The Redemption of Julian Price Page 3

  “Is it not pleasurable to a woman also?”

  “It can be,” he replied. “Unfortunately, many women don’t allow themselves to enjoy it.”

  “That makes no sense!” Henrietta said. “Why shouldn’t a woman take pleasure in it if she is also capable of doing so?”

  “Why not indeed?” His mouth twitched involuntarily.

  “I would want to,” Henrietta said suddenly. “I would want to experience all that is possible in the marriage bed.”

  Julian shut his eyes on a sudden vision of Henrietta sprawled naked in a bed . . . in his bed. He envisioned her with hair undone, arms stretched above her head, round white breasts exposed in invitation, and a sultry smile softening her quirky lips. He stifled a groan, wishing he could eradicate these lurid thoughts. She was one of his best friends for God’s sake.

  He sat in silence, watching Henrietta pluck each petal from the hapless flower. He’d known her his entire life, but it was as if he were seeing the real Henrietta for the first time—the spirited, passionate young woman whose spark would soon be extinguished if her life did not change. Gazing at her now, he wondered why the devil she hadn’t wed.

  Then again, since she’d come of age, most marriageable prospects had been off fighting Napoleon. She should have been happily married to Thomas Wiggington by now with a brat settled on her hip. Of all women, Henrietta deserved most to know a man’s love and devotion. He’d vowed to keep Thomas safe the moment he learned of his friend’s intentions toward Henrietta. There were no two people he cared more about, and who deserved happiness more than Thomas and Henrietta. But it was Thomas who had taken the bullet and fallen at Albuera—due to Julian’s dereliction. He felt another flair of guilt, deep and sharp in his gut, for his failure to bring Thomas home to her. And because Julian had failed, Hen now had her mind set on spinsterhood.

  “What is it like?” she suddenly asked.

  “What is what like?” he replied carefully, wondering how the devil to extricate himself from this damnable line of conversation.

  “Coupling with another,” she said.

  “It’s impossible to describe,” he replied. “There is no other comparable experience.”

  “Then I don’t understand why so many women regard it as an unpleasant duty.”

  “Perhaps some are soured by a clumsy first experience or by a selfish or insensitive lover.”

  “I know the first time can be painful, but what do you mean by selfish and insensitive?”

  “Must we continue this conversation, Hen?” he pleaded. “It’s damnably awkward.”

  “Why?” she asked. “I have questions, and you have answers. There is no one else I can ask about these things. Do you honestly think Harry or my mother would tell me anything?”

  “What about your married sisters?” he suggested.

  She bent to pick another flower. His gaze lingered on the outline of her arse. To his chagrin, he was once more feeling stirrings below. Why was he having such lustful fancies about Henrietta when he had a willing mistress to warm his bed? Maybe that was the trouble? He’d been too long away from Muriel. But Muriel wasn’t the one currently inspiring his sexual fantasies.

  “They would only blush and titter and speak in euphemisms,” she continued. “All I want is to understand what I would be giving up if I do not wed.” She lowered herself to the grassy bank and cast her gaze out over the shimmering water with a sigh. “They say one does not miss what ones does not know, but I don’t think that’s really true, do you?”

  “From a man’s perspective, you would be right,” he agreed. “The sexual drive is very strong in men. We instinctively know what we are missing.”

  “But women don’t?” she asked.

  He tied the horses and sat down beside her. “Perhaps some do,” he agreed. “But those are generally women who make themselves available to satisfy men’s lust.”

  “You speak of prostitutes? But I thought you said any woman could enjoy . . . coupling.”

  “It depends on both the man and the woman,” he said. “If a man only seeks to satisfy himself, she is unlikely to experience any pleasure.”

  “So a man must desire to please a woman?”

  “Yes, Hen.”

  “Oh. That’s interesting. I didn’t know that. Does it also hurt a man the first time?” she asked.

  “No,” he answered tersely.

