Worth Winning (4 page)

With a sigh, she straightened and said simply, “He’s back.”

Claire’s china-doll features arranged themselves into a picture of shock, her dainty mouth curving into an O, her blue eyes widening ingenuously. Julia sighed inwardly. Even when she
wasn’t
trying, Claire was one of the most attractive women in the village. Even now, in a plain day dress that didn’t have any particular embellishments, she looked ravishing. Sunlight glinted off her hair, her unblemished skin was as smooth as alabaster, and there was just enough color in her cheeks to be called a healthy, attractive bloom. Claire put her pencil down and carefully slid whatever she’d been working on underneath a large stack of drawings, swinging her legs and body around so that she was sitting upright. Her movements were careful, fluid, and decidedly ladylike. No wonder Julia had always felt like a graceless lump in comparison.

Claire gave Julia’s clothes, which she hadn’t bothered to change or clean, and which were as dusty and wrinkled as ever, a once-over before raising her eyebrows in an unspoken question.

“Exactly. After eight years, this,” Julia said, gesturing broadly at herself and picking off a leaf that had lodged in the folds of her skirts, as if for emphasis, “
this
is how I looked.”

It was to her credit that Claire didn’t waste time with needless platitudes or condolences. Though she’d been too young to understand what Julia had been going through at the time, they’d grown close over the years. Besides Jack LeMay, with whom Julia had grown up and whom she considered her best friend and confidant, despite their disparate dispositions, genders, and, more recently, financial positions, Claire was the only one who knew of her past relationship.

She sighed.

She appreciated Claire’s support and understanding, but she missed the way Jack listened and supported her, without judgment, often without even offering advice, just listening and allowing her to vent as much as she needed to. But it had been years since Jack had been home for longer than he strictly needed to be; these days he was always too immersed in traveling and business, in setting up new homes, to respond to her letters, promising he’d visit soon, they’d talk soon.

“It’s not irredeemable. You can recover, if you want to.”

Julia sighed. “To what end?” Over the years, Julia had often daydreamed about what it might be like to meet Archie again, to have Archie realize the mistakes he’d made, to have Archie grovel, apologetically, at her feet, to . . .

Well, in truth, Julia’s fantasies had never evolved past abject, profuse groveling.

Claire spoke carefully but in a bland tone that was completely unlike her normal self. “Don’t tell me you’re not even a little interested? The long-lost love? It’s got all the makings of one of those gothic novels you’re always pretending not to read.”

Julia laughed a little, a bit surprised at the answer she was about to give. “I thought I would be. I’ve dreamed of what it’d be like to meet Archie again, after all this time. I certainly hoped I’d look better and . . .” She shook her head. “He’s quite handsome now.”

She had hoped for some sort of feminine sympathy, for wouldn’t it have been far better for Robeson to have returned a fat and slobbering mess? Wouldn’t she then have felt, if not justified, at least a tiny bit vindicated in all her past decisions and actions? Instead, all Claire said was, “I can’t wait to meet him.”

Julia rolled her eyes. “You know what he’s like, or at least what I’ve told you. You wouldn’t really try to make him one of your admirers, would you?”

“Oh, of course not. For one, he’s yours by right. You met him first, and had him once, so there’s definitely a proprietary stake there. For another, I mean, even accounting for the whole woman-scorned thing, I’m not sure I understand
at all
what you saw in him.”

“Then you want to meet him because . . .”

“Well, I’m as curious as the next girl. To meet the one man you were ever interested in . . . and, I’ll admit, it will be interesting to practice on a viscount.”

“Right. Of course the viscount’s just target practice as far as you’re concerned.”

“The safest and best kind. He’s lived in London for years, you’ve told me he’s handsome, and given your past history with him, there’s not the slightest chance I’d ever feel anything other than disgust. It’s an amazingly unique opportunity for me to practice.”

“Oh God,” Julia said, before muttering an apology, for she was enough of a vicar’s daughter occasionally to feel guilty. “Don’t tell me this is your whole Art of Seduction thing again?”

