Worth Winning (2 page)

But Robeson, it seemed, was not quite finished. “She only chose you because you’re an earl, you know. Women always care about titles and such. If I were an earl, she would have chosen me.”

Oliver rolled his eyes; it was well known that Robeson had always had a chip on his shoulder: he was the third son of the previous viscount and had never expected to inherit. Rumor was that he’d been ill-prepared for the role and had severely drained the family coffers. Of course, none of this stopped him from flaunting his rank in front of his supposed inferiors. He often said things like, “We viscounts . . .” or began sentences, “Well, as a viscount . . .” when talking to mere knights and baronets, but he’d always been particularly touchy around peers with superior titles. Then, he would say, “As a mere viscount . . .” and so on.

Charles gave an exaggerated shrug. His patience had run out. Between Loretta’s machinations and Robeson’s snide comments, his supply of forbearance had been exhausted. After a measured pause, he said, “I can’t help the fact that I’m an earl, no more than you can help being a complete ass.”

Oliver inhaled a bit sharply, and a couple of other men from a nearby sitting area sat up a little straighter, ruffling newspapers and tilting heads in a faux-discreet manner, no doubt salivating over the unfolding drama and hoping to enliven their otherwise routine afternoons.

Robeson’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and it was apparent to all who could see him that he was considering what to do next; such an insult could not go unanswered. But equally obvious to their many interested observers was that Robeson was apparently sifting through his limited responses and not liking any of them. He frowned and cleared his throat repeatedly.

Charles Burnsten was, after all, a boxer of some repute, a sporting man who was known as a crack shot and who had the steady nerves that would have made him an excellent general, had he had any inclination that way.

And most likely, considering the relative disparity between their physical health (with Charles being a lover of all things physical and sportslike and Robeson more often confining himself to gaming and other, more sedentary activities), odds were that Robeson would lose any sort of sporting challenge decisively. Embarrassingly. A contest between the two would be laughably one-sided and would probably be memorable fodder for the more salacious gossips for months—perhaps years—to come.

“I won’t stand for such an insult,” Robeson said finally, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Then don’t.” Charles was tempted to point out that Robeson was not, in fact, standing, but rather sitting, but he doubted that Robeson was in the mood for linguistic quibbles.

That had been part of the problem with Loretta, of course: not only had she been prone to tantrums and fits, she’d had absolutely no sense of humor and usually failed to display even the faintest intimations of curiosity beyond society gossip. Whenever Charles attempted a joke or mentioned anything beyond what had happened at last night’s ball, she’d draw her pretty eyebrows together and bat her eyelashes, perplexed.

There was another tense pause while Oliver looked on in wide-eyed anticipation, and several of the men around them shifted their papers, trying not to show how closely they were following the conversation.

“If you weren’t an earl, I would challenge you.”

Charles sighed, already bored with the conversation. “You won’t challenge me because I’m an earl . . . women only choose me because I’m an earl. It would seem, Robeson, that you’re more obsessed with my title than . . . well, anyone else. I don’t put stock in it, why must you?”

There was another beat of silence before Robeson whispered sibilantly, “Would you be willing to prove that?”

Surprised for the first time that day, Charles raised his eyebrows and said, “Excuse me?”

“Prove to me that you could really get on without your title. That you could get a girl, any girl, to choose you without your wealth and connections.”

Charles let out a bark of laughter. “I’m hardly about to renounce my title over a silly argument.”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting.” Robeson leaned forward, and Charles saw a faint sheen of sweat gathering on the man’s brow. “If you prove that you could get a girl to choose you, a girl who didn’t know you were wealthy or the great and almighty Earl of Dresford, I would apologize in a heartbeat. I’ll forget the fact that you’ve insulted me and . . . I’ll admit I’m an arse.”

Charles allowed a moment to pass before murmuring, “I didn’t realize the latter was in question.”

To his left, Oliver tried unsuccessfully to turn a snort into a cough. To his right, Lord Cleyara slapped his knee and murmured, “He’s got you pegged.”

