Worth Winning (17 page)

It would, of course, be Charles Alver on the other side of the room, closing the door with a careless little kick of his foot. He leaned against the door in a show of nonchalance, arms folded across his chest, his gaze fixed firmly on her. She could hear the ghost of a chuckle he’d tried to swallow and could see the amused smile he wasn’t bothering to hide. It was impossible to keep the panic out of her voice and the blush from spreading across her cheeks as she asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I would think that was obvious. I saw you sneaking out and decided to follow.”

“No one ever sees me.” She wasn’t sure whether she should be pleased that someone had noticed or upset that it would, of course, be
him
, the man who already dominated her thoughts overmuch.

If anything, he seemed to lean more firmly against the door, as if he’d suddenly become part of the architecture of the room, forcibly reminding Julia that they were together, alone, in a room that was unlocked. Though, Julia told herself, the unlocked state of the door should really be the least of her worries. The library was dimly lit, conducive to all sorts of inappropriate behavior, and Julia shook her head slightly, trying to clear her head of a host of unwanted, uninvited thoughts and imaginings.

“After being meticulously ignored and avoided all week, I was inclined to notice your whereabouts,” he said to her.

Julia continued to smooth down the creases in her skirt, which was still a bit rumpled from her own efforts to retrieve her book, and tried to kick the edge of the novel, peeping out from beneath her dress, under the chaise, away from his often too-perceptive eyes.

She looked around and realized a bit belatedly that, being alone, and in a library, there was unlikely to be anyone coming to her rescue, nor was there really anything she could suddenly notice, to which she could try to redirect his attention. Unless, of course, she wanted to babble something like, “Look! Over there! An old copy of Plato!”

She wrung her hands and finally allowed the silence to defeat her. “I didn’t ignore you, precisely. I simply made sure that we weren’t together, so that there wasn’t a chance to regard, or disregard, you. More important, far more important, considering the current situation is that no one ever notices, or chooses to notice, when I disappear. But
you
, you can’t disappear, especially not at the same time as I have. People will notice.”

Charles smiled, his all-too-sensual lips curving wide, his eyelids drooping as if he were regarding her as prey, or as dinner—a treat he was about to consume.

“Did you say I
can’t
?” he all but purred, the words clearly more threat than question. He left the door smoothly, arms unfolding and pushing away as if he were launching himself into the water.

Julia backed away a half step, not at all liking the look in his eyes. She was, unfortunately, cut off by the chaise she had just a moment ago been admiring.

“I misspoke,” she said, remembering how awfully Jack, Robeson, and all the men she’d ever known had reacted to being told anything that began with phrases like “may not,” “should not,” or “cannot.”

She tried to placate him, while mentally castigating herself for not treading more carefully. “I’m simply trying to convey to you the fact that your disappearance will be noticed, which means that my presence, or lack thereof, might also be noted.” She enunciated slowly, trying to keep her words calm and unthreatening. She wished she could shake him and say instead: “Yes, I understand that you’re a man. I did not mean to demean your manhood by using words such as
cannot
and
will not
. I will say whatever is necessary, if it gets you out of this room, quickly, and without notice.”

Mentally she counted down the minutes he’d probably already been gone and set a mental timer as to how much longer it would be before people began whispering and looking around.

“You don’t have much faith in my ability to be stealthy, do you?”

“No, no, of course not,” Julia said, stalling a little, hands in front of her, her left foot still engaged in pushing her book farther back. Though how she would have had any intuition about (or faith in) his abilities to slip away from public gatherings was beyond her cognitive capabilities at the moment. She recognized that he was baiting her and trying purposefully to discomfit her, and so she retorted, “I have too much faith in the women of Munthrope to be overly attuned to your every action.” She switched back to a tone she hoped was mollifying. “Mr. Alver, I would truly, truly appreciate it if you went back. If you stand near the back, it’s possible that people will think that you went out for a smoke. Do you smoke?”

He gave a quick shake of a head.

“A breath of fresh air, then. A short break is infinitely easier to explain.”

