Worth Winning (24 page)

She blushed now, thinking about how deeply she’d thought she’d cared about Archie, and also how far she’d let things go with Charles Alver, a man about whom she knew next to nothing, a man to whom she was, even now, confessing her deepest secrets and fears.

“I tried to apologize the next morning, but he refused to speak to me. A couple of days later we met again at a party, and he pretended nothing had happened. We didn’t mention it, and I thought that . . . I don’t know what I thought, but it was just a week or two later when we received news about his brothers and father. I went to him, to try to comfort him, and he said—”

“Whatever he needed to say to soothe his affronted vanity no doubt.”

“Yes, well, he’d just received some terrible news.” Julia paused, not sure she could stomach trying to defend him, even though she’d tried, with herself and with Claire, in the weeks and months afterward.

Julia looked at Charles, but his expression gave little away. She continued in a flat monotone, “He told me that I’d been nothing more than an amusing diversion, that he could expect better now that he’d inherited, that he didn’t need to worry now about my . . .”

“Go on . . .”

“Tendencies. He said I was a queer one. With my lack of garters and my talk of botanical cures and . . .” she trailed off again. She didn’t mention that it had been what he’d said about his family that had truly shocked her. She hadn’t, initially, been particularly shocked at Robeson’s outburst. Though they’d never before been directed at her, she’d remembered (in hindsight, of course) the little barbed comments he used to make about such-and-such, who he felt had wronged him. But when he’d finished railing at her, he’d gone on to talk about his family, saying he was relieved they were gone, that he didn’t know how else he would have been expected to make his way in the world, that it was the punishment his father had always deserved. The depth of his anger had frightened her. In all their months together, he’d never been more than perhaps a touch cynical, a little defensive, whenever his family came up. She’d had no idea . . . She’d tried to explain it away as grief, but the more time that passed, the less she’d believed her own words. “I initially thought he’d come back.”

“He’d talked marriage?”

Julia nodded. Nothing had been agreed to, but it was a subject he’d brought up, almost as though it were a foregone conclusion.

“Would you have accepted him?”

There was a harshness in the question that made Julia glance up at him, and then, not liking the intensity of his gaze, lower her eyes. She was tempted to ask why it would possibly matter to him but changed her mind; she’d told him this much already, why hold anything back at this point? “I don’t know. There was a time when I would have said yes, and for a while, even after he left . . .” She shrugged. “I was young. I was lonely. I’m not sure what I would have said. The first few times he mentioned it, he’d just seemed to take my acquiescence for granted. I thought that at some point he’d talk to my father or approach me more seriously, and then . . . Well, it’s all a moot point now, isn’t it?”

They were both silent for a moment. Julia focused her gaze on the carpet and missed entirely the play of emotions that passed over Charles’s face.
“What now?” he asked finally.

Julia half-laughed again, wondering how many times she could say she didn’t know or that it didn’t matter. Instead, she surprised even herself by raising her head and asking more directly, “What were the terms? Exactly?”

“I’m not sure . . .” he hedged.

“I deserve to know, don’t you think?” She heard the bitterness laced through her voice and wondered at it.

Brown eyes clashed briefly with gray. His mouth twisted in a wry half smile as he relented. “I had until the end of the summer to produce proof of your . . . affections.”

“In the form of a garter Robeson knew I didn’t wear?”

“A garter . . . ah . . . public displays of devotion, or a formal engagement.”

“You would have proposed? And then what?”

Charles’s lips seemed to thin temporarily, but he gave no other indication of having heard her question.

“Does Lord Billings know?” Julia whispered tonelessly, feeling another hot blush rise up in her cheeks.

He nodded. “He’s here as a witness, actually. The wager was made at one of the clubs, and there is quite a bit of outside money at stake.”

“And for you? Just how much money are we talking about?”

“Two thousand pounds.”

Her head spun. It was more money than her family would see in years. More than they spent in a decade. All for a wager. On a garter.
Her
garter. She had no idea that Robeson had that much money. She’d never really thought about the man he’d become after his inheritance. That he would wager that much money, to teach her a lesson, because he was still angry with her.

