Worth Winning (22 page)

On Saturday, Claire noted that the green leaves were quite vibrantly, clearly, sharply green. She’d revealed that she had painted during her younger years and that she considered herself quite the expert on things like the greenness of leaves. Then she’d asked for his opinion—an exchange he was hard pressed to think of without a shudder. He’d been fairly certain that in her company, his cognitive abilities had started to decline, and thus the conversation had gone something along the lines of “Their greenness?” “Yes, their greenness.” “Ah, their greenness. Huh.” After he’d stammered something, anything, in an effort to wrap up the discussion and move onto something new, she’d somehow figured out a way to delve more deeply into the topic, meditating aloud about the tinge of yellow that looked almost mixed in, and how while lime green was, of course, distinctly different from hunter green, and how she absolutely hated when varying olive hues were inappropriately labeled as merely darker green. To conclude, she’d observed, quite ingeniously, that some leaves seemed to have not only hints of yellow, but also blue.

Charles had restrained himself, barely, from noting that with enough blue and yellow, one might once again end up at the green that had been the start of their conversation. He was, after all, certain that he never again wanted to discuss the color green, or any of its possible shades. Ever.

Sunday, both Claire and Julia had disappeared directly following Mr. Morland’s service, and despite the smirk he’d seen plastered over Robeson’s face, and the grin even Oliver had thrown in his direction, Charles found that he couldn’t quite bring himself to be disappointed. Julia on her own would have been fine, but throw Claire into the mix . . .

Still, he reminded himself, there was a bet in play, and more important, the looming threat of a humiliatingly public apology hanging over his head.

And so Monday, Charles arose, went to the copse of trees that seemed to have become their tacitly agreed-upon meeting place and listened with barely contained contempt to Claire’s monologue about the varying textures of hair ribbons. Textures. Of hair ribbons!

Tuesday, she talked about the weather. Incessantly. Not the science behind the weather (which would surely have been what Julia would have lectured him on) or even the expected forecast (which might have at least required some participation on his part). No, she’d remarked on the temperateness of the weather and how the weather was always temperate in Munthrope and that she had a partiality for temperate weather.

He’d wondered, vaguely, if it was her new word of the day.

Temperate.

And this morning? Well, he’d groaned, actually groaned, when he’d woken to another nearly fogless, sunny, temperately mild country morning.

He’d wished for rain. Or better yet, a hurricane. Anything that would have kept the women indoors and given him an excuse to . . . well, sleep in. Pull the covers over his head and just concede defeat. At least temporarily.

As he walked toward the cluster of lemon trees, he almost hoped he wouldn’t see them, but both women were there, Julia, looking almost miserable and withdrawn, and Claire greeting him with a blindingly bright smile, an effect that was ruined when she’d looped her arm into his and said something about fabric. Or maybe fables. Or was she talking about stables?

He wasn’t certain. And he no longer cared. Though he’d tried to engage Julia in conversation on each of the other two days, he’d been alarmingly unsuccessful, and chatting with Miss Covington didn’t require attention or even that he respond with monosyllabic grunts.

So what, then, was the benefit of paying attention?

His head hurt less when he didn’t listen to the beautiful Miss Covington.

In the past, he’d always had the luxury of simply leaving any conversation he deemed even remotely mundane or inappropriate. Once, when a particularly forward debutante had placed her hand on his arm and leaned forward to whisper a compliment, he’d simply left. Lowered his arm, turned, and walked away. Another time, when a rather inane young chit had asked his opinion about something or other that he had no interest in, he’d simply stated, “My apologies. I stopped listening because your topic was of no interest to me.”

All the men and women in their circle had laughed.

The poor chit, whose name he’d forgotten, had blushed and stammered and then apologized. To him. She’d apologized for boring him, and he’d accepted her apology, as if it were his due. As if she’d wronged him by being so boring and trying to elicit his interest.

He sighed.

“Are you quite all right?” Miss Covington asked, a trace of genuine concern in her voice.

“Oh course.”

“It’s just that you sighed.”

“Yes?”

