Page 135 of The Language of Love

Chapter 23

Henry was expecting Julia to flex her muscles the only way she knew how: by making him wait.

But she showed up exactly on time.

He stood up as she entered. “Please have a seat, Julia.”

It was difficult not to look at her, even though he despised her. Objectively, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She might be even more lovely at thirty-six than she’d been at sixteen. Her body was voluptuous, and the few lines around her eyes added a certain texture to her perfect face.

But, unlike twenty years ago, when she’d made him as hard as a poker just by existing, she now left him cold.

Now he liked eyes that were a paler shade of blue, hair that was like corn silk rather than spun gold. And a smile that was genuine rather than one that mocked and teased and taunted.

She opened her mouth—no doubt to utter something either confusing, obfuscating, or ensnaring.

Henry cut her off before she could get started. “The first matter I’d like to discuss is the party you’ve undertaken to arrange.”

Only a flicker of irritation, as swift as—well, a swift—flew across her face. “I spoke with Annis yesterday and told her July twenty-seventh would be best. Will that serve?” Her expression said her question was a mere formality.

“No.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“We can have the party on August fifth and roll it into the usual celebration.”

“You wish to host a St. Oswald celebration this year?” She appeared more than annoyed. She looked… worried?

Henry watched her more closely, his senses tingling. “You sound unhappy with that idea.”

“No, no, not at all,” she said hastily. “It’s just that we’ve not done so for the past two years, nor have you mentioned it since your return. I thought you’d dispensed with the somewhat fatiguing ritual.”

“It would have been difficult to host a party since Charles’s death considering you didn’t have an Earl of Rotherhithe—nor a key for the relics.” He smiled. “As for the event being fatiguing? Well, fortunately for you, my wife will be here this year, so you shan’t need to fatigue yourself.”

“Yes, quite,” she said tightly. “So, you will also host a viewing, then?”

“Naturally. It is the duty of the current earl to share the bounty of the Lord with his people, after all.”

For the first time ever, Julia looked uncertain. “I did not think you were especially religious.”

“But then you don’t know me, do you?”

She smiled and lowered her eyelashes in a way that would have charmed him, once. “I used to know you quite well indeed, Henry.”

It was a struggle not to laugh at that. “You knew a sixteen-year-old boy, Julia.”

Her lips curved into a condescending, superior smile. “Ah, I can see you still bear a grudge.”

“You think this is me bearing a grudge?” Henry did laugh this time. “Oh, darling, trust me—when I bear a grudge, you will feel it most keenly.”

“Thank you for the warning, dear Henry. But don’t you think we should bring the subject of that night—your last night at Stoke and the trick we played on you—into the light and have done with the matter?”

Henry stared into her perfect blue eyes and saw no shame and no regret. He knew with certainty that she’d rarely, if ever, thought about his last night at Stoke. Indeed, he doubted that she’d thought about him at all. At least not until her husband died without an heir and Henry arrived back in her life, rich and in control of her future. He suspected that for the last two years, she’d thought about him a great deal.

For Henry, that last night was a wound that had never healed; it was a sore he prodded and poked and kept raw, year after year. And she wanted to bring that subject out into the light and be done with it?

The last thing he intended was to expose a raw wound to the woman across from him. The only thing such a conversation would do was afford her amusement.

“I have no intention of discussing that evening now, or ever, my dear Julia.”