  “So it’s always pleasurable?”

  He hesitated and then shook his head, recalling the utter humiliation of his first sexual experience. “No. Not always.”

  “You mean it wasn’t for you?” she softly prompted.

  “It was at first, and then it wasn’t,” he replied.

  “I don’t understand you,” she said. “Would you please explain?”

  Julian hesitated to speak of what he had never shared with a soul, not even Thomas.

  “Please, Julian,” she persisted.

  Suddenly restless, he stood and scanned the bank for a skimming stone. “Do you recall the week before my sixteenth birthday when Winston arrived with four carriages full of guests?”

  “Yes,” she laughed. “Who could forget? He supplied the village with a year’s worth of salacious scandal. Is it true what the servants said?”

  “That he hosted a week-long orgy? Yes, Hen. And once he realized it was my birthday, he took it upon himself to initiate me to manhood.” It was only then that Winston even remembered his existence. In retrospect, Julian wished he hadn’t. In that single week, Winston introduced Julian to all manner of vice—gaming, drinking, and whores. Eager for acceptance, Julian had embraced it all. He might have pitched completely into the moral abyss were it not for Thomas, who’d brought him back from the brink.

  “My first experience was at the hands of one of Winston’s whores.” He sent a stone bouncing over the water.

  “But you didn’t enjoy it?” she asked.

  “I did until she recounted the experience in minute detail to the entire party. I was utterly humiliated while they all had an enormous laugh at my expense.”

  “How cruel! I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “Me too,” he said.

  “Sometimes I try to imagine what it must be like to be with someone that way.”

  That remarked snagged his attention. “You fantasize, Hen?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I have kissing dreams.”

  “Kissing dreams?” he repeated. “And who exactly do you kiss in these dreams?” Was it Thomas or someone else? Did he really wish to know?

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “You know how vague dreams can be.”

  Her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips. Was it a subtle invitation? Did Henrietta desire to be kissed? Julian tamped down the powerful urge to do just that. For once begun, he could never end it with just a kiss. He’d grown uncomfortably aware of her physically and feared he would soon be fully aroused. Kissing her could only end in ruin, shame, and disgrace.

  We should return now,” he said abruptly.

  “But it’s still early,” Henrietta protested. “Can’t we stay here for a while? Harry won’t return for hours yet.”

  “That is not what I needed to hear, Hen.” He’d resisted the urge to kiss her, but any more time alone with Henrietta would only be tempting the devil. “Let’s go. Now.” Before I do something I shall surely regret.

  ***

  Henrietta returned from her ride with Julian windblown, disheveled, and laughing so hard her ribs hurt. The past few hours had essentially evaporated the past six years. The time spent with Julian was all she’d hoped for—almost. There was that brief moment when she’d thought he might kiss her. She’d hoped fervently that he would, but he hadn’t. Had it just been wishful thinking? Maybe she’d read it all wrong. What did she know of men and kissing?

  They drew up in front of the stables, where Julian dismounted and handed his horse off to the groom. “Thank you, Jules. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a ride so much,” she gushed.<
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  He reached up to assist her. Their gazes met as his strong hands closed about her waist. Her breath hitched as the laughter faded from his eyes. “I enjoyed it as well, Hen,” he replied stiffly, setting her firmly on her feet and then stepping backward a bit farther than strictly necessary.

  Why the sudden formality? Although they’d had a wonderful time together, there was something different between them now, a strange and undefinable undercurrent. It had begun after the almost kiss. It felt very much like the last day they’d spent at the lake when she was thirteen. Nothing had been the same after that, and now it appeared to have happened again.

  “I wish we could do it again,” she said wistfully. If only he would change his mind about staying in Shropshire. He was the only person in the world with whom she felt free to speak her mind and be herself. There was never any pretense with Julian. How wonderful it would be to spend more time together. Perhaps then she might have had a chance . . .

  “I would that we could also, Hen, but sadly, I must return to London.”

