Worth Winning (18 page)

Charles smiled. “Easy. You just have to agree to stop avoiding me.”

She was silent, trying to decide how futile denial might seem. Finally she asked, hoping that she did not reveal too much of herself with such a question, “Why do you want to walk with me?”

“You’re enjoyable company. You already know about the change in my circumstance, and thus you’re unlikely to cast lures my way, trying to angle for attention all while secretly trying to find out how solvent I am.”

“They can’t have been that bad.” Except she was certain, as soon as she had said the words, that they probably had been. He was single. He was new. He was very, very attractive.

Her doubts must’ve shown clearly on her face, for all he said was, “Worse.”

“So you’re looking for unobtrusive company?”

“Hardly. I’m looking for company that’s . . . stimulating.”

He held his hand out, and Julia took it gingerly, not quite trusting herself to touch him again, voluntarily. They shook, and then he slowly sauntered toward the library door, which, Julia noticed rather belatedly, he had locked. How he had accomplished that task while lounging so nonchalantly against its frame, she had no idea.

He opened the door and then turned back to her, “And just in case it comes up—I was heard, and seen, exiting the musicale. But I whispered, I imagine just loudly enough that one, or perhaps two, of the nearby matrons might hear,
if
they’d been paying attention, that I was walking home early. I don’t know the women of Munthrope as you do, obviously, but my guess is that the tale has spread. I suffered from a touch of the headache, you see. So, as long as you don’t mention this particular interlude . . .” he shrugged and allowed his words to trail off.

“It’s not an interlude,” Julia hissed, her mind grappling with the fact that he’d thought this through, had planned for them to meet, had had the wherewithal to plant some white lies.

He looked at her, as if disappointed, and said, “I too, can be pedantic about definitions.”

“Fine, but the connotation there . . .”

Charles laughed, obviously baiting her on purpose. He closed the door behind him, and it was a moment before she realized: he’d taken her book with him.

Claire considered herself a master of social machinations. Though she heard Mr. Alver whispering his excuse about a headache, she’d hadn’t believed it. If he’d wanted to avoid the performance altogether, he would’ve told someone ahead of time, and allowed his excuses to be made. She’d watched Mr. Alver surreptitiously keeping an eye on her stepsister Julia and had noted his escape, shortly after Julia’s. Something she found particularly interesting was the fact that Julia had returned to the performance earlier than usual, looking flushed and a bit out of sorts.

As the performance ended, and Julia joined her near the back of the room again, Claire clapped and then leaned in to whisper, “We have to talk.”

Julia turned wide eyes toward her stepsister, but all she said was, “You have no idea.”

Charles had slept well.

Despite the lumpy mattress and the pillow that smelled faintly of mildew, the not-quite-warm-enough blankets, and the rapidly diminishing supply of mint, Charles had rested as only those who are deeply contented with life and themselves can.

He could have kissed Julia Morland last night, of that he had no doubt.

He could, perhaps, have even taken it further. She was attracted to him, that much was clear—and it was possible, though not likely, that he could have won the bet then and there.

The other methods: public declaration, a fake engagement, had always seemed too cumbersome. (For example: How did one then go about breaking a fake engagement? And with a public declaration, what qualified? What would happen to the chit afterward? To say nothing of the fact that then Charles would be, once again, embroiled in a scene, something he loathed.)

The garters had been the compromise.

Robeson had suggested it with a show of reluctance, saying that he supposed some token article of clothing might be acceptable. Though Robeson had protested that Charles might cheat by producing any female garters . . . this proposal had not gone over well.

Even suggesting that Charles’s word could be suspect, that he was the kind of man who would produce another woman’s garters in order to win the bet . . . it hadn’t been pretty, and had it been said of anyone else, well Charles might—just might—have felt sorry for Robeson.

Everyone else had protested. Vigorously. Righteously. For a moment, it had looked as though the bet would be called off. Several men, Billings included, mild though his disposition normally was, had warned Robeson that he was dangerously close to what he called “the line” from which there would be no return, and what was more, no sympathy for Robeson.