But Robeson ignored them and pressed on. “I’m serious, Dresford. I think you’re so used to being the famous Earl of Dresford, whose reputation alone makes damsels faint and swoon, that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to have to survive just based on your wits alone. In fact—” Robeson paused dramatically, clearly enjoying the amount of attention they were generating, “—I’ll wager, anything you like, that you couldn’t do it.”

“Do what, exactly?”

“Make a girl choose you—become your mistress, accept a marriage proposal, publicly declare her love for you, forfeits we can discuss later—believing that you were nothing more than a lowly commoner, a mere mister with limited means and no reputation, no connections.”

“That is the most asinine suggestion you’ve ever come up with,” Charles said, though he could see the trap had already opened beneath him. If he backed down now, people would talk, saying that he was afraid to be without his title and his reputation, that despite the fact that he always treated them lightly and never flaunted either, he was as attached to them—more attached, perhaps—than even someone like Robeson. Or worse, that he doubted his ability to attract women without his title and background.

No doubt Loretta Fanshawe, once she heard about it, would spread and expand upon this particular story until it was whispered about in very saloon and ballroom. Either way, Charles would have no peace this season. He could walk away now and call Robeson’s bluff, or he could entertain this ridiculous wager. Neither was particularly appealing.

“I abhor theatrics in general, and public declarations seem particularly base.”

“Then suggest an alternative.”

Charles could think of several. What he couldn’t figure out was a way to wiggle out of the noose that was being tightened slowly around him. The silence yawned in front of him until finally he said, “What, exactly, do you have that’s worth wagering?” It wasn’t polite to boast of one’s wealth, but the truth of the matter was, how could Robeson’s viscounty be compared to the Dresford earldom? It was difficult to think of something Robeson could possibly wager to make it worth his while.

“My Rembrandt.”

Charles took a slow and measured breath and tried not to show his excitement. Robeson’s father had acquired a Rembrandt landscape some years back—one that had, when Charles had first seen it, made him feel calm and peaceful made him feel calm and peaceful in a way that no other painting ever had.. He’d remarked on it the one time he’d been to Robeson’s townhouse and had even offered quite a generous sum for it.

“Your Rembrandt,” Charles said finally. “And what do you want in return?”

“Two thousand pounds. And a public apology.”

Charles closed his eyes briefly. The money was inconsequential. It was, in fact, exactly double the sum Charles had offered to pay years ago, when he first saw the painting: he’d been that taken with it. But a public apology? The very idea of having to be at the center of such a display . . .

“You heard me—public.”

Charles opened his eyes and saw a bevy of spectators, most of whom had long ago given up pretending disinterest, several of whom were standing in a small cluster around them.

“Name your terms—what girl, how much time, what are the forfeits, etc.—and I’ll think about it.”

Robeson smiled, and Charles felt a tingling feeling down his spine. Though he hadn’t agreed yet, he knew he would—because of the opportunity to get his hands on the Rembrandt, coupled with the fact that he had more or less allowed himself to be maneuvered into an untenable position from which he would have trouble backing down.

“Come now, Dresford, either you’re in, or you’re out. We’re not missish virgins trying to decide which shawlette brings out our eyes. My Rembrandt against your money and apology. Yes or no.”

Charles gritted his teeth and threw a quick glance at Oliver, who was giving a barely discernible head shake. This was definitely not the way Charles had envisioned his day unfolding. Still, before he had time to second-guess himself further, he said, “Yes.”

One of the men who’d been standing to the side gave a hoot and quickly motioned the waiter to bring him some paper. Clearly, a wager of such proportions needed to be written out, the details debated and then formalized. “Though I have some rules: no debutantes. I won’t seriously impede some girl determined to marry. No gossip surrounding this, either. If the merest hint of this gets out . . .” Charles looked pointedly at the ten or so men gathered around in a tight circle. “If I’m going to have to pretend to be someone else, and do so successfully, this will need to have as little publicity as possible.”

Robeson’s thin smile only stretched farther. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got the perfect location and the perfect girl, for that matter. A place where no one will ever have heard of the Earl of Dresford, and, if you’re curious, a girl who isn’t going to give you the time of day.”

