“Of course, Mr. Medlock,” Courtenay agreed, and it felt right that the first words he uttered in this house—his house—after so long should be to this man.
“What the devil was going on in there?” Julian muttered as soon as they were back in the carriage, finally heading away from Carrington Hall. “You hardly spoke. I was expecting an onslaught of your usual charm but instead you were as meek as a kitten.”
“I’m perhaps not at my best around my mother,” Courtenay said with a weak smile.
“Well, no. I can’t imagine you would be. One usually expects one’s mother to at least feign affection. That woman’s like Lady Macbeth.” This earned a faint laugh from Courtenay. Julian shook his head. “I’ve never seen you like that.” But as soon as Julian spoke he realized he was wrong. He had seen Courtenay meek and undemanding once before, and it had been in Courtenay’s bed, when the man had been unwilling to ask Julian for the care he so plainly required. No—that he so plainly craved. Courtenay wanted affection and kindness and warmth, but didn’t want to ask for them. Julian let a thought creep to the forefront of his mind, a thought that he’d been doing his best to ignore and deny: he wanted to give Courtenay all those things and more. He wouldn’t, of course, because that would mean giving Courtenay access to all his hidden vulnerabilities, and he didn’t think he could live with that.
Impulsively, he reached out and grabbed Courtenay’s hand, squeezing it once before releasing it. “At any rate,” Julian said hastily, “I understand why you don’t like being called by your Christian name. The way she says it makes it sound like something a witch would whisper over her cauldron.Jeremiah.It gives me the shivers.”
Courtenay was silent a moment. “As soon as I inherited, everyone called me Courtenay. Even Isabella. It was a relief.”
“I should damned well think it would be. Is there an inn nearby?” Julian asked, striving for a normal tone. “I’m half starved.”
Courtenay’s infernal mother had made things as difficult as possible, insisting that her husband be present, and then pretending to forget what she had agreed to mere minutes previously. But Julian had finally gotten her to understand that she was to leave Carrington Hall in June, along with her husband and stepchildren, for a perfectly reasonable, although significantly less grand, house in Bath.
Now Julian’s stomach was growling. For the sake of appearances, he had only had a single tea cake, not wanting to look ravenous during negotiations. He had taken a diffident nibble of the cake, then turned directly to Courtenay and congratulated him on the proficiency of the cook whose wages he paid. Courtenay had nearly spit out his tea and Julian had been quite satisfied with himself.
Really, Julian was all around satisfied with himself today. A few times during the afternoon, he had caught Courtenay looking at him with something like wonder, maybe even gratitude, as if he had never seen anyone half so clever. Courtenay’s opinion on Julian’s cleverness really shouldn’t have mattered. Julian already knew he was clever. But knowing Courtenay thought so too—knowing that Courtenay thought anything good about him at all—made him almost giddy. Besides, he enjoyed the sense of coming to Courtenay’s defense. It seemed that nobody else had for a good while.
He tried to remind himself that he was only helping Courtenay because Eleanor required it. But he couldn’t quite keep up the pretense. He was helping Courtenay because he cared about the man, damn it. And maybe because he owed him after that blasted book had caused him such trouble.
“What was your father like, Courtenay?” Julian asked after they had settled into a table in the private parlor of the tavern Courtenay had indicated. “I take it he was bewitched by your mother’s looks, but that can happen to the best of men. Was he terrible as well?”
Courtenay stared into his ale—thus far untouched, Julian noticed—for a moment before smiling slightly. “You might think so. I honestly don’t know. He died around the time I was sent down from university, you know.” He flicked a glance across the table, and Julian remembered that Courtenay had been made to feel responsible for his father’s death. “He was disappointed in his children. And he wasn’t shy about letting us know about it.”
Julian pursed his lips. “Hmph,” he sniffed. “That ended in the usual fashion. One child dead, one married to that sapskull in Somerset—I looked her up in the peerage, and if she’s married to who I think she is then I sincerely doubt it was a love match, so I have to assume she married the first eligible soul to offer so she could get out from under your father’s thumb—and one—”
“A washed-up dissolute?”
“No,” Julian retorted. He hated the way Courtenay was looking at him now, like a criminal in the dock waiting for a guilty verdict. “One is a self-pitying, self-censuring dilettante with no sense of his own worth.” That sounded too warm, so he added, “And who is execrably bad at maths.”
“I’ll grant you that last bit,” Courtenay said, cracking a smile. He swirled the ale in his mug.
“I’m surprised you didn’t harangue your mother about the state of the village.”
Courtenay looked up, his brow furrowed. “I don’t follow.”
“For a man who has such concerns about the plight of the poor—and I’m not disagreeing with you, so save your argument for people who need it—your own tenants could be doing better. Every cottage we passed needed a new roof, and there was at least one footbridge that had collapsed. And those are only the things one can see from the road.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Courtenay murmured, sounding troubled.
“It’s a good thing you’re to take the property in hand.”
“I hadn’t planned on it. But yes, I daresay I will.” He spoke slowly, as if realizing the import of what he was saying only as he spoke. “I daresay I will,” he repeated. Then he absently lifted the mug of ale to his mouth before quickly putting it back on the table.
“Order tea for God’s sake. You’ll be taken ill if you don’t have anything to drink, and we both know you’re not going to drink that ale.” Courtenay froze, and Julian realized he had spoken too freely. Damn it. “Or do what you please,” Julian added with belated nonchalance.
“No, you’re right,” Courtenay said. “I’m not going to drink it.”
He had better stop buying the stuff, then, but Julian wasn’t going to be the one to point that out. “It’s damned hard, what you’re doing. There was no getting between my father and the bottle. What you’re doing... I admire it.”
“Well,” Courtenay said. “I see.” He looked bashful, as if he had been issued a compliment rather than told a basic truth. “Your father...” His voice trailed off, as if he weren’t sure he ought to ask. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t.
“Hasn’t Eleanor told you?” Julian asked, pushing his own mug of ale to the center of the table beside Courtenay’s. “Our father was a sot. Useless. Stupid. And he knew that because his father told him so. Left the business to me, even though I wasn’t of age, bypassing my father. He died shortly after.” Julian had no fond memories of his father but couldn’t help but wonder if his father’s vices were driven by his own father’s scorn, and what he might have become with a bit less criticism and a bit more kindness.
“How old were you when your grandfather died and you took over? I’ve done the sums in my head but I can’t make you out to have been anything more than a child.”
“Sixteen.”