“What else?” She patted her hair quite unnecessarily before continuing. “Enough about me, tell me more about what it was like, meeting your Archie again after all these years.”

“He’s not mine anymore, and he’s not Archie, either.” Julia paused, trying to gather her thoughts. “Robeson is quite, quite handsome now. I don’t think even your artist’s eye would find fault with his physique or appearance. I’ve no doubt he’ll be the cynosure of the entire town.”

“But you didn’t feel even one small, minute iota? After carrying a torch for him all—”

Julia interrupted her stepsister, feeling righteously indignant. “I have
not
carried a torch!”

Claire let the silence stretch out between them. Though she was the younger of the two, she’d always been far more adept at all manner of social machinations. As such, she knew when to let silence stretch, and when a telling look accomplished just as much as a monologue. “You haven’t pined in the traditional sense, but you certainly haven’t allowed yourself to be pursued, either. As long as I’ve known you, it’s like you’re . . . men-repellent.”

“That’s not a word or a phrase or . . . anything, really.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Though Julia could have cheerfully argued Claire into the ground on the first point, she couldn’t, truthfully, say anything about the latter. After Archie had left, and she’d finally admitted to herself that he was never coming back, she had . . . changed. Before him, she’d assumed that she’d probably find someone to marry at some point. That she’d have children and settle down. After Archie . . . well, everything had been different. After.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Julia said finally.

Claire looked away and shuffled the drawings that were scattered around both her bed and the night table. “He’s not worth it, you know, no matter how handsome he’s gotten.”

“I thought you were the one trying to encourage me to be interested, just a moment ago?”

“Please,” Claire said, looking up, her delicate eyebrows arched haughtily. “As a human being? Robeson is clearly far, far beneath you. There’s not a single story or example you’ve shared with me that would even begin to suggest that he’s worthy of being your first love. But then again, that’s the beauty of first loves—we grow out of, and get over, them.”

“You’re very young to sound so experienced.”

“I don’t pretend to be as clever as you in any other subject. But in terms of men? And relationships? I would say I’m practically gifted. So when I tell you that he’s not worthy, I mean it. I’m just hoping that now that he’s here, you’ll finally see it yourself.”

Back in her own room, Julia went to her mirror and looked again at her reflection. Her nose was still a little red, her freckles . . . decidedly unflair-like.

She touched them gingerly and wondered whether she owed Mr. Alver an apology. He surely hadn’t meant to offend her and couldn’t have known that freckles were a particularly sensitive topic.

The first time they’d talked, Robeson had complimented her on her freckles. He’d pointed out that they looked like little constellations, and though he’d been unable to specify Hydra versus Sagittarius, and though another woman might have been put off by such a compliment, it had seemed unique and thoroughly charming to Julia. She’d been flattered that someone had taken the time to look at a feature she had always considered a flaw and pleased that he’d tried to spin it as a positive. The fact that she’d been going through an astronomy phase at the time, devouring everything from reproductions of Doppelmayr’s plates to Flamsteed’s atlases . . . well, that had just been an ultimately unfortunate happenstance.

She looked away from the mirror, not wanting to remember or dwell too much in the past. She’d thought she’d known her own heart. For that matter, she’d trusted Archie when he’d said that she was the only woman for him, that she . . .

Julia shook her head. In the years since Archie had left, Claire had tried, frequently and unsuccessfully, to play matchmaker. She’d tried to teach her older stepsister that men often communicated more clearly in their actions than with their words. She’d said that the way a man looked was just as important as the way he
didn’t look
, and the way his head tilted or didn’t tilt said just as much as his words. Details that Julia always seemed to miss . . .

Truly, it gave her a headache, just thinking about it.

Julia noticed things about the people she cared about, certainly. Things like coughs and hoarse voices, backaches and extra bags under her father’s eyes when he’d been up too late: ailments that were physical in nature and for which there were, if not solutions, at least possible antidotes. Ginger and chicken broth. Tea with honey. A warmed-up pillow. She was a problem solver by nature and enjoyed not only helping but also correctly deducing how best to help.

