Chapter 26

Julian's day started with solid intention.

The first in a string of ten that had.

It was a Monday, and that helped.

All he had to do was follow the usual Monday momentum from home to Tattersall's to White's to Brewster's Boxing Salon to the Cheapside townhouse.

The last stop wouldn't be the same considering he'd called off the arrangement with his mistress. He hadn't seen her in weeks—since the night he'd met Tessa, actually. So, he'd sent her a note, putting an official end to their dealings. The one hundred pounds that had accompanied the missive would've softened the financial blow.

Anyway, he'd lost the appetite for a mistress.

Really, his appetite had narrowed its craving to a single woman—no other would do.

He supposed he could go to the townhouse and catch up on his reading.

First, in accordance with the established Monday flow, it was Tattersall's.

A disaster from the start.

He hadn't bothered to research a single horse, leaving him unprepared to enter the bidding—which left him standing around, unoccupied and available for conversation with any and every young buck, old lech, and in-between waster who shambled his way.

After all, who didn't enjoy the company of the Marquess of Ormonde?

Except today something was…off.

He wasn't sure if it was that his smile didn't reach all the way to his eyes or that his responses tended toward a grunt or a generalized air of malcontent, but conversations were dying away as quickly as begun, those young bucks, old leches, and in-between wasters fading into the crowd and scratching their heads over this sudden and inexplicable change in the Marquess of Ormonde.

Without joy, Julian had taken himself off to his next stop—White's.

So it was, equally without joy, at White's he'd remained long past the midday repast and deep into the afternoon hours as they made their turn toward evening, well past his appointment at Brewster's and whatever reading he'd thought to accomplish in the Cheapside townhouse, holding an as-yet untasted tumbler of whiskey in his hand and a thought in his mind.

Nothing in his life was clicking into place.

Not since Tessa.

The life he'd led before her introduction into it no longer shrugged onto his shoulders like a well-worn, familiar coat.

It refused to fit.

Simply, she'd rendered his old life useless to him.

He considered the whiskey in his hand. He wouldn't be the first to quell an unsettled mind with spirits.

Still, he couldn't make himself bring the tumbler to his mouth.

Not yet, anyway.

So, he sat in this worn-in leather armchair and waited for the need to seek sweet, blessed relief to overwhelm him.

Word must've reached White's that Ormonde had taken to a foul and morose state of mind, for beyond the servers seeing to any needs or whims that struck his fancy, he hadn't been approached by a single, solitary lord.

No one knew what to do with an openly morose Marquess of Ormonde.

Himself included.

How long could one realistically contemplate the hue and viscosity of whiskey swirling inside a crystal tumbler, anyway?

Tessa was with child.

That was the long of it.

And the short of it.

And the everything in between.

Since she'd revealed the fact, he hadn't experienced a moment's peace. The reasons were myriad, but the main one—the one haunting his every moment, waking and sleeping—was that she'd absolved him of responsibility.

He snorted, no humor in it. She'd more than absolved him of responsibility. She'd determined—resolved—he would have none.

The fact kept battering him without cease.

My child will have no father, rather than that sort of father.

It was the last four words that wouldn't let up.

That sort of father…

Him.

He'd made a child with Tessa—and he would have no part of his or her life.

Inconceivable.

Yet…hadn't she been in the right?

His firmly held belief had long been that it would be wrong to sire a child, yet…this child would be with Tessa. How could a child with her be wrong?

That was the question that rattled long-held, firm beliefs apart.

Still, more plagued his mind—his reaction…his words…

I would've thought better of you than a marriage trap.

Even as they'd flown from his mouth, he'd known them to be altogether false. They bore no resemblance to what he truly thought in his mind—or felt in his heart. Pure reflex, borne of fear.

You're still that scrawny lad full of fear, aren't you?

She'd been right about that, too.

"Ah, Ormonde," came a jolly voice.

The Earl of Wrexford lowered himself into the chair opposite, the smile on his face as ever affable and pleasant. If there was a man in England who wouldn't notice the forbidding aura radiating from another man, it would be him. In the face of such persistent affability, Julian had no choice but to pull together the semblance of a smile and offer it in response. "Wrexford."

When a few ticks of time beat by and it became apparent that Julian would say no more, Wrexford forged straight in. "Word has it you recently attended a night's entertainment at Vauxhall Gardens in the company of some rather delightful ladies."

