Page 42 of Marriage with a Proper Stranger

“The money. Where did it come from?” his father whispered, his tone clearly expressing his growing irritation and anger.

“It is mine.”

Julian stood and threw his glass of whiskey into the fire. The alcohol exploded in the flames. “I gave you the money, a mere taste of your inheritance, when you turned twenty-five because you had shown through word and deed that you were responsible, sober, and sensible. Apparently, I was wrong. I should have held the money in a trust as I did with Aidan’s.” His father began to pace. “I never had to worry about you, not one moment from the cradle onward. I trusted you. Believed in your judgment.” He stopped pacing and faced Riordan. “What a crushing disappointment to find that you are as vapid and stupid as your brother.”

“Julian, wait a moment—” the earl began.

“No, Father. This is between me and my son. Years ago, I agreed to stay here under the condition you never interfere with my dealings with my sons. Do not start now.” The earl’s mouth pulled into a taut line, but he said nothing. “Riordan, tell me why you’ve done this. What possessed you?” Julian cried.

He had never seen his father as livid and distressed as this. Throwing the glass into the fire was a rare show of emotion. Riordan placed his tumbler on the nearby table. “She had nowhere to turn. As you’re aware, women have no rights whatsoever. I wished to assist her. It is a good cause. You know all about it, Father.”

“And what if you are trapped with this woman for life? A woman older than you. What then?”

“It will not be a hardship,” Riordan murmured.

“God, he’s infatuated,” Garrett stated incredulously.

“Is this true?” Julian demanded.

“Yes. I hope to convince Sabrina to make the marriage permanent.”

“You should have informed me of this before acting. We discuss everything in this family, especially anything to do with our causes. You will be getting an annulment. I will brook no argument on this matter.” Julian kicked the nearby stool and charged from the room.

Riordan’s insides twisted and he clenched his jaw. His father had never spoken to him that way before. Vapid. Stupid. Crushing disappointment. The words were seared into his heart. He grabbed his nearby glass and tossed the rest of his whiskey down his throat, the burn no longer comforting.

* * * *

Julian strode angrily from the library, only stopping long enough to gather his greatcoat before heading outside. He would try and walk off the dangerous fury roiling inside him. The strong breeze whipped his long coat about his legs as the gravel crunched under his heavy tread. Damn it all. Riordan was the last one he expected to act as foolhardy as to marry a stranger, and gift her with a substantial sum besides.

Perhaps he’d drilled his passion for progressive causes into the boys a little too fervently. Not that any of it got through to Aidan. Julian huffed out an exasperated breath at the thought of his oldest son. A complete reprobate. A notorious rake. Thoughtless, selfish, and depraved. Reports about Aidan had recently come to his attention: tales of drunken orgies, itinerant and reckless gambling, and, even more worrying, visits to low class East End brothels to partake in opium.

It made it all the more urgent to find Aidan and bring him home. Opium could be his motivation for dropping out of sight. Julian shook his head. Blast both of his sons! Riordan should have spoken to him about his plan. He smiled grimly. Well, at least the lad did what he believed was the right thing. The noble thing. Though such notions always paved the road to perdition.

He shook his head a second time. Was his uncharacteristic outburst truly about Riordan, or was it more about Aidan? Yes, he had taken his temper out on the wrong son. Perhaps it was a mercy Fiona could not witness what a thorough and botched job he had done raising their twins.

A sharp pain squeezed his heart at the thought of his late wife. She had been dead more than twenty years, and still the loss and heartache lingered. As much as he tried to bury his emotions, he was a passionate man. No one else had touched his heart since Fiona. Perhaps no one ever would. He was better off. His father agreed and lived his life the same way.

A parade of women, enough to satisfy certain carnal urges, and sufficient reforms to be worked and completed would keep him well occupied until the grave. Yet a part of him was…empty.

Julian rounded the corner at the rear of the hall. Not far from the servants’ entrance was a kitchen herb garden, along with a patch of brown mushrooms—Julian’s favorite. He’d brought them from France on one of his many trips, carefully and lovingly tended them, and instructed the cook that they be fried in red wine and served with his beefsteak. But there in the middle of the cluster of mushrooms sat a hedgehog, happily munching away on Julian’s prized fungi. “Blasted pest,” Julian growled. The hedgehog must have heard his dangerous tone, for it immediately curled into a ball to protect itself from retribution.

“Don’t you hurt my Daisy!”

Julian turned and faced the source of the loud cry. A giant of a young man lumbered toward him. Hell, the man was nearly as tall as Garrett. He wore muddy trousers and his shirt hung loose on his left side. What struck Julian was the angelic, beautiful face. Perfect symmetrical features any human, man or woman, would desire to possess. Or perhaps just simply desire.

The young man plundered through the mushrooms and scooped up the hedgehog, cradling it close to his chest. “There, Daisy. I found you. No one will hurt you,” he murmured gently to the trembling creature.

“Do you mind? You are trampling my mushrooms,” Julian snapped.

The young man looked up at him and blinked, as if not comprehending what had been said to him. Ah. Julian realized the man was simple of mind. To look like Adonis yet possess the mind of a child…what a tragedy. But he supposed it was all a matter of perception. Banking his temper, he said in a friendly tone, “Could you please not step on the plants?”

The man looked down at his booted feet. “Oh. All right.” He turned to leave.

“Wait. What is your name? Do you live nearby?”

The Adonis continued to cuddle the hedgehog as close as one could with a prickly animal. “Jonas. I live over there.” He pointed across the vast expanse of the estate, toward where Sir Walter Keenan had resided. The new owner must have taken possession. What had Garrett said? A widowed niece of Sir Walter. Who was this fellow?

Julian stepped forward and held out his hand. “I am Julian Wollstonecraft.” Jonas glanced at the hand, then looked away. “Take it, lad, and shake. I won’t hurt you…or Daisy. You have my word.”