The Redemption of Julian Price (3 page)

“
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.”

“That brings us around to my question. What will you do now that you have sold out?” Henrietta asked. “Do you propose to spend the rest of your days in such worthless pursuits, or will you be settling in Shropshire?”

“I will not be staying in the country, Hen. As long as I have sufficient income to keep me out of dun territory, I shall carry on the same as I have always done.”

She lifted a censorious brow. “So now you’ve landed yourself in debt?”

“You are too perceptive by half, Hen.” Julian raked his hair with a sigh. “If you must know, I only came back to Shropshire to take stock of my disposable assets.”

“Has it truly come to that?” she asked.

“I’m not ruined, if that’s what you fear. I was just drunk and stupid. I daresay I’ll recover in time.”

“From which condition? Drunkenness or stupidity?” she asked.

He winced. “Touché. But what the devil else am I to do with myself?”

“Why not turn to something more respectable? I don’t understand why you don’t stay here, Julian. Your father left you a substantial property. With a little effort on your part, it could surely produce a decent income.”

Julian slumped in his chair. “You don’t understand how it is, Hen. I have no skills to speak of, though I proved remarkably talented at survival. The worst I suffered was a ball in the arse, while all the best chaps—Wiggington, Usher, Codrington, and Barrett—got blown to bits.”

Henrietta’s breath hitched involuntarily. Of the original coterie of Bishop’s Castle hellions, only she, Harry, and Julian remained. One by one, Thomas Wiggington, Philip Usher, Daniel Codrington, and Nigel Barrett had all fallen to Napoleon. Only Julian had made it through the war relatively unscathed, at least on the outside.

She shut her eyes at the sudden ache in her chest, feeling anew the loss of her childhood friends. When she opened them again, Julian stood beside her. He took her hand in his.

“I’m sorry, Hen. That was bloody insensitive of me. What I meant to say is that things are different now. Why should I go and muck it all up when my factor has estate matters well in hand? Besides that, I would surely hang myself from boredom within a fortnight.”

“Is it so very bad for you, Julian? I thought you were happy here, that you enjoyed country pursuits—riding, fishing, and hunting with the hounds. I still do.” She couldn’t comprehend why he seemed to shun his ancestral home.

“I did once,” he confessed. “It was an ideal life when I was a boy, but things have changed. I’m changed, Hen. Indeed, the only things I’m any good at are cards and fu—” his cheekbones suddenly colored, “er . . . fighting. War does that to a man, and once it happens, there’s no going back.”

She understood all too well. Her life had once changed due to circumstances beyond her control, and she could never get it back either. “So what shall you do?”

“What I’ve done the past six years—survive one day at a time.”

“Surely there is more to life than mere survival, Julian,” she said softly. “Do you truly believe you will never be happy?”

He slumped back in the chair with a sigh. “What is
happiness
? I’m not even certain I remember anymore. What about you?” Julian asked. “What would make you happy?”

“Freedom. Independence. A life in which I can do as I please,” she answered. “I think that would make me very happy indeed.”

His brow wrinkled. “What do you mean by
independence
, Henrietta?”

“Today marks my twenty-first birthday, Julian. Now that I have attained my majority, I fully intend to make some changes in my life. I’m beginning with a trip to London.”

His eyes widened. “Today is your birthday, Hen? I’m sorry I didn’t remember.”

“It’s no matter to me. I’m used to it by now!” She laughed. “No one else remembers. They are all too preoccupied with Harry and Penelope’s wedding.”

Julian shook his head. “That won’t do at all, Hen. If everyone is preoccupied, we’ll simply celebrate it together.”

“But didn’t you just tell Harry you were leaving for town?”

“It can wait. Now,” he took her hand. Henrietta gave a slight shiver as he caressed her knuckles with his thumb, “tell me how you wish to spend your day.”

“Come ride with me, Julian,” Henrietta said, her gaze seeking his. “Let’s both be happy.”

––––––––

“R
ACE YOU TO THE LAKE?” Julian called out once Henrietta had settled her skirts.

“Absolutely!” she replied, her gray eyes sparkling. “No one ever races with me anymore.”

Spurring the horses, they set out across the dales toward Julian’s estate at a breakneck pace that not even Harry would have dared to match. Julian had planned to spare the whip and spur, but as usual, Henrietta more than held her own.

Julian halted his horse beside the Price Hall fishing lake. Henrietta pulled up at his side. Her round face was flushed, and her tightly buttoned-up bosom rose and fell in rapid succession. It had been years since they’d raced, and those years had wrought many changes in the hoydenish Henrietta Houghton. He realized then that he’d never seen the womanly version of Henrietta in a riding habit. The fit of it left few of her lush feminine curves to the imagination, curves he became even more painfully aware of as he helped her to dismount from the saddle.

“Do you remember our last summer here?” she asked.

“Yes,” Julian replied, vividly recalling that day. It was the first time he’d noticed her changing shape.

“My entire existence altered after that, and not for the better,” she added sadly.

“How do you mean?” he asked.

She handed him her bridle reins and bent to pick a Michaelmas daisy. “I lost my best friends,” she said. “It was never the same between us after . . .” She cast her gaze downward as a hint of rose permeated her face.

“How could it be once we realized?” he said.

“Realized what, Julian?”

“That you were becoming a woman.”

“But I was then, and still am, Henrietta,” she insisted.

“No, Hen,” he argued. “You were one of the chaps, and then suddenly you weren’t.” He’d been particularly affected by the revelation. The image of her naked and nubile body beneath the wet shift had filled his adolescent dreams.

“It wasn’t fair,” she said.

“You have to understand the mind of an adolescent male, Hen. Thomas and I were on the verge of manhood, a time when natural urges often prevail over good sense.”

“Natural urges? What do you mean?”

“Surely you understand what happens when a man sees a woman’s breasts?”

“No. I do not understand,” she said. “Perhaps you could explain it to me?”

Doffing his hat, Julian raked his hair with a sigh. “Must you make me say it? Are you really so innocent?”

“I’m not ignorant of the fundamentals of procreation, if that’s what you’re asking,” she replied, “but that doesn’t mean I fully comprehend the process.”

Mumbling a curse, Julian directed his gaze heavenward. “Then I shall endeavor my best to explain it. When a man sees a woman in the flesh, or even
thinks about
a woman in the flesh, he becomes sexually aroused.”

“That’s all it takes?” she asked, gaze wide.

“Yes. Men are exceedingly simplistic creatures. We respond instinctively to visual stimuli.”

She averted her face and began plucking petals from the purple flower. “Are you saying that you and Thomas . . .”

“Yes,” Julian replied. “We both had unseemly thoughts about you after that.”

“Is that why you tried to kiss me at the fair?”

“It is,” he confessed. “I was acting on a natural urge.”

“To procreate?” she supplied.

“Not precisely, Hen,” he answered. “Contrary to what proper young ladies are taught, the act of procreation is much more than just a means of creating offspring. Coupling is extremely pleasurable, at least to a man.”

“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.