  “When do you leave?” she asked.

  “This afternoon. I’m already packed. I need only hitch up my team.”

  “I’ll be leaving for Chelsea tomorrow on the Shrewsbury mail. Perhaps I’ll see you in town?” she asked hopefully.

  “You leave tomorrow? I didn’t realize you’d planned to travel so soon. When you mentioned London, I thought you were going after the wedding. Don’t all females live to plan these things?”

  “Not this female.” She laughed. “I despise it. In truth, I’m looking forward to escaping all of it.”

  “If that’s the case,” he grinned, “let me be your means of escape.”

  “Are you offering to drive me?” Henrietta asked.

  “Why not? We’re going in the same direction. As late as it is, I may as well wait and depart tomorrow. Have you much luggage?” he asked.

  “Only a single trunk,” she answered. “But I have Millie to think of.”

  “Millie?”

  “My maid. I can’t go alone, especially not with you, Julian.”

  His brow wrinkled. “Should I take exception to that?”

  “No,” she said with another laugh. “It’s nothing personal. It’s just another one of those silly rules that apply to my gender.”

  “If you only have one trunk, Millie can sit behind on top of it, providing she doesn’t mind the cramped space. I daresay it’ll still be more pleasant to drive with me in the open air than in a stifling mail coach full of flatulent farmers.”

  “Must you be so crude, Julian?”

  “But it’s true.” He chuckled. “I’ve been in such a predicament, and it was most unpleasant.”

  “What if it rains?” she asked.

  “Then I suppose we’ll get wet. The offer is open to you if you are willing to take the chance. I’d enjoy the company,” he said, “and you can then spend the fare you would have paid to the mail on something more enjoyable.”

  “Thank you, Julian.” She grinned back. “I think I would much prefer your company to the flatulent farmers.”

  “How long will you be staying on in London?” he asked.

  “I’d planned on only a fortnight, but I have a feeling my aunt is going to ask me to continue on as a companion. I think this invitation was really to test how well I would suit her.”

  “Is that your grand scheme, Henrietta?” Julian asked. “To throw your whole life away as a drudge to some old dragon? Is that what you really want?”

  “What are my options?” she replied. “If I remain at home, I’ll be expected to care for Mama in her dotage and help raise Harry and Penelope’s children. My life will eventually become little better than that of a servant anyway. If that is destined to be my lot, I’d rather spend a few years in London with Lady Cheswick. The sacrifice would not be without its reward. She has already promised me a generous annuity when she passes, enough that I should then be able to live as I choose.” Henrietta heaved a sigh. “You don’t know how lucky you are to have been born a man.”

  “It is indeed too bad you weren’t a chap, Hen. We rub along well enough that I would have invited you to stay with me.”

  “But I’m not a man, Julian,” she sighed sadly.

  “No,” he replied, gaze narrowed. “You most definitely are not. Can you be ready to leave by eight?”

  “Yes. I can be ready.” Nearly bursting with happiness at the thought of spending two more days with him, she flashed her brightest smile. “Thank you, Julian.”

  “You might not thank me if it rains,” he warned.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve gotten me wet.” She drew back as a strange look passed over Julian’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered through his teeth. “Absolutely nothing.”

  ***

  After seeing Henrietta to the door, Julian declined an offer of tea and made a brisk departure, wondering what fiend had taken hold of him. Why had her most innocent remark conjured such salacious thoughts? It was probably her earlier comment about experiencing all that the marriage bed had to offer. He took a moment to emphasize those two words he’d never thought to couple together in a sentence—marriage and bed.

  Hen had asked him if he’d ever considered marriage, and he’d answered her truthfully in the negative. While it wasn’t his habit to consort with camp followers or common street doxies—at least not since leaving Winston’s sphere of influence—his experiences with women were limited to brief affairs. He’d never contemplated anything beyond satisfying the immediate needs of his flesh. Nor had he ever lacked for opportunity. Lonely widows were plentiful since Napoleon had set out to conquer Europe.

