That Perfect Someone

by Johanna Lindsey

  Milton wasn’t going to let Richard slip through his fingers again. If the boy couldn’t be made to see reason, by God, he was going to take steps to make sure he would. Nine years of penury the boy had to make up for. Nine years of impotent frustration because Milton could no longer afford the few things in life that gave him pleasure.

  So he reminded Abel, “Men get sent there for lesser crimes, don’t they?”

  Abel shrugged. “Our prisons are overflowing, and convict labor is free labor, after all. Australia needs a lot of workers if we’re going to turn it into a promising new colony for the crown. There’s still nothing there except penal colonies, and no way to escape from them. The only ships that arrive are more convict ships. A man really has no hope if he’s sent there.”

  Milton smiled to himself. “Yes, rather harsh, but probably the only thing that will reform this rebel—as long as Richard’s release can be arranged as soon as he’s ready to meet his obligations. Can that be arranged?”

  “Anything can be arranged,” Abel said a bit uncomfortably.

  Milton frowned at the man’s apparent unease. Was he being a bit too cold and uncaring even for a commoner like Cantel? Was it not obvious that Richard deserved it? Cantel only had to look around him at the appalling condition of Willow Woods to see the damage Richard had done to his own family.

  “Let’s see what he has to say for himself first. If he’s ready to conform and help this family instead of hurting it, then he can be forgiven. Wake him up,” Milton told Olaf.

  Olaf’s interpretation of that was a hard kick to Richard’s side. Abel turned away. Milton glared at the big oaf.

  “Some water or smelling salts, you fool.”

  “Don’t see any,” Olaf said.

  “Not—necessary,” Richard groaned, then added, “What the hell?” when he realized he had to struggle to get up, that his arms were bound behind him.

  He’d known this could be the outcome when Olaf had kicked his door in—the dumb giant hadn’t even checked to see that it wasn’t locked. Richard had been alone in the room eating the dinner that Ohr had sent up along with a message that he was going to be detained—by the barmaid in the tavern next door.

  Richard had recognized Olaf instantly, one of the three strong-arms Milton had hired when Richard had got too big for the switch. The last memory he had of Willow Woods had been of his father demanding he cut his hair, which had barely reached his shoulders. He’d refused, of course, even knowing he’d be punished for it. But he and his father were at a complete war of wills by then. So Milton had ordered his brutes to cut Richard’s hair for him, and they’d dragged him out of his bed from a sound sleep, tied him to a chair, and practically scalped him. God, the impotent rage he’d felt. He’d left for London that very night and never looked back.

  Richard was actually fiercely glad to see Olaf standing there over the broken door, didn’t even wonder yet what the brute was doing there. Revenge was all Richard could think of.

  Olaf was still much bigger, a damned giant, but he was stupid, and Richard wasn’t a boy anymore. But he didn’t even have a few moments to savor the thought of beating the hell out of Olaf before five other men crowded in around him, and all six of them charged Richard and wrestled him to the floor. He was overpowered by sheer numbers. They didn’t need to knock him out as well, but one of them did.

  Now, in his father’s study, Richard finally managed to get to his feet. Straining to free his hands proved futile, and so was the glare he gave his father. How did this happen? He’d been so sure no one in the area had recognized him, but obviously someone had and had run straightaway to the earl with news of the sighting.

  He and Ohr shouldn’t even have been there for this to happen! The cautious plan would have been to leave and find an inn closer to London for the night, a long distance from Willow Woods. But he’d been toying with the idea of trying to catch Charles on the road in the morning, so he could meet his nephew before he left England once and for all.

  Milton hadn’t changed much at all. His hair was maybe a little lighter shade of brown, his blue eyes were just as cold, and only a little sagging to his jowls marked the passing of the years. But Milton hadn’t even looked him in the eye yet. He was staring in disgust at the long hair that fell over Richard’s shoulders.

  “My God, it’s even longer than I thought. You look like a bloody beggar who can’t afford a haircut,” Milton said, then ordered his brute, “Get rid of that.”

  Richard turned to the bigger man and calmly told him, “Try it and I’ll kill you this time.”

  Olaf merely laughed, but Milton shook his head and said, “Never mind. It’s obvious he’s going to be just as defiant as he ever was.”

  “What did you expect?” Richard turned to snarl at his father. “You, old man, have no say anymore over the way I look or what I do. I’ve outgrown your control.”

  “You think so? You haven’t outgrown the law, though, and you broke a few of those before you ran away.”

  “What laws? Yours?”

  Milton fingered the signet ring that was now on his finger again. “You stole this before you left. Did you forget about that crime?”

  Richard scoffed, “That ring goes to my brother when you die, and he wouldn’t have minded my borrowing it—and why the hell don’t you die and put us out of our misery?”

  Milton sighed and told the other men in the room, “You see what I’ve had to deal with? He’s the most unnatural son a man could have.”

  Richard frowned over the show of parental disappointment, obviously contrived for the other men. If Milton had ever once shown any real disappointment in him, or even just a little concern or a speck of caring, their relationship might have developed into a more natural one. A child’s instinct was to please his parent, after all—until the child figured out that nothing ever would.