While most men of the peerage took pride in things like their word, there were some reputations that were held to be unassailable. Their families were simply too old, too respected, too wealthy and influential, to suggest . . .

And, well, one simply did not,
ever
, question the word of a man like Dresford.

Charles finished dressing and opened the door of his bedroom. There, at the foot of his door, were his shoes, in the exact same place he’d left them the previous night. Still unpolished.

He put on his still unpolished shoes and wondered how his servants treated untitled guests, ones who didn’t employ a valet and had only one pair of walking shoes.

Charles frowned. Did he have any friends who didn’t have a valet?

Not that he was a snob, of course, but the title of Dresford came with certain benefits and assumptions, of which had always been a certain, rather select group of friends.

Dresford. Funny how, just a couple weeks into this dratted bet, even he was starting to forget that he was Dresford. For that man, the much vaunted earl, would surely never have been seen in such drab clothes, sporting unpolished, badly scuffed shoes, courting . . .

And there his thoughts slowed.

It had been so much easier when Charles had been able to think of Julia Morland merely as the faceless, rather amorphous, barely animate entity known as “the chit” in “the bet.”

Robeson had told him only the bare minimum of information: that she was twenty-five, almost twenty-six, and still unwed. That she lived in a tiny village far removed from the rest of society. That she had never, at least as far as Robeson could attest, been courted seriously. That she had, at times, a difficult disposition. “Passably pretty,” Robeson had said.

Charles let himself carefully out the front door of Langley House, nodding discreetly to the man who seemed to function both as Robeson’s butler and his footman.

Charles snorted. Julia was not classically beautiful, and her conversational style, was . . . well, it was different but not necessarily what he’d term difficult and . . . in some ways she was . . .

Charles’s thoughts drifted again. He supposed, ultimately, that he couldn’t blame Robeson who’d been truthful, up to a point: Julia was a spinster, and there had to be reasons she’d remained unmarried.

It was just that Julia was just unlike any spinster he’d ever known or imagined. He’d thought he’d be wooing a mere mouse of a creature, who’d be glad for a little excitement, a summer romance. That he’d be able to leave her feeling . . . gad, was he really that arrogant?

Yes, yes, he was.

He’d thought that she’d leave their experience feeling glad, lucky, for the brief taste of romance he could offer. That he’d take her garters, but not her virtue, and come away one Rembrandt richer.

And of course all of that had changed, slowly, after he’d met her.

After he’d had a series of bewildering conversations with her that never seemed to stay on topic and always seemed somehow more interesting, and more involving, than any discussion of garden insects had a right to be.

After he’d held her and heard her quick little intakes of breath whenever he was near, or whenever he’d touched her.

After he’d . . .

He hastened his pace, eager to meet up with her and see her again.

For the bet, of course, he reminded himself. And to make sure that she wasn’t weaseling out of their agreement.

He waited, impatiently, at the foot of the lemon tree and looked at his watch. She should be arriving, any moment now.

Charles had been sitting cross-legged under the tree, picking lint from his vest and waiting for almost ten minutes before Julia finally rounded the pathway from the vicarage.

He had been half-afraid that she would find an excuse again, bring her stepsister or mother or find some other way to avoid spending time alone with him. But, as she turned the corner, he was relieved to see that she was alone. She had the basket with her, the simple country dress, and the same half smile that seemed to be shy and inviting and inquisitive, all at once.

She was distinctly, uniquely Julia Morland, as Charles had come to understand.

He stood, schooling his features into as impassive a mask as he could. As soon as she stood in front of him, he said, “I’m pleased to see you’re honoring our agreement.”

“One might say that my acquiescence was only obtained under duress.”

One corner of Charles’s mouth tilted upward. He could
almost
see himself getting used to her brand of humor. “One might . . . if one were prone to using words like ‘acquiescence.’”

“I like reading.”

His smile widened. “As do I.”

She looked surreptitiously around them, and Charles waited an artful moment before saying, “I didn’t bring it with me.”

