The Redemption of Julian Price(22)

“You are not considering all angles,” Julian continued, unaware of her thoughts. “To wed me would be robbing yourself of any possibility of finding a man you could actually love.”

But you are the one I love. She bit down on her tongue lest she blurt the truth.

“I could say the same of you,” she replied softly.

“No, Hen,” he said with a bitter laugh. “You are capable of that depth of feeling. I am not. I simply do not have it in me . . . not anymore.”

She studied him, unable to read his emotions. Was it truly lack of feeling, or his worthiness that he questioned? Did he not consider himself deserving of love?

“I don’t believe you. We are all capable of love, Julian.”

“I am living proof to the contrary. Now that Thomas is gone, you and Harry are the only people on this earth that I even care about anymore. The rest of the world can go to the devil. ”

She laid her gloved hand on top of his arm. “I care for you too, Julian,” she said softly. “And I don’t want you to leave. Please consider my offer.”

“I despise the notion of taking your money, Hen. Doing so would cast me in the same mold as Winston. The very idea makes me cringe.”

“Hardly!” she retorted. “You would not be taking anything that isn’t freely offered. I wish to give you the money, don’t you understand? I want you to keep the home that is rightfully yours. In return, I hope to live my own life with a measure of independence that I might not have otherwise.”

“Are you truly certain about this, Hen?” Julian asked. “You would be getting the short end of this bargain, I assure you.”

Was he right? Was she selling herself short by proposing to a man who didn’t love her? Then again, they at least had a deep friendship. That was more than many wedded couples shared. Perhaps other feelings would grow in time? The prospect of a passionless marriage filled her with a hollow ache, but she would rather live without passion than to be tried and found wanting.

He paused in front of the banked hearth and stared into the smoldering coals. “I don’t wish to ruin your life.”

“What life?” she countered. “If we do not do this thing, what have either of us to look forward to?”

“Point taken,” he replied bitterly.

“Will you do it?” she asked.

“If we agree, we must act quickly,” he said. “There will be no time to call the banns or plan a wedding.”

She laughed. “It’s no matter to me. You know how I despise weddings.”

Julian rose and went to his desk. Taking up a quill, he quickly scrawled and sanded a note and then rang for his servant. “What are you doing?” she asked.

Julian replied with a tight smile. “Informing my solicitor of the happy news. It seems I am about to wed an heiress.”

***

After Henrietta had departed in the garish yellow carriage, Julian spent the remainder of the day alternating between pacing and drinking while awaiting acknowledgment of the letter he’d sent to his solicitor. He was still stunned by Henrietta’s proposal. He despised himself for taking advantage of her offer, but what choice had he but to accept? His only other option was to embrace his fate as a mercenary, a life that would surely extinguish any flicker of humanity that remained in him.

For the first time, he assessed her purely as a woman rather than as a friend. Although Henrietta Houghton would be lost in the sea of beauties that habited the London ballrooms, there was some invisible force that drew him to her. That was not to say he found her physically unappealing. Quite the contrary. She had clear gray eyes that shone with good humor, a quirky mouth that he found most fascinating, and a softly rounded feminine form that most any man would appreciate. But there was something more. Something he couldn’t define. Perhaps it was her natural warmth? Her playfulness? Her lack of feminine guile. Or maybe it was her strong mind and quick wit? Although he hadn’t intended to take a wife, Henrietta suited him better than any woman he knew. He’d never been in love, but he cared about Hen more than he’d ever cared about anyone else aside from Thomas.

He just hoped she wasn’t entering into this with blinders on. He’d told her the truth about himself, or as much of it as he dared to tell her. If they indeed wed, he vowed to be a good husband to her, to treat her with all the kindness, consideration, and respect she deserved. He truly enjoyed her company and would do his best to make her happy, but the fly in the proverbial ointment was the non-consummation provision she’d insisted on.

Why had she put him off? Was it just virginal jitters, or something more? What did she expect of him? Was he supposed to live as a eunuch? He’d be damned if he would. How could he reside in the same household, as her husband, knowing he had full entitlement to all that entailed, and not go mad with the desire to bed her? But this was Henrietta. How could he bed her without ruining everything? Sexual relations with her would surely destroy the relationship he valued above all else. He could not, would not, take that chance.

He paused his prowling to refill his empty glass. A soft knock sounded on the door, a welcome interruption to his morose ponderings. Gibbs entered bearing a letter on a silver salver.

Was it news from his solicitor? Julian snatched it up and tore the wax seal. With breath bated, he scanned the brief missive while his alcohol-afflicted brain struggled to interpret the legal jargon. After reading it twice, he deduced that Lady Cheswick’s man of business had agreed to provide the proof of funds the bank required to forestall the foreclosure. There was much yet to be negotiated with the bank, but at least he had his prayed-for reprieve. He tossed the letter down and scrawled a brief reply, followed by a short message to Henrietta.