“She’s made me the scapegoat for as long as I remember,” Julian said. “Why do you think I left home?”
Aragon stared fixedly at him as if trying to solve a mathematical equation.
Julian rose to his feet and headed for the door. “Good night, Aragon.”
His brother strode toward him and then stopped. “Wait. I haven’t told you what I came for yet.”
Julian repressed a sigh. “If it has to do with Lady Carenza, I am not interested.”
“I’ve invited her and her sister to a picnic in the park.”
“I’m sure you’ll have a delightful time.”
“You have to come.” Aragon looked pleadingly at him.
“Did you not listen to a single word I just said to you?” Julian demanded.
“Not really.” Aragon shrugged. “Things go in one ear and out the other.”
Julian opened the door. “Good night, Aragon.”
His brother made the mistake of stepping to one side, which allowed Julian to close the door in his face. He had no regrets in doing so and hoped Aragon was finally beginning to understand that he refused to be a go-between who incurred everyone’s wrath.
The peace and resolution he’d reached during his bath had deserted him. He’d been too honest with Aragon. He’d probably go home and tell their mother everything Julian had said, which never went well.
He returned to the bath and stuck a finger in the water. It was tepid. It was too late to expect his staff to lug more hot water up the stairs, so he might as well go to bed.
He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to tell Aragon how he felt about being the unloved middle child. To his brother, it was just the way things were and thus not worth questioning. And why Aragon was still interested in Carenza, who had given him no encouragement, was a thing of mystery. Perhaps his brother really was beginning to chafe at their mother’s leading strings.
He got into bed and blew out the candle. There was still some light from the streetlamp, but his house was relatively quiet for Mayfair. The scent of the burned-out candlewick drifted across him and he closed his eyes. Carenza would never entertain an offer of marriage from Aragon. Julian was certain about that. But his brother’s courtship would prevent other men from pursuing her as well.
He opened his eyes. Even if Carenza currently believed she had no wish to marry again, should he be preventing her from exploring that option? She saw him as a dalliance to provide for her physical needs, but at some point, surely, she would want more. She wasn’t the kind of woman who should remain alone for the rest of her life. Surely Hector hadn’t done that much damage.
But if she couldn’t have children, many gentlemen wouldn’t want to marry her. However, someone like Lord Atworth already had several and would probably be content …
“Damn and blast it!” Julian, now fully awake again, swore into the darkness. “This cannot continue!”
He had plans—long-term plans, to be fair—that included the interesting Miss Cartwright. She was a woman he admired immensely and who, so far, seemed immune to his charms. But patience and persistence were part of his nature, and he had no doubt of his ability to win her over. At present, Miss Cartwright saw him as just another nobleman frittering away his time with a fashionable cause, but he would show her his worth and dedication if it took years.
Julian sat up and checked his pocket watch that sat beside his bed. It was barely twenty minutes since his brother had left, and all Julian’s desire to sleep had gone with him. He’d never been the kind of man who failed to get a good night’s rest, and he wasn’t going to start now.
He resolutely lay down again and closed his eyes. He had a meeting with the board of supervisors for the orphans in two days’ time. He was due to give a speech and would need his wits about him.
Work would give him an excuse to avoid Carenza for a few days, which would be good for him—and for her.
CHAPTER9
“I’ve sorted this morning’s post, sir.” Simon placed several stacks of letters on Julian’s desk. “But there is one letter that I’d like to bring to your immediate attention.”
Julian held out his hand, but his secretary hesitated to pass the letter over. “Is it that bad?”
“I’m not sure. Shall I read it out to you?”
“If you must, but I am capable of reading my own correspondence. Who’s it from?”
“Mr. Cox.”
“Who?”