He approached her slowly, until they were chest to chest, or rather, the top of her head was aligned to his chest. Their bodies were almost touching, and it was an effort to keep her eyelids from drooping. She tried to tell herself that it was proximity, and the dim lighting, that lent the air a charged, sexual tension, but some small corner of her acknowledged that no, there was just something about him, specifically. Some uncharacterizable trait that seemed to muddle all her senses, that made her want to lean in: to think, and to do, wicked things.

Things she was sure a rector’s daughter was not even supposed to be aware of, much less dream about. And imagine. And yearn for.

She leaned in, ever so slightly, just a tiny shift of her weight, and Charles smiled at her lazily, knowingly. Julia blushed and stopped herself from shifting back; it was almost as if he’d predicted the direction of her thoughts. His eyes bored into hers for a moment longer, and his smile stretched farther, before he sat down, rather abruptly it seemed, in the middle of the chaise lounge. Fluidly, he reached down and, without fumbling, as if he knew exactly where to find it, he neatly retrieved the book Julia had been trying so assiduously to hide.

“
The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Buxom, Merry Widow
,” Charles read from the spine, eyebrows arching, his smile insouciant. “And here I thought you were quite a scholar. An academic. A trailblazing female whose head was full of nothing but aphids and comets.”

Julia pivoted and reached for the book, trying to snatch it back, only to have him put it behind his back, causing her to fall against him. He caught her deftly, his hands around her arms, one hand still holding her book. She took a deep breath, deep enough to smell the mixture of talcum, mint, and something uniquely Charles, before reminding herself that she was practically wrapped in his embrace. She flushed and pushed away.

“I’m interested in any number of things,” she said unsteadily.

He nodded, wisely, a bit condescendingly, Julia thought, if one was allowed to read so much into a bare nod. “Quite the Renaissance woman.”

Julia pursed her lips and decided it’d be best to remain silent. She pointedly held out her hand, and Charles held the book aloft, behind and to the left of him, just beyond her reach.

If she lunged . . .

“Oh, this? You’d like
this
back?” he taunted, much as Jack had, when they’d been little children, fighting over Julia’s stuffed toy or hair ribbon. Only of course Jack had never made her feel this particular combination of anger, embarrassment, and . . . gad, was that desire? Still lingering after . . . what was wrong with her, really?

“It is my book.”

“Yes, what was that title again?” He tapped his free finger against his cheek, as if deep in contemplation, all the while inching the novel back every time Julia shifted her weight slightly, in preparation for an attack. “
The Salacious Memoirs and Confessions of a Buxom Barmaid
?”

Julia ground her teeth together. Though he was looking at her and not the title, she was perfectly certain that he was mangling it on purpose. “That’s not in the title,” she said through gritted teeth. “And really, please, you should return. You will be noticed.”

She reached out an arm quickly, though not quickly enough, and Charles rather carelessly swung the book away from her and then set it beside and almost behind him on the chaise, with one hand resting on it, guarding it from her.

He ignored her pleas and continued on the topic he was clearly most interested in pursuing. “You’re right of course, it’s not in the title. Though it’s implied by the ‘buxom’ part, don’t you think? I can’t think of any buxom barmaids whose confessions wouldn’t be classified as salacious. That’s rather the point of confessions in general, isn’t it?”

Julia’s blush intensified, but she refused to look away. “She’s a widow, not a barmaid.”

“Well, then, that settles it. They’re definitely salacious. I’ve yet to meet a busty widow who wasn’t filled, overbrimming, with indecent thoughts.”

Julia took a deep breath and then let it out. She knew she was about to let her temper get the better of her, but for some reason, she just didn’t care.

“This book has more than just those bits, which always get glossed over anyhow. This particular author happens to have a superb sense of dramatization. I’ve yet to read anyone who can parallel his minute attention to detail when it comes to everything from scenery to architecture, and what’s more, he’s deft at blending action, adventure, and just the right amount of the absurd. It’s a delightful, engrossing read during the fact, and what’s more, Mrs. Paleski and I have a wonderful time dissecting the errors and omissions afterward. Besides, and far more to the point, you irritating, impossible man, you must, must, must return. Even if you care nothing for your reputation, keep in mind that I do.”