But details like indrawn breaths, slanted or narrowed eyes, noticing without being obvious about noticing, the little tightening expressions and other interpersonal signals and subtleties had always eluded her. If she were paying attention, she could catch some of what Claire reported and observed, but she just didn’t understand why it should be important. It had always seemed to her that people should say what they meant.

If they were attending a musical performance, Julia was more likely focused on the music or whether the piano needed tuning than on the expressions of those around her. If they were watching a performance or a play or attending a lecture, Julia was more likely scribbling notes and cataloguing dresses.

It wasn’t until afterward, when her stepsister or stepmother, Phyllis, started gossiping about dresses that had needed mending, constitutions that had looked sickly, or the way so-and-so had answered a question subtly that Julia would remember: for most people, a musical or theater production was really two different performances—the one that happened on stage and the one that took place before and after the play and during intermission. To people like Claire, Phyllis, and most of the people in Munthrope, the little slights and half compliments, the tidbits of news and gossip were the most interesting parts of an outing.

The simple truth of the matter was that with her artist’s eye and her naturally extroverted personality, Claire had always been particularly adept at noting physical and social cues that went far beyond Julia’s understanding or interest. When someone said she liked Julia’s dress, she simply accepted the compliment as such. She trusted that if someone felt the need to insult her dress, she would do so directly, and she also knew that Claire or Phyllis would tell her afterward what had really been meant . . . if there really had been a second, more subtle, insinuation.

She sighed.

Julia preferred astronomy. Greek philosophy. Math. Science. Law.

She liked things that could be observed and documented objectively. She’d never again try to engage a man’s interest, mostly because she’d never understand the complicated courtship rituals where “yes” sometimes meant “no” and where you were supposed to encourage and discourage at the same time—in just the right proportions.

And now that Archie was back? Even she didn’t know what she truly wanted—or didn’t want. What she felt—or didn’t feel.

“Invigorating,” Charles muttered, not entirely under his breath.

The fact that he’d had to ask Robeson to
lend
him a steed had been demeaning enough. He, who had one of the finest stables in Britain, whose stable masters were regularly courted by the peers of the realm . . . having to ask Robeson, whose taste in horseflesh was mediocre, at best.

But the chestnut mare Robeson had lent him, though docile enough, was . . . well . . . docile. Lethargic. Riding her was probably faster than walking, though just barely. Anything above a light canter had the distinctively substandard beast straining under him. The morning gallop with which Charles was accustomed to starting his days was out of the question.

Which, of course, brought Robeson’s snide comment into perspective. When he’d mentioned that he’d have one of his chestnuts harnessed and readied, he’d said he hoped that Charles would have an “invigorating and rejuvenating” morning ride. Robeson said he’d need to conserve his energy, if he was still serious about pursuing Julia Morland.

“Rejuvenating,” Charles muttered, lightly flicking the reins to reclaim the attention of his easily distracted mare, who had used her rider’s distraction to chomp on a bit of grass.

If Robeson, Loretta, or anyone else who knew him could see him now, no doubt they would have laughed themselves silly. Riding an out-of-shape mare. In the middle of Munthrope, as aptly named a backwater village as he’d ever heard of.

Charles ran his fingers lightly over his jaw, trying not to disturb the bits of paper he’d been forced to adhere to the biggest two cuts that he’d incurred during the worst shave he’d had in years.

Charles had always thought of himself as a fairly self-sufficient man. He’d never thought of himself as particularly pampered. He preferred to have his cravats tied in simple knots. He didn’t succumb to the latest fashion crazes or dangle needless fobs and charms from his person. He didn’t demand intricate, five-course meals prepared in the latest French styles.

Still, even in the week that he’d been away from his London townhouse, and the two days that he’d been without the services of his secretary and valet, both of whom had traveled with him until the last possible moment, he could already tell that he’d sorely underestimated how invaluable his staff had always been. He’d never actually traveled without them, not even when he’d gone to Eton or later, Cambridge.