“That would be more than enough to reverse your recent . . . reversals of fortune. Wouldn’t it?” She was surprised at how level her voice sounded, as though she were discussing astronomy with her father or the dinner menu with her stepmother. “That’s why you did it? Wasn’t it? Two thousand pounds against my virtue? I suppose I should be thankful that I commanded such a large sum.” Despite her best efforts, her voice broke.

“I didn’t know you then,” he said quietly. “And I never had any intention of harming—”

“That’s no excuse,” Julia said. “You have no right to toy with someone’s affections like this. What if I had been some young, idealistic romantic? I mean, thank God I’m a spinster . . .” She saw his brief grimace, and another piece of the puzzle seemed to shift into place. “Oh, pardon. That’s one of the reasons you agreed, isn’t it? Because I was some destitute country spinster, who wouldn’t know any better? Who would let you seduce her and then, what? Thank you for it?” She was furious, the stream of words flowing as quickly and easily as her tears. She was furious, the stream of words flowing quickly and easily.

Yet she never really cried, not any more.

He stepped forward, as if to comfort her, and she lost what little control she had. She slapped his hand away, and then, feeling as though that slap was an inadequate way of expressing her feelings, she hit him solidly in the chest. He didn’t wince, he didn’t shift; he just stood there, as if she were a kitten that had pawed at him. As if nothing she did made a difference.

“I hate you,” she whispered. She was shocked by her own words. She never said such things, never even thought such things. But she knew, with blinding clarity, that it was both true and not true. She hated everything he’d stirred in her these past few weeks. She hated the ways he’d kissed her and held her and made her feel courted and special and beautiful. She hated that she’d enjoyed his company, looked forward even to the days when she could just be near him, wondering what he would say or do, and all the time, it had been nothing more than a wager.

She hit him again, and then suddenly her arms were flailing against him, and she was yelling and crying and frantic with grief.

For several moments he just stood there, absorbing her blows, shocked at her sudden outcry. She’d been so calm when she’d told him about her past with Robeson, so placidly dismissive of what must have been a horrific end to her one brief, youthful encounter with love and romance. He hadn’t been prepared for her sudden fury, this burst of reconsider. He hoped that it would abate naturally, but he realized after a moment that she seemed to be making herself more frenzied with time; he forced leaden arms to reach out and capture her wrists.

“Stop it.” When his words seemed to have no impact, he said it again, more forcefully. “Stop it, you’ll only hurt yourself.”

She struggled for another moment before her arms went lax, and she allowed him to hold her against his chest. He folded her within his embrace and tucked her slightly disheveled head underneath his chin. He stroked her back soothingly, as gently as he knew how. He felt suddenly protective of her, this girl that he’d unwittingly hurt. This girl who deserved far better than his thoughtless wagers or Robeson’s callous statements, more than the halfhearted devotion of an absentminded scholar or the misguided help of a younger stepsister.

“You deserve more,” he whispered against her hair, not wanting to delve too deeply into his feelings, yet at the same time unwilling to let her go.

She cried as he held her, and he whispered what he hoped were comforting things, until finally she quieted and stilled. When her weight shifted, as if she was preparing to pull herself away, he tightened his arms around her, not quite ready to let her go.

He swallowed and said the only thing he could think of. “It wasn’t all a lie.”

She sniffed, but unlike any other woman of his acquaintance, she did not press him for more. She didn’t ask him which part had been truth, which a lie. She just sniffed, and a fresh wave of tears began to flow.

“Come, I wouldn’t have taken you for the watering pot,” he said, trying a different tack.

She pushed against him, though he still did not loosen his hold, and she then said in a voice that only wavered a little, “It’s been a trying day. Full of interesting discoveries.”

He chuckled. Her humor at least, was something he could deal with and understand.

Charles reluctantly loosened his arms, realizing that he had no earthly reason to continue holding her, other than an odd, primitive need to protect her, to keep her close. Ironic, given that he’d been the reason for her outburst.

