The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

“As you will, Percy, but if you change your mind, you must move quickly, for I intend to dispense with her favors upon my return to London.”

“Well, it is thoughtful of you to offer, March. But for the moment I and my pocketbook are quite content with less expensive pieces of enjoyment.”

They fell into silence once again, and Julien’s thoughts were drawn back to the years he’d spent learning to manage his vast estate after his father’s early and unexpected death in a hunting accident. And, of course, there had been his ever-complaining mother. It was with profound relief that he had installed her, according to her wishes, in a cozy house in Brook Street to spend her days and evenings with an assortment of dowagers in equally comfortable circumstances.

“I say, Julien, when do you go to St. Clair?”

Julien pulled himself out of his memories. “Tomorrow, I think. I will expect you and Hugh toward the end of the week.”

“And what kind of sport do you offer besides hunting and fishing?”

Julien looked down at Percy’s expectant face and said gently, “Fresh country air, Percy, nothing more. But it is exceedingly fresh.”

“That’s too bad of you, March. Surely you know that fresh air is bad for the lungs. All know that’s the case.”

“Of course, we shall enjoy François’s excellent cooking to maintain our spirits in the evenings.” Julien poked the head of his cane into Percy’s expanding stomach.

“A concession that meets my approval. Do you mind if I give François a recipe for cod with capers in black butter? My man is quite unable to get it just right.”

Julien laughed, picturing such a confrontation between Percy and his emotional, artistic chef. “You certainly may try, but be prepared for the most comprehensive of Gallic oaths. He really does them well, perhaps even better than some of his dishes.”

He reflected on François’s past tirades and added, “Perhaps you had best not, Percy, for I have known the good François to brandish his butcher knife with maniacal intentions. I remember a poor scullery maid who chanced to make a face when she ate one of his scones. She ran screaming for her life.”

Percy suddenly remembered his father’s constant harping on the instability of the French. He decided it best to forget any improvements in his cod and changed the subject abruptly. “I trust we will play at cards. I expect to lose a fortune to you, you know.”

“I keep telling you, Percy, be more careful with your discards. You stake too much on the chances of winning a big hand. It’s your head you must use, not that elusive entity you call intuition.”

Percy ignored this advice, for he’d heard it too many times before, and said with a good deal of satisfaction, “Well, I know that Hugh will put you in your place, for a better card player I have yet to find. Then we will see how well you practice your own advice.”

“You’re right. We shall see.” Julien grinned, his calm unruffled. “I just might prove you wrong this time. There will be nothing to disturb my concentration at St. Clair.”

Percy refused to be drawn, his thoughts turning again to the epicurean delights he would enjoy at Julien’s estate.

2

Julien’s journey to St. Clair occupied the better part of two days. As he tooled his curricle at a smart pace on his way north, with only his tiger, Bladen, for company, he felt again an unsettling restlessness that even the promise of excellent shooting and the thought of comfortable evenings spent with his friends did not lessen. A faint crease on his forehead was the only visible sign that anything disturbed the earl of March. Had Bladen seen his master’s face, he would have probably thought him displeased with a new hunter or perhaps with a wager lost at cards. But he did not have an opportunity for such speculation, for the earl kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, over the heads of his beautiful matched bays.

As Bladen handled the payment of tolls at the various stages, brooking no nonsense from the toll takers, Julien was left to his thoughts, undisturbed.