“Do you have an answer for everything?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered simply.
She arched her brows. “And must you control everything? Down to the ripeness of the strawberries?”
“Why not?”
The ability hadn’t come easy. When the rain had taken out that rotted bridge and killed everyone in the passing carriages, Julian had not been in control of anything at all. Not himself, not his grief, and not his suddenly upended life.
His uncle became guardian and left the ducal affairs in shambles. Whatever he did all day in his study had more to do with the cheap gin on the sideboard than the correspondence left in towering piles upon the floor. Uncle had loved Julian, had loved his dead brother, but had left that legacy in a shambles.
Julian vowed never to rely on those who “loved” him ever again.
Just because someone meant well did not mean it was good to have them in one’s life.
After learning the extent of his uncle’s mismanagement, Julian never returned to university. He was needed here. His school was the dukedom. He learned everything there was to know about every property, every tenant, every blade of grass. And he made it all blossom. There was always a right way, which Julian made his mission to find and implement at any cost.
His estate was wealthier than ever. The envy of all. A product of cold calculation and deliberate action.
So, yes. There was a reason for this precise ripeness of strawberries. Any riper, and they risked going soft in the warm air. Any less, and the tartness could overpower the sweetness or undercut the taste altogether.
There was a right way. Julian’s way. He left nothing to chance.
That was where he had gone wrong the day he lost his family. He had failed to predict the damage to the bridge in order to prevent disaster. On the other side of the coin, eight-year-old Julian’s stubborn insistence on being in charge of himself was what had ended up saving his life.
Control was a safety net against an unpredictable world.
Sometimes, the only dependable means of survival.
“But what about...” Miss Thorne took on a faraway expression, then motioned for a dubious footman to join them. “Could I just see how this trio of chairs would look closer to the dais?”
The footman froze. The lad did not need to look at Julian to know the answer to the question. The footman sent Miss Thorne a wide-eyed, quelling gaze and shook his head urgently before scurrying to retake his position by the champagne fountain.
Miss Thorne stared after him. “What a strange young man.”
And with that, she tucked her journal back into her reticule and leaned over to pick up the closest armchair herself.
An army of footmen materialized at her sides, blocking the path and coaxing her arms away from the freshly polished mahogany of the chair.
“What...” Miss Thorne sent a shocked look over her shoulder. “I cannot arrange things to see how they might look?”
“No changes,” Julian said sharply.
“How can anyone improve anything without making changes?” she burst out.
“No unnecessary changes,” he clarified.
“How will I know if they’re unnecessary unless I try them?” she demanded. “I wasn’t going to move the chairs permanently unless itwasan important change. But without seeing the difference—”
“This is the best location for these chairs.”
Miss Thorne made a noise in her throat as though debating tossing one of the perfectly placed chairs at his head. “Have you personally tested every possible angle and chair arrangement permutation in this ballroom?”
Julian raised his brows at his footmen.
“Yes, ma’am,” they explained earnestly. “Season Two was exhaustively dedicated to seating arrangements.”
“Type of chairs, quantity of chairs—”
