The Redemption of Julian Price (2 page)

Julian’s return wasn’t the sole source of her joy. Today marked her twenty-first birthday. Surely the sunshine that now greeted her after weeks of dismal and dreary days was a good omen of things to come.

Henrietta sprang from her bed as her maid entered the chamber to light the fire. “You need not bother with that, Millie,” Henrietta said. “The day is fair, and I don’t plan to spend it in my room.”

“Ye wish to go out, then, Miss?”

“Yes, I do,” Henrietta replied eagerly. Knowing Harry would be occupied all day with Penelope, Henrietta hoped Julian would be free to join her on her morning ride. It had been many years since they’d raced one another over the dales. “I’ll take a short ride this morning, after which, we shall begin packing.”

“Packing, Miss? Where are ye going?” Millie asked.

“I’m off to London tomorrow to visit my great aunt,” Henrietta exclaimed.

The family at large disapproved of Lady Cheswick, who had been quite a notorious woman in her youth. Her great wealth, however, ensured they kept their sentiments private—especially since she’d sponsored all six of the Houghton girls’ debuts, and contributed sizeable sums to augment their dowries. Henrietta’s sisters had all achieved respectable matches during their respective London seasons, but only Henrietta had attained favor with the old woman. The recent invitation was further testimony of her goodwill toward her youngest great-niece.

In contrast to her older sisters, who were easily shocked, Henrietta had been fascinated by Lady Cheswick’s salacious tales. Perhaps that’s why the dowager had taken such a liking to her. Although Henrietta had received several invitations from her aunt since her debut, familial obligations had always kept her at home. But now, having reached the age of majority, she could finally make her own decisions, the trip to London being the first of those.

“Would you like to accompany me, Millie?”

“To London?” The maid’s eyes became as wide as saucers.

“Yes. Mama is far too busy planning the wedding even to think about leaving, and I simply cannot wait another month until it’s over.”

Henrietta was thankful that Harry’s was the last family bridal she’d have to endure after five consecutive years of spring wedding celebrations. Now they were rapidly moving on to christenings. The thought of all the yet-to-be-conceived nieces and nephews always made her a bit heartsick, especially since her own marital prospects were dim at best.

The maid worried her lip. “But I’ve never been any farther away than Shrewsbury, Miss.”

“Think what an adventure it will be, Millie! The shops, the museums, the playhouses. Surely you wish to see it. Please, Millie,” Henrietta cajoled. “I cannot go completely alone.”

The young maid remained uncertain. “How long would we be gone?”

“No longer than a fortnight. By the Shrewsbury mail, the journey shouldn’t take us more than two days.”

“Ye don’t think the missus will mind if I go?”

“Surely Mother can spare you for such a short time,” Henrietta insisted.

“All right, Miss,” Milled conceded at last. “I’ll have Higgins bring up the traveling trunks. How many will ye be needing?”

“One should suffice.”

“Only one trunk, Miss?” Millie eyed her skeptically. “When yer sisters went off to London, they needed a second coach for all they took.”

“Yes, Millie. I only need one. I only intend to bring a few day dresses and one evening gown, should I need something appropriate for a play or a party. I can take some extra lace and a second shawl in case I have need to wear it twice. At three-and-eighty, my aunt doesn’t get about very much. It’s not as if I’m going to make my debut. I’m finished with all of that stuff and nonsense.”

One London season had been more than enough for Henrietta. She’d passed the longest evening of her life at Almack’s, sipping tepid lemonade and conversing with dim-witted debutantes with whom she had nothing in common. She’d received a single offer to dance and had demonstrated as much grace as her favorite cow. No other invitations had ensued.

Henrietta accepted that she was no great beauty, but merely a nondescript placeholder in a line of beautiful and accomplished women—all of whom were now blissfully wed. She was the anomaly of the family, destined to become the sole spinster of three generations. But none of that mattered anymore. From this day forward, Henrietta Margaret Houghton would command her own destiny—at least to the extent her family would permit.

***

D
ressed in her habit, Henrietta went in search of Julian. Failing to find either he or Harry at breakfast, she then sought them out in the library, fearing the worst. Last night, Julian had taken Harry out to the Powis Arms. She’d heard them stumbling back into the house close to dawn. To no surprise, she found them both slumped unconscious in the pair of wingback chairs in front of the hearth. Their cravats and waistcoats were discarded, and the floor was littered with a deck of playing cards and several empty bottles of port.

