The Redemption of Julian Price(5)

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?”

“Subjugation?” He laughed. “Spare me, Hen. Half the men in this kingdom are secretly governed by a tyrant in a petticoat. Why else would gentlemen spend all their time at their clubs, Tattersalls, or hunting, or in any other pursuits that take them away from home? They do so to exert their own independence—their very manhood, if you will.”