“I am sorry, truly.” The words sounded awkward even to his own ears, and he searched for a way to make her believe that he was sincere, not questioning for the moment why her forgiveness mattered so much. “I would never have accepted the bet if I’d known you. And,” he paused. He’d never really had to apologize for much, not since he’d come into his majority, and it was difficult to know what to say, what to admit. “I realize now how arrogant it was for me to have come into this, thinking that I could win a bet, could gamble on someone, anyone’s affections, and walk away unscathed, without harming the other person. These past few weeks I’ve . . . made some discoveries of my own, and I—” he stopped again, as she seemed to be doing little more than stare at him, not giving away the least bit of what she was feeling inside. “What if I told you I still wanted to court you, regardless of the bet?”

He saw her eyes widen and noted dispassionately that Julia Morland was not one of those women who could cry without puffing up. Though her brown eyes were glittering, her long lashes caked in moisture, the rest of her face was decidedly blotchy.

“Why?” she asked bluntly.

Why indeed. He quickly sifted through the answers he was willing to give. The bet was essentially forfeit and had been the moment Julia asked him about it, so it was no use hiding behind that any longer. There was no reason on earth why he should want to stay in Munthrope, of all places, living as though he were a destitute hanger-on, getting disparaging glances from lower-tiered servants and ignored by what passed for local gentry. And yet . . .

“I should never have agreed to this bet. But I don’t regret it.”

He wanted to tell her, then, that it was more than that: he was glad that he’d accepted the wager. Despite the lumpy mattress and the unwanted realizations about how he’d secretly perceived himself, he was not just glad, but grateful, to have met her, to have experienced what it was like to be Mr. Charles Alver. To be flirted with and liked by a girl who cared nothing about his title, who probably wouldn’t have thought of him any differently even if she had. A girl whose awkward conversation and passionate responses had somehow endeared her to him, seducing him by degrees. But he couldn’t yet admit any of these things to her. For one, it would have been perilously close to a declaration, and, more important, he was only now beginning to realize how important she was to him. He wasn’t ready to share such a realization yet, not even with her. Especially not with her, in the present circumstances.

Julia was silent for so long that he finally felt compelled to ask, “Is it inconceivable to you that I enjoy your company? And would like to know you better?”

“Yes, it is.”

He was thrown off by her blunt answer and had to ask her to repeat herself.

Julia shook her head impatiently. “So you’re contending that this is your normal way of meeting women? Agreeing to crazy wagers in the middle of nowhere?”

He knew that his best option was honesty, so he said, as blandly as he could, “At the time, I’d been led to believe that you were a naive spinster with a bit of a temper. Robeson made it sound like . . . we’d be doing you a favor of sorts, a . . . bit of excitement.”

He didn’t stop to think how pompous those words sounded, and he didn’t need Julia’s gentle snort of derision to know he’d erred. He’d learned a lot about himself in a very short period of time—perhaps too much. He tilted her chin up and made sure she was looking into his eyes before he said tenderly, “I’ve already apologized. It’s not my habit to do so, and I won’t be repeating that particular apology. As to the rest . . . here’s what I will admit: I was wrong.” He waited until he was positive she was focused completely on him before continuing. “In reality, we were all wrong. You have an extraordinary temper.”

“Why, you—” Whatever retort she’d been about to make was cut off by the meeting of their lips. He hadn’t planned on kissing her, not initially, but she’d looked so adorable to him just now, a mixture of soft curves and vulnerable femininity, petulance, and newly discovered temper. A perfect, irresistible combination, designed to torment him.

Her lips remained still beneath his for only a moment. He hadn’t known what her response would be, not in the midst of her confusion, not now that everything between them had changed, but after only a brief moment of hesitation, she opened her lips to his, met him willingly, and just a second later, her arms were around his neck.

Her response was unfettered, unrestrained, and seduced him utterly. He, who had bedded some of the most sought-after, skilled paramours high society had to offer, had never felt quite as enthralled, as
enraptured
, as he did at that moment. Never before had his passion, and surprisingly, his emotions, been so quickly aroused, so fully involved. He deepened the kiss on a growl that even he barely recognized and all but crushed her to him. He recognized that the living room of a cottage, with the curtains drawn, was little better than their last interlude, in the woods.