  “Who are you?” Richard asked the third man.

  “Abel Cantel is an old friend of mine,” Milton answered for him.

  But Abel felt obliged to add, “I’m also the local magistrate, Lord Richard.”

  Was that a deliberate warning? Richard stiffened. Only untitled gentry or a commoner would use Richard’s minor title, and a man of either rank would defer to an earl’s wishes. But then he’d always known that his father might try to use those old misdeeds of his against him if they ever came face-to-face again. He’d wanted to be disowned. He’d been too young to realize he might be giving his father another tool to use in twisting his arm to comply with the marriage contract.

  But he wasn’t really worried yet. It could just be a coincidence that the “law” was represented in that room. And he wasn’t planning on sticking around, nor was he alone this time. Charles was in the house somewhere, had said he wasn’t leaving until morning for a visit to Mathew’s maternal grandfather. His brother had never had the courage to intervene before, but he was his own man now. And Ohr would look at Willow Woods first when he returned from his dalliance with the barmaid to find Richard gone—and the damage left behind in their room was evidence that he hadn’t willingly left.

  What was the most Milton would—could—do? Have him beaten again? Nothing new in that. Contain him in a room with threats of real imprisonment? For borrowing a ring from his own family, a case that would be laughed out of the courts? Besides, he’d have help escaping long before any threat became more than a threat. That very night, he was sure.

  He was more worried about Julia’s prophecy, that he could stand there and shout no and yet still be pronounced her husband. Milton did support at least one pastor on his estate who was beholden to him for his livelihood. But Julia was on her way back to London. It would take a day or two to get her back here, and he was sure she’d delay her return even longer if she was told why her presence was required. He didn’t expect to be there that long.

  “You know, Father, you could have asked for this meeting, instead of forcing it down my throat as usual.”

  “We both know what your answer
would have been,” Milton said stiffly.

  “Well, I know, but do you, really? What if I was coming home to ask for your forgiveness?”

  That gave Milton pause. “Were you?”

  Richard couldn’t bring himself to say yes, even if it might get him released. “No, but you should have made an effort to find that out before sending your loutish lackeys after me, because if I was returning to the fold, this welcome would definitely have changed my mind. But when all you’ve ever done, Father, is administer beatings or pay someone—”

  “Enough!” Milton cut in, red-faced.

  Richard raised a brow. “Don’t want the magistrate here to know how brutal you made life under your roof? But you are absolutely correct, Father. We both know there will never be a reconciliation between us. So what was the point of bringing me here?”

  “A matter of settling accounts. Do you have the money to pay off the huge gambling debts you stuck me with, that I still owe to the Duke of Chelter, who bailed me out—and lords it over me that he did?”

  Richard was given pause now. Those damned rakehells had finally gone to his father for payment? Then why hadn’t Milton severed all ties with him?

  “You were a fool if you paid those losses, when you could have disowned me instead,” Richard said.

  “So it was deliberate? An attempt to force my hand to be done with you?”

  “What choice did your cruel tyranny leave me?” Richard demanded. “And it’s not too late to finally disown me. You have a witness. Make it legal.”

  Milton shook his head. “Even if that were an option, it would have solved nothing back then. You were underage, leaving me accountable for your actions. So I’m to take it that your answer is no? You don’t have the wherewithal to make immediate restitution?”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “Then you’re ready to marry your fiancée to redeem those debts?”

  “Hell no.”

  “You see?” Milton said, glancing at the magistrate. “Not even apologetic that he deliberately tried to pauper his own family. Nor willing to make restitution the only way he can.” Then Milton sighed. “Give me a few moments of privacy with my son. I would be remiss in my parental duty if I don’t try one last time to make him see reason before resorting to drastic measures.”

  Richard didn’t like the sound of that. But he still didn’t think he’d be there long enough for those “drastic measures” to bear fruit. Milton was a fool if he thought Richard would honor a marriage that was forced on him. Or would his father get what he wanted either way? That worried Richard. He didn’t exile himself from England so his father could win in the end.

  The earl had leaned back against his desk, his arms crossed, waiting for the door to close. He didn’t look angry, he actually looked perplexed.

  “I’ve never understood you,” Milton began.

  “You never tried to.”

  “I did a good thing for you all those years ago when I arranged that contract binding us to the Millers, assuring you of wealth and good fortune.”

  “Without asking me,” Richard reminded him.

  “You were too young to form an opinion back then, much less know what was good for you. And now, you are so stubborn, so determined to thwart me, that you don’t even realize what you’re turning down.”

  “My breath is bated,” Richard said sarcastically.

  “You dare to make light of it? When circumstances have changed so drastically while you were gone? Gerald Miller had an accident five years ago that has left him mindless to this day, with no hope of recovery. This put his only child, your fiancée, in control of the entire Miller fortune, and you’ve come home in time to take full advantage of that. All you have to do is say ‘I do’ in a marriage ceremony and you’ll be married to one of the wealthiest women in England and have control of her huge fortune, which would enhance the standing as well as the social and financial power of all of us, not just me and you, but your brother and nephew, too.”