Unlike other women of his acquaintance, Julia made no effort to pretend or hide her disappointment. “But I’m not done with it yet!”

“Now that is a shame. I find that it improves upon each rereading.”

“You did not!”

“Finish your book? Of course I did. I found it surprisingly, refreshingly entertaining. My favorite part—”

Julia covered her eyes with both hands, a childish gesture that only made her seem more endearing. “You are not to tell me. I won’t listen!”

He waited patiently and then offered his arm. “Shall we?”

“You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“I’m sure there’s a fruit you have to harvest, an herb you just have to pick, or an experiment you’re in the midst of.”

Julia angled her head at him and said, “And you have nothing else to do with your time?”

He smiled ruefully, thinking about the reports that were no doubt stacking up on his desk in London, awaiting his return. “Apparently not,” he said finally. She linked her arm through his, reluctantly, it seemed, and he anchored her to him before pointing in no particular direction and saying, “So, what is the project today?”

“You don’t think it’s possible I’m just going for an aimless walk?”

“You’ve never struck me as a particularly aimless person. In fact, you might be the most aimful person I know.”

“That’s not a word.”

Charles smiled casually and said, “I know, but I seem to find a particular delight in teasing you.”

“You mean tormenting, as in taking my books and blackmailing me into walks.”

“My, aren’t we dramatic today,” he said mildly, before allowing her to lead the way.

“I’m headed to . . . I’m conducting an experiment. I don’t usually take anyone with me.”

“Miss Morland, my dear, perhaps no one has ever told you that the more mysterious something is, the more it is shrouded in secrecy, the more
intensely
interesting it becomes.”

Julia flushed and then bit her lip. As before, Charles felt as though he had stepped into a trap and wondered why none of his more practiced techniques seemed to work on her. Worse, why they seemed to have a decidedly negative effect on her.

“I’m not trying to be mysterious on purpose,” she said finally. “It’s actually, a charity project for . . . a charity project I’m involved in.”

“Charity project. Well, I don’t see how there’s anything remotely secret about that. You’re a vicar’s daughter. Isn’t charity a matter of vocation as much as anything else?”

She stopped in her well-measured steps and turned to look at him. “I’ve never thought so, no. I mean, there are so many less fortunate than I—”

Charles snorted. He hadn’t meant to, but it was such a clichéd thing to say, and something he’d heard often enough, usually just before a woman asked for a generous donation for a particular cause, and once, just before a particularly enterprising matron had dipped in front of him, allowing him an ample view of her bosom, as if believing that her opinion—and apparently her morality—on issues such as the poor and destitute somehow gave her full license to indulge her other proclivities . . .

Julia pinched him slightly, bringing him out of his reverie. “Do you find something laughable about charitable acts?”

“No, no,” Charles countered, trying to recover. He began walking again while his mind raced. “It’s more that I’ve found . . . in my past at least, that people who require charity often have only themselves to thank for such a condition.”

Julia took her arm from his and held herself quite rigidly, though her pace, if anything, only quickened. “It is my belief, then, Mr. Alver, that you haven’t had much experience at all in such matters.” She sniffed. “I would have thought that someone who’s recently gone through changed circumstances themselves would have a bare minimum of compassion for others in similar straits.”

Charles chuckled again, even though he knew it probably wasn’t helping his cause. “Not at all. My own changes in fortune are entirely my fault, and I take complete responsibility. I only wish that more people would.”

“How so?”

“Well,” he began, thinking about his peers at university, many of whom had carelessly, recklessly gambled or otherwise frittered their way through what would probably have seemed a fortune to someone like Julia Morland, “I’ve known quite a few young men who were born to wealth and who did nothing to earn their keep.” Unlike Charles, who had studied, who had paid attention, and learned to manage his estates. He’d learned never to spend to excess and had kept up the family name, managed his properties, fulfilled his duties. He knew there was a tinge of pride in his voice when he continued. “Financial security is something that must be worked toward, that requires hard work to maintain.”