That Perfect Someone (15 page)

“Enough!” Milton cut in, red-faced.

Richard raised a brow. “Don’t want the magistrate here to know how brutal you made life under your roof? But you are absolutely correct, Father. We both know there will never be a reconciliation between us. So what was the point of bringing me here?”

“A matter of settling accounts. Do you have the money to pay off the huge gambling debts you stuck me with, that I still owe to the Duke of Chelter, who bailed me out—and lords it over me that he did?”

Richard was given pause now. Those damned rakehells had finally gone to his father for payment? Then why hadn’t Milton severed all ties with him?

“You were a fool if you paid those losses, when you could have disowned me instead,” Richard said.

“So it
was
deliberate? An attempt to force my hand to be done with you?”

“What choice did your cruel tyranny leave me?” Richard demanded. “And it’s not too late to finally disown me. You have a witness. Make it legal.”

Milton shook his head. “Even if that were an option, it would have solved nothing back then. You were underage, leaving me accountable for your actions. So I’m to take it that your answer is no? You don’t have the wherewithal to make immediate restitution?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Then you’re ready to marry your fiancée to redeem those debts?”

“Hell no.”

“You see?” Milton said, glancing at the magistrate. “Not even apologetic that he deliberately tried to pauper his own family. Nor willing to make restitution the only way he can.” Then Milton sighed. “Give me a few moments of privacy with my son. I would be remiss in my parental duty if I don’t try one last time to make him see reason before resorting to drastic measures.”

Richard didn’t like the sound of that. But he still didn’t think he’d be there long enough for those “drastic measures” to bear fruit. Milton was a fool if he thought Richard would honor a marriage that was forced on him. Or would his father get what he wanted either way?
That
worried Richard. He didn’t exile himself from England so his father could win in the end.

The earl had leaned back against his desk, his arms crossed, waiting for the door to close. He didn’t look angry, he actually looked perplexed.

“I’ve never understood you,” Milton began.

“You never tried to.”

“I did a good thing for you all those years ago when I arranged that contract binding us to the Millers, assuring you of wealth and good fortune.”

“Without asking me,” Richard reminded him.

“You were too young to form an opinion back then, much less know what was good for you. And now, you are so stubborn, so determined to thwart me, that you don’t even realize what you’re turning down.”

“My breath is bated,” Richard said sarcastically.

“You dare to make light of it? When circumstances have changed so drastically while you were gone? Gerald Miller had an accident five years ago that has left him mindless to this day, with no hope of recovery. This put his only child,
your
fiancée, in control of the entire Miller fortune, and you’ve come home in time to take full advantage of that. All you have to do is say ‘I do’ in a marriage ceremony and you’ll be married to one of the wealthiest women in England and have control of her huge fortune, which would enhance the standing as well as the social and financial power of all of us, not just me and you, but your brother and nephew, too.”

“They are directly related to the Duke of Chelter. They don’t need elevating.”

“Chelter’s fortune is waning.”

“He’s still rich.”

“Not nearly as rich as the Millers!” Milton exclaimed, then sighed and tried to compose himself again before adding, “Besides, the duke has always made us feel like poor relations.”

Richard raised a brow. “
Us?
You mean
you,
don’t you?”

Milton gritted his teeth. “Are you even listening as I explain what’s at stake here? The Miller enterprises have grown astronomically over the years. Do you know wealth like that can even influence the king? There could easily be new titles for our family along with more land grants.”

“There’s no
our
in this, Father.
You
don’t have to marry a hellion you can’t stand.”

“I did,” Milton growled. “Your mother.”

Richard was incredulous. “Is this why you’ve never shown me any love or affection, or even kindness, when I was growing up? Because you hated your wife? And this is what you’re trying to force on me? A marriage as detestable as yours was? Why did you never mention any of this before?”

“You were a child,” Milton said stiffly. “Children don’t require explanations.”

“This child did. From the day I was born, you insisted on living my life for me. But it’s
my
life, Father. I’ll live it and make my own decisions for good or bad. And my decision is
not
to marry Julia Miller.”

Milton was red-faced now with anger, a visage Richard was actually better acquainted with. “I should have known better than to try to reason with you. You’re as outrageously obstinate and foolish as you ever were.” Then he shouted, “Abel!” And before the door had fully opened, Milton told the magistrate, “Take him away.”

Chapter Twenty-three

J
ULIA COULDN’T GET THAT
last image of Richard out of her head. She barely noticed when Raymond led them to an inn in the very next town. They could have gone farther. It wasn’t dark yet. But she was as exhausted as her cousin was, which was why they both overslept the next morning.

She’d had to pound on Raymond’s door repeatedly before she heard him shout, “I ain’t budging! We’ll go home tomorrow!”

“Today!” she shouted back.

She loved her cousin, but at times like this she didn’t exactly like him. He was a true wastrel. All he was ever good for was an escort when she needed one, and only if she informed him well in advance. He was always broke. He was given a nice allowance, but he threw it all away on gambling and women. She’d talked to him countless times about taking on some responsibilities to earn some of that allowance, but he had an endless stream of excuses to avoid any sort of work. At least he was an adept rider and had kept pace with her on this trip, though he’d complained all the way.

Her annoyance over not getting an early start stayed with her that day, as did that haunting image of Richard. It was as if she were running from it. The long hair, centuries out of fashion, didn’t detract at all from his masculinity. It merely gave him a wild, primitive look, especially when he was panting with fury. He’d been so angry! Because he’d kissed her—no, wait, he’d blamed that on her, accusing her of starting it, when she’d done nothing of the sort. That kiss had been amazing, though, definitely an introduction to passion. She couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t brought it to an end.

