Page 62 of To Marry and to Meddle
“Emily and I had an understanding when we decided to wed,” he said. “We knew that we could each be of use to the other, and she understands that fact perfectly well.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he paused to consider them. Theyhadhad an understanding—one which did not include Emily being involved at the theater in any meaningful way, beyond putting in an appearance at a show on occasion.
So why was she there? Because she had asked, of course—but that begged the question: why had he acquiesced? She had been determined, to be sure, but Julian had overseen the running of a business for nearly a decade. He knew how to say no.
Except to her.
He voiced none of these unsettling thoughts to Bridgeworth, however; instead, he merely added, “We are experiencing a—a difference of opinion, at the moment, but she’ll come to see things from my point of view soon enough.”
“Is it worth it?” Bridgeworth asked abruptly, leaning forward torest his elbows on his knees. “Living your life like this? Trying to turn yourself into something you’re not?”
“I’m not doing anything of the sort,” Julian said, feeling his hackles rising, trying not to let his temper get the better of him. “I’m merely trying to make a success of something I’ve dedicated almost ten years of my life to.”
“It’salreadya success,” Bridgeworth said, exasperated. “You sell out shows routinely. Most men I know frequent the Belfry on a regular basis.”
“But not—”
“But not their wives, I know,” Bridgeworth said, waving a hand. “And yet I believeyourwife has suggested a plan that, were I to judge, would result in many of those wives flocking to your doors.”
“And then never returning again.”
“Most of them, undoubtedly not,” Bridgeworth agreed. “But some would. And furthermore, who the hell cares? You’re making money hand over fist. Why are you so fixated on changing course?”
“Because I’m going to bloody well show thetonwhat I can do,” Julian said tersely.
“Theton, or your father?” Bridgeworth said the words calmly, without emotion in his voice, but Julian felt each one like a physical blow.
“My father has nothing to do with this,” Julian said quietly.
“I think he has everything to do with this,” Bridgeworth said flatly. “Belfry, I’ve known you for nearly fifteen years—if you think you can fool me, you’re mad.”
Julian pushed his chair back, all at once fed up with everything to do with this conversation. “For the sake of that fifteen-year friendship, I won’t tell you to bugger off, which I badly wish to do at the moment,” he said. “But I’m going home.”
“Consider what I’ve said,” Bridgeworth called, as Julian began to walk away. “And think about who you’re really doing this for—and at what cost.”
Bridgeworth’s words echoed in Julian’s mind the entire walk home. He’d taken his curricle when he set out that afternoon, but had sent his groom home without him, preferring a bit of exercise and fresh air to clear his head. It was not a terribly great distance back to Duke Street, however, and Julian found that by the time he arrived home, he’d not managed to make much progress with the mire of his thoughts.
Upon his return, he noted the ostentatious carriage parked in the street, and realized that, given the hour, Emily must be entertaining afternoon callers. He briefly considered continuing on his way, but decided that if he was going to ask her to play nicely with these ladies, the least he could do was put in an appearance, a show of support.
Bracing himself for an awful lot of chatter about so-and-so’s new hat, he walked up the steps, a footman opening the door as he did so. He handed off his hat and gloves to Bramble and winced at the sound of a shrill giggle emanating from the drawing room. He set off down the hall, pausing to listen in the doorway for a moment.
“… my duty to repay your call, of course,” came a voice that sounded vaguely familiar—no doubt a lady he’d been introduced to at some point in the past, the memory quickly wiped from his brain owing to its insignificance.
“That was very kind of you, Lady Cunninge,” Emily said, and the name dimly registered with Julian, who was certain that he had indeed met this lady before. There was nothing in Emily’s tone that shouldhave given him cause for alarm, and yet he felt a chill course through him nonetheless, for no reason that he could fully discern.
“After your dear mama’s many years of loyal friendship, it was the least I could do.” The speaker—Lady Cunninge—heaved a dramatic sigh. “It no doubt must pain her to see her daughter in such circumstances, but I suppose she had no choice but to accept the matter as settled, when you snuck off the way you did.”
“I do not believe that is entirely correct, ma’am,” Emily said, and her tone was still perfectly polite. Julian paused for a moment, fully appreciating the skill that she had—something he had always been aware of, of course, but which he had perhaps not acknowledged as being as impressive as it was. Half the reason he had married her was for this ability of hers—to be polite above all else, to smile sweetly no matter what was said to her, to somehow keep herself above the fray, golden and lovely and untouched.
And yet, in this instant, he hated it—hated that she should be forced to make use of this skill, to speak politely to a lady who clearly bore her no goodwill.
“I was fortunate enough to be able to accompany my dearest friends to a house party, in the company of a chaperone of such impeccable reputation that I need not even ask if you are questioning her suitability.”
Julian bit back a grin at this—indeed, no one would dare question anything about the Dowager Marchioness of Willingham, for fear of being on the receiving end of her famously fierce tongue, but he himself had grave doubts about her suitability as a chaperone. Not, of course, that he was complaining.
“Lord Julian and I realized our mutual regard whilst at Lord Willingham’s house party,” Emily continued, “and simply could not waitanother moment to be wed, now that our feelings were known. I’m afraid there is nothing more interesting to the tale than that, my lady.”
“Of course,” Lady Cunninge cooed. “And Lord Julian must have been most curious to marry his new bride, to see what, precisely, all that time spent in Mr. Cartham’s company added up to.”
Anger pushed Julian into motion, his feet moving seemingly of their own accord, his hand wrenching open the drawing room door. He felt curiously out of control, as though he were not truly the master of his own behavior—and he didn’t like the sensation one bit. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that this harpy had just insulted his wife, in his home, and he’d be damned if he was going to let this woman sit here drinking his tea and eating his food a moment longer.