Charles smiled and ignored her insults. “Ah, I see. You read it to tear it apart.”

Julia blew at the tendril of hair that had somehow escaped and then rather impatiently tucked it behind her ear again. “That’s not what I said.” She pushed her fingers to either side of her temples, certain that she was rapidly developing a megrim, or whatever it was her stepmother always claimed to suffer from when she and Claire had engaged in high jinks.

“And ‘those bits’ that are glossed over?” Julia closed her eyes in mortification as Charles continued. “Do you discuss those with Mrs. Paleski?”

“No, of course not.” She opened her eyes and reached for the book again, but this time, instead of moving the book away, Charles caught her wrist in his hand and brought it in front of him, and his thumb rubbed against the side of her hand, the edge of her palm.

They stared at one another silently. Julia tried again. “You really should return. Please.”

“If you’re unwilling to discuss those particular scenes with Mrs. Paleski, I would be happy to help. While I’ve already admitted that aphids are hardly my forte, here at least is an arena I’m particularly adept in: I’d be happy to provide clarification to anything you might be curious about. I could, if you like, even demonstrate.”

Julia knew she ought not to let him, or her, do this. He proceeded so slowly that in truth, she had every opportunity to stop him, to pull her hand away, or at least give the appearance of resistance. Instead, she stood still, mute and helpless, completely enthralled by his words and actions. She watched as he brought her hand slowly to his lips and pressed a kiss tenderly into the palm of her hand.

She’d had more contact that with men. Yet somehow, the simple caress felt far more intimate than anything she’d ever done.

“All in the name of—what did you call it? Scientific advancement.”

His hands continued to massage her hand as he kissed her thumb lightly, followed by the tip of her index finger. The kisses were so light,
so gentle
, that Julia felt a dangerous lulling of her senses, and it was with great effort that she pulled herself back from the brink of . . . something.

A dim corner of her brain seemed to recognize and label it: Danger! Danger!

Yet for a moment, she almost couldn’t help herself. She allowed herself to stare into his eyes, allowed herself to revel in the long-dormant emotions his caresses were igniting across not only her hands but her entire body. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she pulled her hand away, cradling it against her as though it had been burned. “I don’t know why you think you can say, and do, such things.”

Charles stood slowly. He looked at her with a slightly perplexed expression before saying, “I’ll admit that I didn’t plan on that, initially. But you do owe me a kiss, you know.”

“What?”

“The picnic,” Charles said succinctly.

“Oh please, because you think you’re the most handsome man—”

He put a finger to her lips and said quietly, “No, because you do.”

She took in a sharp breath. “Why are you so certain?”

“Why else would you have let me kiss you just now?”

“So, may I consider the debt repaid?” She was a terrible person, she knew, for hoping he’d say no and hoping he would demand a kiss, right now, as they were here together, alone.

“Do you consider me a foolish man?”

Julia inhaled and then wished she hadn’t, for it meant that she was even more acutely aware of how close he was, how close they were, their breaths practically mingling. “No.”

“Then why would you suppose I would think your debt repaid?”

“Because you just, we just . . .” she sputtered. “You just kissed me.”

“I kissed your hand. Which is different from kissing . . . you. Besides, the terms of the ‘command’ and thus your debt, were very clear:
you
have to kiss
me
.”

He whispered the last words, so close that Julia could almost taste his breath upon her lips. “I’m not going to kiss you.”

Charles tilted his head to his side. “I’m not going to kiss you until after you’ve kissed me.”

They looked into one another’s eyes—a moment that was unbearably intimate. Though Julia was tempted to demur, to protest and say she wouldn’t be kissing him, ever, she couldn’t quite make herself do it. Though she hated admitting it, she was afraid that he was correct.

Not now. Not yet. Not until after . . .

Julia finally looked away and asked, “Is there anything I can say to convince you to go back to the musicale, sooner rather than later? Now, preferably?”