“Oh, I thought you were upset. Well, since you’re fine, I can continue. As I was saying . . .”

Lord, but he missed being a lord sometimes. Or, more precisely, he missed being the type of lord whom everyone pandered to, whose rudeness was not only excused but often imitated.

He was about to sigh again, when he realized that such an action would inevitably draw Claire’s attention and that he’d then have to waste precious moments interacting with the stupid girl. And that, of course, was the worst part of all: he wasn’t at all certain that Claire was actually unintelligent. Though she droned on and on about colors and textures and whatever it was she was chattering on about at the moment, he’d seen the occasional twinkle in her eyes, which spoke of mischievousness—a state of being that required a certain modicum of intelligence, didn’t it?

He closed his eyes and almost tripped.

So why, then, was the girl acting deliberately stupid? If she sought merely to be a chaperone for Julia, surely there were less painful ways to go about it?

“Miss Morland,” he said again. “What are your thoughts on the topic?”

As usual, Julia looked as though she’d rather be anywhere but here. Today she seemed particularly distracted. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

Neither was I,
Charles almost admitted. “Well, it does seem to be a topic Miss Covington feels strongly about,” he said, trying to recall a topic, a noun—anything that would allow him to name correctly whatever they’d just been discussing, so that he could try, again, to draw Julia into the conversation.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t say that. Whatever gave you that impression, Mr. Alver? I don’t feel at all strongly about this particular issue. Though I would love to hear your opinions, being as you’re from London.”

There was a distinct glimmer in the younger girl’s eyes, one that she quickly masked.

“That does it,” Charles thought. The girl was torturing him on purpose, and Julia was letting her get away with it. “I must go,” he said finally, realizing that a tactical retreat was overdue. His mind flitted across a variety of excuses, rejecting all of them. He wasn’t used to making excuses; he was used to coming and going as he pleased.

“It has, of course, been a pleasure,” he said, stalling, wondering if he could claim to have a headache, again. “But I fear I’m just too unused to keeping country hours.”

A lie, but at least a polite one.

“Oh, but of course. We’d hate to keep you,” Claire said, adroitly extricating her arm from his. “You’ll be at the ball on Friday?”

“Ball,” he thought, laughing inwardly. It was quaint what these people called balls. He’d been told that the Vickreys were hosting twenty couples, more or less, which barely qualified as a dance by his definition, much less a ball. He’d had weekend hunting parties where he’d hosted more people. But all he said, trying to keep his snobbery in check, was, “Of course. I hope you’ll both”—and here he paused, practically choking on his next words—“I hope you’ll both save a dance for me.”

And with that, he left. It meant he’d made no progress, but at least he could have a couple of mornings away from Claire, which he hoped would give him the time and space to strategize what to do about the precocious Julia Morland.

Punishment was high on his list.

For regardless of whether Claire was a dim-witted buffoon or a frighteningly convincing actress, he was certain by now that he’d been played by both the young ladies, and the only one he was interested in holding accountable—holding, being of course the primary action—was of course one Julia Morland.

“Well, I got rid of him for you, and it only took what, five days?”

Julia watched Charles’s retreating back and had to bite back a smile. He’d so clearly wanted to retreat for days now. “Yes, and you have my unending thanks. I have no idea what I would have done if he’d insisted on walking with us all day today.”

“Off to conduct more experiments?” Claire asked a bit airily.

“Yes,” Julia said.

“You can tell me what all of this is about, you know.”

“I’m not supposed to.”

“Why? Because Jack’s involved somehow?” At Julia’s look of surprise, Claire continued, “I know you’re doing something not-completely-science-y. Otherwise your father would be more involved. I also know you’re working out of the LeMays’ old gardener’s house, which means that Jack, even if he’s not involved, knows about it, somehow. I’m not a twit.”

“Though you’re quite good at acting like one.”

“Yes, and not always in front of your Mr. Alver.”

When Julia remained silent, Claire gave a delicate shrug of her shoulders. “Fine, don’t tell me. It’s not as if I have any reason to care about what Jack LeMay is up to.”

