The Accidental Countess (Accidental #2)(17)

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Daphne answered, a crestfallen look on her face. “Tell me, does she still write to you?”

“Yes, quite often,” Julian said, a lump unexpectedly forming in his throat. What could he say about Cassandra? She was his best friend. She’d written him for years. She’d begun soon after he left with the army after her sixteenth birthday. He’d thought it would be nothing more than a simple, friendly correspondence. But it had turned into much more. Cassie didn’t know it, but she had saved his life.

“Nearly every day?” His mother’s eyebrows shot up. “I daresay that’s more often than Daphne and I wrote. Did Penelope write you as much?”

Julian shook his head. “No.” Not even remotely close. He leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers over his chest. Penelope. Over the years, he’d considered resigning himself to their marriage. Penelope had been eighteen when he’d gone off to war. They’d decided to wait until after he returned—if he returned—to make it all official. It hadn’t been fair to Penelope to make her wait all these years. Especially when Julian had had no intention of ever coming back. He was under no illusion that Penelope loved him or even wanted to marry him for that matter. The few letters she’d written to him in all these years had been short and full of inane banter. Nothing true. Nothing real. Nothing like the letters he received from Cassandra. Cassandra’s letters had been heartfelt and honest, full of witticisms and intelligence. She made him smile. She made him laugh out loud, and most of all, she made him feel as if someone in this great big world, someone other than his mother and his sister, really, truly cared if he lived or died. God knew his father never had. He was a useless second son after all. He’d been told that often enough. His father had purchased his commission and handed it over with words he’d never forget.

*

Julian knocked on the door to his father’s study. “May I come in?”

His father grunted his assent.

Julian pushed open the door and strode forward. He stopped in front of his father’s massive wooden desk, standing at attention. He stared out the window above his father’s head, his hands clasped behind his back, his new uniform still rough against his skin. He’d get used to the rubbing eventually.

“Julian.” His father’s voice was deep yet cold, as always. “Or should I say, Lieutenant Swift now?”

“Thank you for the commission, my lord. I intend to make you proud.”

“You’re leaving soon?”

“Yes. I’ve said good-bye to Mother, Donald, and Daphne. I’ve leaving for Surrey in a few minutes, to say good-bye to Miss Monroe.”

His father snorted. “You might as well tell her good-bye forever. No reason to keep her on the hook, waiting for you.”

Julian’s brow furrowed. “My lord?”

“Since you won’t be coming back.”

Julian kept his jaw locked, his eyes still focused out the window. “You’ve that little faith in me, Father?”

“On the contrary, this is about the faith I do have in you. You said you intend to make me proud.”

“Father?”

The earl slammed his fist against the desk, making the papers and ink pot bounce. “Damn it, Julian. Must I spell it out for you? You’re meant to die in battle. Honorably, of course. The more honorably, the better. That’s why I purchased the commission for you. I expect you to make both me and your country extremely proud.”

An icy claw grabbed at Julian’s chest. He concentrated on keeping his gaze straight, his jaw firm. A harsh breath escaped him. “Sir.” He bowed once to his father, turned on his heel, and left the room.

It was the last time he ever saw his father.

Julian had wrestled with those words during the entire ride to Surrey seven years ago. Would he say good-bye to Miss Monroe for good and let her go, or would he ask her to write to him? He understood what he had to do. Understood what it would finally take to gain his father’s love, his approval. And he would do his duty. But it might be weeks, months even, before he died, and he couldn’t bear the thought of not having something to look forward to in that time. When Cassie had offered to write to him, he’d had some small glimmer of hope, some small shred of happiness to hang on to.

Julian had left for the Continent with his division as soon as he returned from Surrey. Within the month, word came that his father had died.

The days turned to weeks, the weeks to months, the months to years. And Cassie’s letters arrived like clockwork, comforting, uplifting, friendly, and funny. Daphne and Mother wrote to him of course, but their letters were less frequent and meant to distract him with humorous bits of news. Cassie’s letters were different. They were heartfelt, meaningful. They were the only evidence he had left that he was still alive. And he’d never been able to write to her—this girl who kept him from a dark abyss—and tell her that he never intended to return. He couldn’t do that to her and he didn’t want to believe it himself. Cassie’s letters were real but they were also the only place he allowed himself to pretend.

*

Julian glanced around the room, his brother’s room, his brother’s house. Julian had been back in town for less than a fortnight but already he was seeing to the correspondence and acting in his brother’s stead. The servants came to him with issues and his mother seemed perfectly content to allow him to run things. Daphne seemed quite pleased with it all, too, probably because he allowed her to get away with more than Donald did.