Her gaze lit with tenderness on Julian’s beard-shadowed face. His dark hair was too long, and he was in want of a shave. Coupled with the dark rings under his eyes, he looked far more highwayman or gaming hall habitué than war hero. How careless he’d become of both his appearance and his reputation since selling his commission. She’d hoped to ride with him, but by the look of things, it was doubtful he’d even be able to sit a horse. The fact that he drank overmuch and slept too late filled her with grave concern.

If possible, Harry looked even worse for wear. She approached her brother, nudging his shoulder with two fingers. “Harry, you must wake up!”

Other than an unintelligible oath, he remained dead to the world. Henrietta murmured an oath of her own, drew back her foot, and landed a sold kick to her brother’s shin.

“Beelzebub!” Harry started awake. He blinked twice before finding focus on her face. “Henrietta? Why the devil are you assaulting me?”

“I’m saving your skin,” she said. “Have you forgotten that you were to take Mama to Lady Brightmore’s this morning?”

“Damnation!” Harry groaned. “Why can’t they do all this bridal nonsense without me? Jules and I were to go and look at a new hunter today.”

“Come now, Harry,” she chided. “How will it look to Penelope if she finds out you placed the acquisition of a new horse above her? I daresay you would then have no wedding to grumble about.”

“Problem solved,” Julian chimed in with a shameless grin. “And a new hunter to boot.”

“Julian!” Henrietta admonished her brother’s cohort with a warning look.

“But what do I know of flowers, etiquette, or wedding breakfasts?” Harry whined.

“You need know nothing. And you need
say
nothing,” she advised. “Indeed, I strongly counsel you to withhold any opinions on anything whatsoever, but as the groom, you will be expected to smile and nod and display at least a modicum of interest in your forthcoming nuptials.”

“Pray forgive me, Jules,” Harry said. “The whole thing completely slipped my mind. Could you perhaps accompany me tomorrow? You know what a pitiful judge of horseflesh I am.”

“So sorry, ol’ chap,” Julian replied. “I have pressing business in London. I must return today.”

“Can it not wait a day or two?” Harry begged.

Julian flushed. “I fear not. My reputation is at stake  . . or what little remains of it.”

“What do you mean?” Henrietta asked, at once anxious. What awaited him in London? Had he fallen in with bad company?

“It’s nothing I can’t manage,” Julian dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand.

“But you will return in time to stand up with me, won’t you?” Harry asked, oblivious to all but his own concerns.

“Of course,” Julian replied. “And I’ll be certain to bring a loaded pistol.”

“A pistol? Whatever for?” Harry asked.

“I shall use it as inducement should you experience cold feet before repeating your vows . . . and gift it to you afterward in the event you suffer remorse and wish to turn it upon yourself.” Julian gave Henrietta a conspiratorial wink.

“Jolly good!” Harry chuckled, oblivious to Julian’s mockery.

“What’s the date of the wedding?” Julian asked.

Harry returned a blank stare before looking to his sister.

“June the first,” Henrietta supplied. “I highly suggest you both mark it on your calendars.”

“I’ll be certain to return a few days early if you still wish to find a new hunter,” Julian said to Harry. “Or better yet, if you can effect an escape to London, we can go to Tatts for the horse. You are welcome to stay with me.”

“A last hurrah before taking on the leg shackles? Oh, I should like that very much!” Harry gushed.

“Enough talk of horses and hurrahs,” Henrietta said. “You’d best be off to make yourself presentable for Penelope.”

Harry ran a hand over his bristled jaw with a sheepish look. “You are right, Hen. Don’t know how I would ever manage without you.” He then heaved himself to his feet, swayed, and grasped the chair arm. Obviously, remnants of the empty bottles impaired his balance as well as his wits. He inclined his head to Julian. “I don’t suppose you’d care to join me? A fellow could use some male company.”

Julian shook his shaggy head with a laugh. “Not on your life, ol’ man.”

“June the first,” Harry repeated the date, as if reminding himself as well as his best man. “See you then, Jules.”

