, opened his mouth to speak, and shut it.
She didn’t want to let go of him, but she didn’t want to make a fool of herself more. So she drew away. He pulled her back into his arms, fitting her to his body, his hand splayed at the small of her back and holding her close.
“Kitty…” His lips pressed to her brow, sending a frisson of yearning down her spine. Drawing back, their eyes met and there was honesty and understanding between them. “I will always be your friend too.”
Her heart squeezed, taking her breath.
Julian couldn’t tear his eyes from Kitty’s soft mouth. He knew in her kiss, in her body, lay the solution to his present woes. Sweet, hot oblivion. His own body surged and heated, pressing him on. But tomorrow where would he be after slaking his lust and worries inside her?
He set her off and forced a grin, which hurt like the devil. “Now get on with your mothering before the sawbones comes and tries to cut off my arm for a scratch.”
“It’s not a scratch,” she countered.
He shooed her away, and she returned to the basin to refresh the cloth.
He walked out to the gallery, staring at his ragged reflection in the window, with the river and trees and ships mocking him in picturesque contempt. Her feet padded behind him.
Do not turn to watch her.
He turned to watch her.
She walked toward him, her hips swaying, her black curls elongated and springing from the heavy length. We will never be lovers again, she had said.
He had been successful driving his point home. Why did he feel like he had failed?