She set the same mad pace that day, trying to get home before dark. It didn’t work. When they stopped to retrieve their original mounts in the first town they’d stopped at yesterday morning, it was dusk, and Raymond balked at going any farther, as he was not used to such long days without a nap or two. Julia was tired enough not to insist, feeling both numb and weighted down with dust again. So she got them rooms for the second night. She just wished she’d been able to sleep this time. Despite her exhaustion, she tossed and turned most of the night, reliving that meeting with Richard and all the things she should have said but didn’t, and all the things that could have happened—but didn’t.

On the road again just after dawn, they entered London a few hours later. Raymond, annoyed to have to rise so bloody early, as he put it, three mornings in a row, didn’t even say good-bye as they reached her house, just continued on to his own home several blocks away.

She was planning to go back to bed herself, still exhausted after so little sleep last night. But as soon as she entered her house, one of the footmen rushed over to her, and she was instantly revitalized by the excitement on his face and in his voice as he said, “Your father—”

She didn’t need to hear more. She knew. It happened every time her father woke up,
really
woke up, the whole household got excited. She was already racing up the stairs.

“I’m not too late?” she said as she burst into her father’s room and rushed over to Gerald’s bed, where he was sitting, propped up with pillows, and smiling at her. “How long have you been awake? Please tell me it hasn’t been long?”

“Calm down, Julie.” He patted the bed beside him, indicating she should sit down. “I don’t think time is going to matter—”

“Of course it is, you know it is—you
do
know that, correct? You can remember this time?”

“Yes, everything.”

She took a deep breath and grinned at him, embarrassed by her anxiety as she sat down. She would have been furious with herself if she had missed this visit with her father—because of Richard. But she finally noticed the cloth or, rather, small sack that was resting on the pillow next to his head, and that Arthur wasn’t in the room with him.

She’d hired the servant soon after the accident to be a full-time attendant for Gerald, someone who could feed him, bathe him, even carry him out to the small balcony she’d had built off the room so her father could enjoy the sun when the weather permitted. Arthur even slept in a bed tucked into the corner of the room so he could be on hand round-the-clock.

“What is that for?” She pointed at the little sack. “And where is Arthur?”

“He went to get my lunch,” Gerald said with a delighted smile. “I was told they’ve been slaving all morning in the kitchen making all of my favorite dishes. I’m to get a sampling of each.”

“All morning?” Julia shot to her feet again. “
When
did you wake up?”

He sighed over her anxiety that she wouldn’t have much time with him. “Julie, there is good news, if you will settle down long enough for me to tell you.”

He patted the bed again. That her father could make that gesture was a tribute to Arthur’s diligence. The man had begun manipulating Gerald’s limbs several times a day to simulate exercise after they discovered his muscles were atrophying due to his inactivity. Now when her father woke up, he could at least move his arms and even his legs a little, though he wouldn’t be strong enough to actually walk on them and was never awake long enough to work toward that effort. But Arthur had made sure that if that day did ever come, Gerald’s limbs wouldn’t be beyond hope due to his being bedridden for so many years.

She sat again, but the dip in the bed this time dislodged the sack from his pillow and it rolled down to land by her hip. She stared down in horror at the spots of blood on it.

“My God, what happened to you?” She poked the bag. It was cold and soaking wet.

“Ice,” he explained. “It hasn’t been warm enough yet to melt the winter supply in the cellar. The doctor was here yesterday and recommended cold for the swelling—and don’t fly off the handle again. I mentioned good news, didn’t I?”

He was beaming at her. She couldn’t get past the point that he was bleeding. But then it sank in. Yesterday? He’d been awake for an entire day?

Anxiously, but with hope sneaking in, she asked, “Tell me how you got hurt.”

“I woke up yesterday before Arthur did. I was sufficiently disoriented to think I had dreamed that horrible accident and that it was a normal morning like any other and time to get up. So I tried to.”

She winced. “You fell out of bed?”

“No, I got out of bed. I actually stood up, or at least I put all my weight on my left foot first, and I was half standing before that leg buckled. I fell to the left and hit my head on the corner of the night table. You’ll notice it’s not there? I hit the table hard enough to break it. Scared the hell out of Arthur with that fall, or so he said. I was out cold again.”

“But not for long?”

“Long enough for Arthur to send for Dr. Andrew. I woke up when he started poking around my head. He was fascinated that I’d hit my head in nearly the same place as my original injury.”

She gasped.

“It’s only a small cut, though it’s swollen now, which was why he recommended cold compresses. Arthur suggested we try ice, since we have some on hand. Thought it might work quicker.”

Gerald paused and slowly raised his left hand to feel the wounded area. The worst of the original injuries to his head had been high up on the left side. There had been others, but none as bad as that one.

“That’s quite a lump,” she said, appalled that she could see it through his hair.

“No, it’s smaller than it was, so the ice must be helping,” he reassured her.

“How bad does it hurt?”

“I barely feel it, so don’t fret. I’m not lying here in pain, dearest, I promise you I’m not.”

“Why was Dr. Andrew so fascinated?”

Gerald snorted. “He mentioned an amnesia patient who had regained his memory when he received another injury to his head, which is hardly comparable, and I told him so. But they know so little about the brain, he was hesitant to treat this new injury at all. In fact, he said the cut wasn’t wide enough to warrant more than a stitch or two, and he was going to wait until I lost consciousness again to close it. He might have been fascinated, but he wasn’t very optimistic. But when he came back later that afternoon, I was still awake. He tried again last night before he retired, but I was still awake.”

Gerald was grinning again widely. Julia started crying, couldn’t help it. Her father had never stayed cognizant for this long since the accident, mere hours was all she’d ever had with him, and once, only minutes, before he’d slipped back into that dead fog of no awareness.

Though tears were rolling down her cheeks as she gripped his hand, she was also grinning just as widely as he was. “My God, you’ve finally come home—for good.”