“As if you would know,” the vicar said with a look that Julian had been receiving from this man since he was twelve and which had never once failed to find its mark.
“She was all but left at the altar,” Julian said, “by a man who chose family ambition over her. You may have heard something of it.”
“That does remind me of someone else in this room,” the vicar said mildly, “and I do not speak of myself.”
“I was not left at the altar,” Julian said.
“No,” the vicar agreed, “but close enough. It seems that you and Lady Clara have rather more in common than a shared concern for Arabella.” He picked up his cup again. “And you speak very highly of her.”
“She deserves to be spoken highly of.”
“Indeed.” The vicar looked at him over the rim of his cup. “And this marriage is to be a genuine one, is it? Or merely another item on the list of things that are not precisely false but reward close examination rather less than they might?”
Julian was quiet for a moment. “It will be a genuine marriage in every legal sense. What it becomes beyond that will be Clara’s decision. If she wishes to remain married once all of this is resolved, we will be married. If she wishes to dissolve the arrangement, I will ensure that she is provided for and that she suffers no further damage to her reputation. I will take all responsibility for the breakdown of the marriage publicly, but that will be her choice to make, not mine.”
The vicar studied him for a long moment.
Then he sighed deeply, removed the cloth from his burned finger, and looked at it.
“Very well,” he said. “Obtain a special license. It will allow you to marry without the banns being read, so you may proceed as quickly as possible.” He pointed the injured finger at Julian. “And you did not hear any of this from me. As far as I am concerned, I am simply marrying a duke and his wife in the usual fashion.”
Julian rose. “Thank you, Vicar.”
“Do not thank me,” the old man said, rising also. “Simply find Arabella and bring her home.”
“That,” Julian said, “I intend to do.”
He collected his hat from the peg by the door, nodded once to the old man, and walked back out into the morning.
CHAPTER 13
The manor house was huge but largely devoid of life. They had arrived in the late afternoon the previous day, and after a fitful night at the inn, Clara had taken her dinner early in her chamber and gone to sleep. Now it was morning. Julian, she had been told, had gone out to tend to some business with the vicar.
The moon was still disappearing in the distance behind slivers of clouds. The estate stretched before her, all green and lush with a forest in the distance. The sea was nearby. she’d seen it as they drove in, but she could not see it now.
From the cradle, David cried, and she quickly picked him up. The second she did, two things happened. The crying ceased, and the smell of his nappy’s contents filled the air. She ruffled her nose and shook her head. “We can’t have that, can we?”
She swiftly set about changing him, and he laughed at her as she did.
“You laugh like your dear mama,” she said. “Arabella has a laugh that is like a bell on a sunny, clear day. I hope one day you get to hear it.” She examined the baby after she was done and noticed the hint of cheek dimples. “Julian has dimples when he laughs,” she said the words quietly before realizing.
When exactly had she realized that he had chin dimples? And why did that even matter?
She shook her head. She’d been in his proximity too long, clearly. It was well known that Julian was a charming man. Some might even say he approached the territory of a rake. Yet, at the same time, he had always been well respected in the Lords. He was one of the youngest peers of the realm, and yet he commanded attention when he spoke. She thought back to a few years ago when she and Arabella had watched one of his speeches.
It had been on a topic most boring. Something related to wheat taxation. In fact, she’d dreaded going and had attended only because Arabella promised ices from McGunnery’s afterwards, and a girl never said no to ices from McGunnery’s.
However, once she’d listened to his speech—which he had opened with a joke—for a mere two minutes, she’d been enraptured. He had captivated the audience with such ease that there was no denying his charisma. She wasn’t sure if he had succeeded with his point, but in any case, he had convinced her he was a true parliamentarian.
He exuded grace and confidence.
At least on the outside.
She had seen him vulnerable before but never as much as these last few days, never as much as when he spoke of Arabella and the guilt her disappearance had instilled in him. She understood. She felt the same.
Had she not wallowed in her misery in Scotland so long, she might have noticed something was amiss with her friend.
But she had wallowed, and she had missed it.
