miserable."
"Thank
you, my lord." She mustered a game smile.
For
the rest of the day that crooked smile tugged at something inside him.
Something
surprisingly soft and tender.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The
years had not been kind to Julian, Simon decided, studying him over the rim of
his glass and recalling the youthful dedication his former colleague had
demonstrated on the Peninsula. Lines of dissipation marred his bold, dark features,
and a haunted look inhabited the deep-set eyes. Simon had seen that look in the
faces of wounded soldiers who no longer cared whether they lived or died. He
never thought to see it in Julian LeFevre, who had seemed immune to the
frailties that beset lesser men.
When
Simon had assumed the title, he discovered that he and Julian were distant
relatives. The late Lady Sommersby had been a cousin of Julian’s mother, a member
of the French nobility whose family lost everything during the Terror. After
Julian’s mother died, his English father, the Duke of Claridge, showed little
interest in the result of his hasty foreign marriage. Lady Sommersby had taken
pity on Julian and invited the lad to stay at Sommersby for a summer.
Recently,
Julian had sent Simon a letter requesting permission to visit the castle. He
offered no explanation for his sudden interest, but Julian had never been one
to provide explanations.
"I
congratulate you on your betrothal, Simon." Julian lifted his glass.
"No man of my acquaintance is more deserving of marital bliss, although I
will wager it is not a love match."
Simon
was taken aback. "Why do you say that?"
"Simple.
I have never known you to put personal satisfaction above duty." A smile
spread across features many would have called cruel.
“Cannot
a man have both?” Simon rejoined lightly. Damned if he wasn’t weary of fielding
queries about his nuptials. Miss Fitzhugh was clearly motivated by concern for
her cousin’s welfare, but Julian’s interest was hard to fathom.
"Certainly.
And you will, because you believe duty and personal happiness go hand in hand,”
Julian said. “I am willing to stake my life on the fact that you have chosen
your future countess as carefully as you mapped any battle plan and that you
will do your duty to the family line by having a heir running amok in the
castle in a year or so."
Simon
stiffened. Julian had come unerringly close to the truth. "The breeding
possibilities of the future countess are not open for discussion," he
said.
"The
truth is, I have always envied you, Simon. You never veer from the righteous path,
nor do you question your duty. You inherit an earldom, and six months later you
have assured your family's future.”
Julian
shrugged. “Whereas I inherit a dukedom and cannot find any use for females
except the usual ones — and those do not include bearing my sons. The last
thing in the world I wish to do is perpetuate a line like mine."
Draining
his glass, Simon contemplated the other man. Men of Julian's stripe made him
uneasy, because they lived without the iron controls and discipline that had served
as Simon’s compass since youth. Julian was reputed to possess unquenchable
thirsts for wine, women, gambling, and any activity that involved unbridled
pleasure. Noted for his exploits with the female sex, he exuded an arrogance
that demanded constant female adoration. Simon did not understand such a need.
But
for all Julian’s excesses, he had been of great service to his country during
the war, something few knew. With his knowledge of the French language and
culture, he had been invaluable behind the lines and at Waterloo. In the world
of women he took without apology, but in the world of men he gave unstintingly and
fearlessly of himself. He seemed not to fear death, perhaps because he had exhaustively
sampled life and found it wanting.
Simon
wondered what had left Julian so cynical and why the arms of death had been
easier to face than those of any wife. But he never pressed the
"Thank
you, my lord." She mustered a game smile.
For
the rest of the day that crooked smile tugged at something inside him.
Something
surprisingly soft and tender.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The
years had not been kind to Julian, Simon decided, studying him over the rim of
his glass and recalling the youthful dedication his former colleague had
demonstrated on the Peninsula. Lines of dissipation marred his bold, dark features,
and a haunted look inhabited the deep-set eyes. Simon had seen that look in the
faces of wounded soldiers who no longer cared whether they lived or died. He
never thought to see it in Julian LeFevre, who had seemed immune to the
frailties that beset lesser men.
When
Simon had assumed the title, he discovered that he and Julian were distant
relatives. The late Lady Sommersby had been a cousin of Julian’s mother, a member
of the French nobility whose family lost everything during the Terror. After
Julian’s mother died, his English father, the Duke of Claridge, showed little
interest in the result of his hasty foreign marriage. Lady Sommersby had taken
pity on Julian and invited the lad to stay at Sommersby for a summer.
Recently,
Julian had sent Simon a letter requesting permission to visit the castle. He
offered no explanation for his sudden interest, but Julian had never been one
to provide explanations.
"I
congratulate you on your betrothal, Simon." Julian lifted his glass.
"No man of my acquaintance is more deserving of marital bliss, although I
will wager it is not a love match."
Simon
was taken aback. "Why do you say that?"
"Simple.
I have never known you to put personal satisfaction above duty." A smile
spread across features many would have called cruel.
“Cannot
a man have both?” Simon rejoined lightly. Damned if he wasn’t weary of fielding
queries about his nuptials. Miss Fitzhugh was clearly motivated by concern for
her cousin’s welfare, but Julian’s interest was hard to fathom.
"Certainly.
And you will, because you believe duty and personal happiness go hand in hand,”
Julian said. “I am willing to stake my life on the fact that you have chosen
your future countess as carefully as you mapped any battle plan and that you
will do your duty to the family line by having a heir running amok in the
castle in a year or so."
Simon
stiffened. Julian had come unerringly close to the truth. "The breeding
possibilities of the future countess are not open for discussion," he
said.
"The
truth is, I have always envied you, Simon. You never veer from the righteous path,
nor do you question your duty. You inherit an earldom, and six months later you
have assured your family's future.”
Julian
shrugged. “Whereas I inherit a dukedom and cannot find any use for females
except the usual ones — and those do not include bearing my sons. The last
thing in the world I wish to do is perpetuate a line like mine."
Draining
his glass, Simon contemplated the other man. Men of Julian's stripe made him
uneasy, because they lived without the iron controls and discipline that had served
as Simon’s compass since youth. Julian was reputed to possess unquenchable
thirsts for wine, women, gambling, and any activity that involved unbridled
pleasure. Noted for his exploits with the female sex, he exuded an arrogance
that demanded constant female adoration. Simon did not understand such a need.
But
for all Julian’s excesses, he had been of great service to his country during
the war, something few knew. With his knowledge of the French language and
culture, he had been invaluable behind the lines and at Waterloo. In the world
of women he took without apology, but in the world of men he gave unstintingly and
fearlessly of himself. He seemed not to fear death, perhaps because he had exhaustively
sampled life and found it wanting.
Simon
wondered what had left Julian so cynical and why the arms of death had been
easier to face than those of any wife. But he never pressed the
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