As soon as Harry was out of earshot, Henrietta rounded on Julian. “Why must you be such an ungodly influence on Harry? He’s shirked all of his duties since your return. Even if you have no inclination to walk the straight and narrow, you surely could make some small effort not to lead him astray.”

“Such censure, Hen?” Julian’s brown eyes twinkled. “As I recall, you were once the first to lead us all into mischief—and would mercilessly taunt any chap who failed to keep up with you.”

“We were children then, Julian! Back then we only risked scraped knees, or at worst case, a broken bone. As the head of the family, Harry has responsibilities. And he’s soon to be wed, for heaven’s sake!”

“Heaven or hell?” Julian quipped.

“Julian!”

“You forget I’ve met the chit, Hen. And for the life of me, I can’t fathom what the fool sees in her.”

“Penelope? You are not an admirer?” Henrietta remarked in surprise. “She’s the acknowledged beauty of all Shropshire.”

“Is she? I fail to discern why. What, pray tell, is
your
assessment of this paragon who is soon to become your sister-in-law?”

“Penelope has much to recommend her,” Henrietta defended. “She’s sweet and virtuous . . . and . . . um . . .”

Julian’s gaze met hers. “The truth, Hen?”

“The truth? She’s also a vapid, empty-headed ninnyhammer.”

He laughed. “I stand vindicated!”

“You are not! Penelope is precisely what Harry needs. She practically worships the ground my brother walks on. I have no doubt she’ll be the ideal wife and will never give him a moment’s grief.”

“Or a second’s peace,” Julian quipped.

“You know as well as I do that they will manage perfectly. With my mother to guide her, Penelope will undertake the running of the household, and like any good country gentleman, Harry will happily tend to his estate, horses, and hounds. They will exchange smiles, pleasantries, and local gossip every evening over supper, and perhaps enjoy a game of cards before retiring in the evening. After a year or two, they will produced the first in a brood of cherubic children. In all respects, it will be the perfect marriage.”

Julian’s gaze narrowed. “Is that truly your idea of wedded bliss, Henrietta? Is that what you would desire for yourself?”

“Of course not!” she protested with a laugh. “And you?”

“Me?” Julian made a scoffing sound. “I have never given any thought whatsoever to marriage.”

“Never?” she asked.

“Never,” he replied. “For the past six years, I have lived only for the moment. War does not allow one the indulgence of thinking to the future. When one’s sole aspiration is to survive beyond the present, any consideration of the morrow seems a foolish and futile pursuit.”

“I suppose I understand that,” she said. “I felt much the same about the future after receiving Thomas’ last letter. It came to me two days
after
his death notice posted in the papers. Did you know that, Julian? I received a proposal of marriage from a dead man. I wish he’d never sent it.”

Three years ago, Thomas Wiggington had been among the six thousand allied casualties of Albuera. Unlike Julian, who had proven a fickle correspondent, Thomas had written Henrietta faithfully during his three years on the Peninsula. Over time, the letters had progressed from exchanges of life in Wellington’s army for local Shropshire gossip to matters of the heart. Although Thomas had never made any open declarations of love prior to his enlistment, his letters had begun to speak of marriage in a roundabout way. On his twenty-first birthday, falling on the eve of the battle, he’d written his final letter, professing tender sentiments and proposing marriage if he should survive.

“No. I had no idea, Hen.” Julian shook his head sadly. “How shocking that must have been for you.”

“Yes. It was.” She lowered her gaze, remembering the numbness as she’d stared at the letter through sightless eyes. For three straight days, she’d wept, but on the fourth, she’d tied up the letter with a ribbon and locked it away, along with any remaining dreams she had of marriage. She hadn’t been in love with Thomas, but she was certainly fond enough of him to believe she would have grown to love him had they wed.

“Thomas was the best of men and a model soldier. He would have made you an ideal husband.”

“I think we would have suited one another well enough,” she replied softly.

Julian’s gaze probed hers. “Do you pine for him still, Henrietta?”

“I do not pine, Julian,” she said. “Of course I miss him. Who does not? But it has been three years. Life does go on.”

“Then why have you not wed in all this time?”

“I suppose the simple answer is that no one else has ever asked me. Not that I wish to wed at this juncture,” she hurriedly added. “Why should I desire a life of subjugation?”