With that, she gave a brief wave and sauntered off, leaving Julia looking at her and feeling a bit exasperated.

She’d never understood why Jack and Claire had simply stopped getting along a few years ago. In her mind, it simply made no sense. She and Jack were friends. She and Claire were friends. And up until a few years ago, the three of them had been a bit of a trio, hanging out, playing pranks. And then it had all changed—rather suddenly, really. Nowadays, they were forever sniping at, or
about
, one another.

Julia shook her head and continued walking. She didn’t have time to worry about old grudges right now. She had experiments to conduct, a tryst with Charles she wished she could forget, and Robeson’s unwanted advances to contend with.

Unlike Charles, Robeson had made no attempt to seek her out since last week, after he’d pleaded his case so convincingly. Instead, he’d sent notes around Sunday afternoon, and again Tuesday, just to say that he’d thought of her and that he hoped she was thinking of him.

It was, like all things related to Robeson these days, bittersweet.

He’d written her many such notes, years ago. Though at that time, he’d never sent them around formally, for that would have attracted too much attention.

Instead, he’d hidden them in her basket and pressed them into her hand at dinners and assemblies. Receiving his notes, which were always short and to the point and signed with merely his initials, had always seemed like such a thrill, back then.

Now that they arrived on his formal letterhead, delivered by a servant, formally, so that anyone might notice if they merely cared to, it felt as though he were trying to force her hand.

In light of what she now suspected about Charles Alver, it felt blatantly manipulative.

Julia’s thoughts whirled in her mind as she walked, so that she barely noticed when she reached the old gardening house. She was almost—though not quite—in front of the door before she realized that there was someone standing in front of it. And not just anyone.

Charles Alver.

Looking like the proverbial cat that had just caught its prey.

Instead of asking how he had possibly found her, Julia answered her own question by saying, “I mentioned where I was heading the other day, didn’t I?”

Charles nodded in a lazy, self-assured manner. “It’s not a particularly large town, and you’d already made your general direction fairly obvious.” He pushed himself gracefully away from the door and motioned toward the lock. “So, are you going to let me in?”

Julia hesitated, though really, her decision seemed like a foregone conclusion. Despite the fact that she’d used Claire as a shield these past few days, she knew that she would have to face him, and what they’d done—what they’d almost done—eventually.

Besides, she needed to get some answers. There was only so much guessing and theorizing she could do without driving herself crazy. She motioned for him to step aside and withdrew the key, fumbling a little with the lock in her nervousness.

Charles chuckled and leaned in near her neck, so that she could smell the male scent that seemed distinctly him, whispering, “Do I make you nervous?”

She opened the door, finally, and stepped inside, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, for the curtains were still drawn. “Not at all,” she said, with more confidence than she felt.

“That’s too bad,” Charles drawled, entering and then closing the door firmly behind him. “Because I should. That trick you and your stepsister played on me . . .” He paused, and seeing that Julia had no reply, continued, “I’m glad, at the very least, you’re not protesting.”

“I wasn’t ready to face you alone,” Julia said. She went first to one window and then another. She concentrated on her usual routine: she tugged at the curtains and then tied them back with the thick rope she’d brought over when she’d first started using the house. She pulled out a chair by the main desk and began, almost absentmindedly, reorganizing the herbs displayed there. She looked at the samples to make certain they had been dried, labeled, and bundled appropriately.

Some had already been put into vials, for later use, and some had been combined. In her notes, at least, she was meticulous and thorough. She tried to calm herself with these small, mundane actions, things she had done dozens of times before, but she knew that she couldn’t avoid facing him forever, and her hands shook a little as she prepared to turn and face him. Her cheeks burned as she thought, once again, of her unguarded response to him in the woods the other day.

“Julia,” he said, standing far closer to her than she’d realized.

She turned hastily, dropping the bundle of dried lilac she’d picked up for no particular reason, and tried to slide away from him, along the edge of the table. She’d never really thought about it before, but the house, really more of a cottage, was quite small. In the past, it had always seemed to be her own private sanctuary where no one would ever interrupt her. Even Jack never entered, despite the fact that it was his property.