  His current mistress, Muriel, was such a woman, the widow of a fellow officer, Captain Charles Mathieson, a decent chap who’d fallen at La Victoria. Julian had called upon her to pay his respects and deliver some of Mathieson’s personal effects. Although it had been well over a year since he’d died, as soon as he’d recounted the full story of her husband’s death, she’d flung herself tearfully into his arms. Intending only comfort, Julian had held her. What had begun as simple consolation quickly became much more. Although he liked her well enough, and his body responded to hers, his heart had always remained untouched. He did not love her, nor she him, yet they met each other’s needs—his need for sexual release and hers for comfort and a small measure of security.

  Security. That was the other reason he’d never considered marriage—because he had nothing of value to bring to the union. He’d returned to England to find his estate nearly as bankrupt as his person. Oh, not in the moral sense, although many in Shropshire might argue that. In comparison to his Uncle Winston and his cronies, Julian was a model of virtue. He referred to his emotional state. After six years on the Peninsula, watching men die, he was numb inside and almost utterly depleted of feeling.

  Henrietta had also asked what would make him happy. He truly didn’t know if he was capable of feeling happiness, of feeling anything at all ever again. Even his mistress had failed to spark any life in his insensible soul. His time with Henrietta had been only a temporary balm, just as the bottles of port he’d drunk with Harry had been.

  It was now time to return to London to face the ugly reality that had greeted him almost from the instant he’d set foot back on English soil. Julian had returned to Shropshire to make a thorough account of every asset in hope of finding some way to keep Price Hall. Though he made light of the state of his affairs to Harry and Henrietta, he was on the brink of losing everything, through no fault of his own. Winston had had control of it all until only three years ago. Once he’d reach his majority, Julian should have come back home then to claim what was rightly his. Mayhap then he could have still salvaged something, but duty and loyalty had prevailed while Winston the wastrel had stayed true to form right to his inglorious end.

  Now, after risking life and limb for king and country, nothing remained of Julian’s inheritance but a heavily mort
gaged estate. Many men mended themselves through an advantageous marriage, others through good fortune at the tables. But neither of these were viable options. He had no title to offer a wealthy bride and no luck at gaming. Other men in similar straights dealt with their debts with a muzzle strategically placed at the temple. Some called it the gentleman’s way. Julian called it the way of a coward. Having eliminated all of these possible solutions, Julian was left with only one option—a return to Portugal and a lonely life as a mercenary. Determined not to act in haste, Julian resolved to pass the next few days in careful contemplation of his future. Given the circumstances, the drive with Henrietta would be a much-needed diversion.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JULIAN’S WISH FOR DIVERSION WAS GRANTED, yet it proved to be thoroughly unsettling. He’d become far too physically aware of Henrietta in the past few days and now his buckskin-encased thigh rubbed against hers each time the phaeton jostled, an almost constant occurrence on the rutted roads. He wished he could concentrate on something besides this case of unseemly lust for his best friend. Did she feel it too? She seemed unusually tense, sitting rod-straight beside him. He resolved to call upon Muriel immediately after delivering Henrietta to her aunt. He hoped a few hours with his mistress would effect a cure for this most annoying of maladies.

  “Julian, may I drive for a while?” Henrietta’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “I think not, Hen,” he replied.

  “Why not?” she asked. “You know I’ve driven almost as long as you have.”

  “But you’re never driven a high-perch vehicle. It’s quite different from the gigs you are accustomed to.”

  Her tawny brows met in a scowl. “You don’t trust me?”

  “It’s not so much you as the vehicle that I mistrust,” Julian responded evenly. “Phaetons have a precarious tendency to overturn.”

  “Then I’ll be careful on the turns,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, Hen.” Julian shook his head. “I’ve promised your family to deliver you safely to Lady Cheswick. I won’t shirk that responsibility.”