  “They are directly related to the Duke of Chelter. They don’t need elevating.”

  “Chelter’s fortune is waning.”

  “He’s still rich.”

  “Not nearly as rich as the Millers!” Milton exclaimed, then sighed and tried to compose himself again before adding, “Besides, the duke has always made us feel like poor relations.”

  Richard raised a brow. “Us? You mean you, don’t you?”

  Milton gritted his teeth. “Are you even listening as I explain what’s at stake here? The Miller enterprises have grown astronomically over the years. Do you know wealth like that can even influence the king? There could easily be new titles for our family along with more land grants.”

  “There’s no our in this, Father. You don’t have to marry a hellion you can’t stand.”

  “I did,” Milton growled. “Your mother.”

  Richard was incredulous. “Is this why you’ve never shown me any love or affection, or even kindness, when I was growing up? Because you hated your wife? And this is what you’re trying to force on me? A marriage as detestable as yours was? Why did you never mention any of this before?”

  “You were a child,” Milton said stiffly. “Children don’t require explanations.”

  “This child did. From the day I was born, you insisted on living my life for me. But it’s my life, Father. I’ll live it and make my own decisions for good or bad. And my decision is not to marry Julia Miller.”

  Milton was red-faced now with anger, a visage Richard was actually better acquainted with. “I should have known better than to try to reason with you. You’re as outrageously obstinate and foolish as you ever were.” Then he shouted, “Abel!” And before the door had fully opened, Milton told the magistrate, “Take him away.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  JULIA COULDN’T GET THAT last image of Richard out of her head. She barely noticed when Raymond led them to an inn in the very next town. They could have gone farther. It wasn’t dark yet. But she was as exhausted as her cousin was, which was why they both overslept the next morning.

  She’d had to pound on Raymond’s door repeatedly before she heard him shout, “I ain’t budging! We’ll go home tomorrow!”

  “Today!” she shouted back.

  She loved her cousin, but at times like this she didn’t exactly like him. He was a true wastrel. All he was ever good for was an escort when she needed one, and only if she informed him well in advance. He was always broke. He was given a nice allowance, but he threw it all away on gambling and women. She’d talked to him countless times about taking on some responsibilities to earn some of that allowance, but he had an endless stream of excuses to avoid any sort of work. At least he was an adept rider and had kept pace with her on this trip, though he’d complained all the way.

  Her annoyance over not getting an early start stayed with her that day, as did that haunting image of Richard. It was as if she were running from it. The long hair, centuries out of fashion, didn’t detract at all from his masculinity. It merely gave him a wild, primitive look, especially when he was panting with fury. He’d been so angry! Because he’d kissed her—no, wait, he’d blamed that on her, accusing her of starting it, when she’d done nothing of the sort. That kiss had been amazing, though, definitely an introduction to passion. She couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t brought it to an end.

  She set the same mad pace that day, trying to get home before dark. It didn’t work. When they stopped to retrieve their original mounts in the first town they’d stopped at yesterday morning, it was dusk, and Raymond balked at going any farther, as he was not used to such long days without a nap or two. Julia was tired enough not to insist, feeling both numb and weighted down with dust again. So she got them rooms for the second night. She just wished she’d been able to sleep this time. Despite her exhaustion, she tossed and turned most of the night, reliving that meeting with Richard and all the things she should have said but didn’t, and all the things that could
have happened—but didn’t.

  On the road again just after dawn, they entered London a few hours later. Raymond, annoyed to have to rise so bloody early, as he put it, three mornings in a row, didn’t even say good-bye as they reached her house, just continued on to his own home several blocks away.

  She was planning to go back to bed herself, still exhausted after so little sleep last night. But as soon as she entered her house, one of the footmen rushed over to her, and she was instantly revitalized by the excitement on his face and in his voice as he said, “Your father—”

  She didn’t need to hear more. She knew. It happened every time her father woke up, really woke up, the whole household got excited. She was already racing up the stairs.

  “I’m not too late?” she said as she burst into her father’s room and rushed over to Gerald’s bed, where he was sitting, propped up with pillows, and smiling at her. “How long have you been awake? Please tell me it hasn’t been long?”

  “Calm down, Julie.” He patted the bed beside him, indicating she should sit down. “I don’t think time is going to matter—”

  “Of course it is, you know it is—you do know that, correct? You can remember this time?”

  “Yes, everything.”

  She took a deep breath and grinned at him, embarrassed by her anxiety as she sat down. She would have been furious with herself if she had missed this visit with her father—because of Richard. But she finally noticed the cloth or, rather, small sack that was resting on the pillow next to his head, and that Arthur wasn’t in the room with him.

  She’d hired the servant soon after the accident to be a full-time attendant for Gerald, someone who could feed him, bathe him, even carry him out to the small balcony she’d had built off the room so her father could enjoy the sun when the weather permitted. Arthur even slept in a bed tucked into the corner of the room so he could be on hand round-the-clock.