"Oh?"

Julian's memory of that night contained delight aplenty—painfully so—but nothing Wrexford would know anything about.

Wrexford uncrossed and recrossed his legs the other direction, looking as if he wouldn't mind loosening his cravat, too. "The company of the Calthorp sisters, that is."

Julian reacted before he could think, shoving forward in his chair, palms planted on the low table separating them. "If you think Lady Tessa would ever consider you?—"

Wrexford's brow crinkled with confusion and horror, and Julian understood two things at once: He'd got it wrong—and he'd been on the verge of making a fool of himself.

Neither of which was an unusual experience of late.

"Lady Tessa?" asked Wrexford, flummoxed.

Julian settled back into plush leather. "She is one of the sisters."

"True," said Wrexford, as if the fact had only now occurred to him. "But perhaps she's a little too…" A suitable adjective to describe Lady Tessa eluded him.

"Complex for your tastes?" provided Julian.

Wrexford's face brightened. "Precisely," he said, clouds dispelled. "Besides, I'm not sure how anyone would go about courting her."

"The usual way?" Julian's sense of umbrage was utterly unreasonable—and he cared not.

"Well, yes, I suppose so," laughed Wrexford. "But it might be difficult since she's moving."

"Ah," said Julian. "I knew of the possibility."

It sounded like the Ladies Saskia and Viveca had gotten their way and would have Sloane Street for their circulating library, after all—as if there had been any doubt.

"I suppose the sister of a duke should have a fashionable Mayfair address, anyway."

The edge of bitterness wouldn't keep out of Julian's voice. He'd rather liked the less fashionable Sloane Street address—fewer prying eyes. Now, that lost time had the faraway feel of a dream that grew fainter with every passing moment.

He considered the whiskey in his hand. What was keeping him from it, anyway? The reasons became less clear the farther from the dream he traveled.

"Mayfair?" asked Wrexford. The man must've spent three of every four minutes in a state of confoundment.

"Not Mayfair?" asked Julian, understanding he'd forfeited any right to know Tessa's whereabouts. "St. James's Square?"

Surprising, that. He wouldn't have thought Tessa willing to share a roof with her brother and his duchess. They were so newly wed as to be tolerable only in small doses—especially first thing in the morning across a breakfast table, for example.

Wrexford snorted. "Try the Continent."

Julian snapped to. "The Continent?"

"Rumor has it that now she's a lady, she has a great yearning to do the Grand Tour." Wrexford shrugged, helpless to confounding facts. "I suppose dressing like a lord has given her some lordly ideas." His brow creased with sudden distress. "Do you suppose the Ladies Saskia and Viveca harbor such notions?"

Julian didn't hesitate. "Yes." But he didn't want to talk about the Ladies Saskia and Viveca. "Where did you come by this rumor?"

Some sources of tattle were more reliable than others.

"Oh, the news has been bandied about every drawing room in London these last few days. Surprised you haven't heard."

Julian understood.

This was about the child—their child.

There are ways to avoid such a fate for a child.

Tessa's child wouldn't be a bastard.

She had a plan.

Julian felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

This wasn't right.

Tessa had accepted the reality of the situation and was pursuing a solution.

And what was he doing?

Wallowing.

Wallowing in the past…Wallowing in regret.

This was worse than not right.

This was wrong.

He'd been wrong.

And it came to him in a flash.

Relief wouldn't be found at the bottom of this whiskey tumbler. His father's life and death had taught him that much.

Whiskey was a cheap escape.

Life is a tougher challenge than that. Life demands that we make something of ourselves.

He set the whiskey down.

If he drank, there would be no turning back for him.

At last, it sank into him what Tessa had seen all along.

He was nothing like his father.

He never had been.

He never would be.

The relief he sought wouldn't be found in escape—not when Tessa was offering him her hand.

No one can free you from that snare but yourself.

Yes, his father's blood flowed through his veins, but that fact didn't condemn his soul—or his child's.

Set yourself free, Julian.

The time had arrived to seize life…To seize the life Clarissa had been denied…To seize the life his father had been too much of a coward to face.

He was alive.

And now he must live.

Before it was too late to have the only life that would make living worthwhile.

A life with Tessa…

If she would have him.