“Well, well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”

Julia stopped humming and felt as if every muscle in her body had suddenly tensed. She would recognize the self-satisfied voice of Archibald Barrington anywhere. She wished she could say that it had become nasally or pinched, but if anything, his voice had deepened over the intervening years and was now infused with a certain gravitas.

She stalled, wiping her dirt-stained hands thoroughly along the edges of the apron she’d put over one of her oldest day dresses. She’d known Archie was coming back, of course. Her stepmother had talked in breathless whispers about little else for the past three weeks. Munthrope was a small village, and a viscount—any viscount, but especially one they’d all met before and who had since come into a title and fortune—was
big news
.

Thus Julia had known that sooner or later she’d have to meet Archie again. She just hadn’t thought she’d have to see him this soon. Or that she’d be quite so dirty and dusty. She steadied her hands and turned to find not one, but three, pairs of eyes trained intently upon her.

“Lord Robeson.” Julia inclined her head and made a facsimile of a curtsy. “As you say, an
unexpected
surprise.”

She held his gaze and forced herself not to fidget, not to give him or his companions any inkling of how discomfited she felt, standing here in her country worst while they appeared in all their splendor. She especially tried
not
to notice how well Archie had aged: his once lanky frame had filled out nicely, his shoulders looked broader, his blond hair seemed thicker and was styled just so. Despite the fact that his green eyes twinkled with some combination of mirth and malice, Julia couldn’t help noticing that he was, perhaps, the handsomest man she’d ever seen.

My, what a stir he would cause. With his looks. And his title. And his fortune.

Eight years ago, no one had paid him any attention. Then, he’d been nothing more than Archie Barrington, the insolvent, shabbily dressed, directionless
third
son. Even the mothers of Munthrope had thought they’d be able to find a better mate than a brooding, too skinny too quick to laugh, too prone towards making wagers, too . . . everything,
third
.

At the time, only Julia had found him attractive; she’d been the only one to laugh at his jokes, to listen to his stories, to look beyond his meager allowance and awkward appearance.

Robeson returned her perusal indolently, his well-shaped mouth twisting briefly. “Now, now,” he said, his supercilious tone causing Julia’s already-heightened senses to notch upward, “there’s no need to quibble over adjectives.”

He smiled again, and Julia could almost see traces of the man he’d been, before the title and fortune, in the lopsided half smile he now wore. She was making an effort not to return his smile, to hold herself aloof while he was scrutinizing her.

“I’ve been hoping to introduce you to two of my closest friends from London. May I present Lord Billings?” A man of moderate height and very ordinary, fair features stepped forward and bowed, smiling reassuringly, as if he’d guessed her distress.

“And this fellow, though a bit of a ne’er do well to the rest of the world, is nonetheless a
particular
friend of mine. Mr. Charles Alver, may I present Miss Julia Morland? The vicar’s daughter I mentioned to you once.”

Julia studied the man in front of her, noting that unlike Billings, who looked warm and kind and had an almost inviting air, Mr. Alver was nothing but hard planes and stiff contours. Where Robeson and Billings were dressed in a decidedly flashy style, with a variety of fobs dangling from brightly trimmed waistcoats, Mr. Alver’s attire was simple, almost stark—Hessian boots with cream-colored breeches and a black overcoat that molded nicely over his trim but athletic physique. His eyes were gray, and his mouth looked more suited to sneers than friendly smiles. He was, by far, the tallest of the three men, and he stood with the confidence of someone used to commanding attention. He wasn’t handsome, but there was an unmistakable
something
about him.

Julia licked at suddenly dry lips and told herself she wouldn’t—she just wouldn’t—ask why Robeson would have mentioned her to his friends or what he might have revealed.

As if reading her mind, Mr. Alver said, “He’s said nothing but good things, of course.”

“Thank you, but let me assure
you
that such reassurances are entirely unnecessary.”

She regretted her words almost instantly. Whatever else she’d become, she was never intentionally rude. And though Robeson perhaps deserved some of her disdain, his friends surely did not. She was on the cusp of apologizing when she was forestalled by Mr. Alver, who, instead of seeming at all insulted, merely raised a single eyebrow sardonically, as if she had said something . . . cute. Julia’s eyes narrowed.