Worth Winning (5 page)

He was the son of an earl, the heir to an earl. Even when he stayed with friends as a guest, it was always understood that he expected—was accustomed to—a certain standard of living.

Drinks were brought to him before he thought to ask for them. Extra towels were offered, his goose down pillows were always fluffed ahead of time. People waited, breathlessly, for him to pass judgment on a particular wine pairing or the sweetness of a particular dessert.

He’d often felt suffocated by the fawning attention and almost senseless adoration. After all, what made them think
he
was qualified to give an opinion on chocolate trifles? He’d thought that he would have felt relieved to be free of it all, to be treated like an ordinary man with ordinary opinions.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, startling his ambling mare into a temporary trot. “More fool me.”

He’d slept for two nights now on an uncomfortable mattress with a lumpy pillow in what was surely the barest of guest suites he’d ever occupied. All of which had inspired new appreciation for his housekeeper and the maids he employed. Obviously he’d taken for granted the fact that they always selected sheets and blankets that were soft, comfortable, and easy on the eyes—unlike the garishly embroidered blankets he’d slept under the last couple of nights. More than that, he’d clearly never before stopped to think that his sheets must have been changed and laundered on a daily basis.

He’d never before slept on a sloppily made-up bed that he’d already slept in.

Further, after cutting himself no less than seven times over the course of his two morning shaves—five times the first day and only three on the second, which meant he was improving—he couldn’t help but miss the smooth and confident administrations of his well-trained valet.

He’d endured two days of solitary, lackluster breakfasts consisting of watery eggs, soggy toast, and lukewarm coffee, while Robeson and Billings slept in and no doubt had superior breakfasts delivered to them. And he’d had to ask—not just ask, but actually
find
a maid so that he could ask, as though it were a favor, and not part of a regularly established routine—for the morning papers.

It was slowly, painfully beginning to dawn on him that his life up until now had been dependent upon a host of small luxuries and taken-for-granted details he’d never been aware of.

He didn’t know what to do with his dirtied clothes, now that there was no attending servant to pick them up and arrange for them to be laundered. When he’d come to his bedroom last night, he’d almost tripped over them—he’d left them in the middle of the room, and there they had apparently stayed, all day.

His shoes, which were comfortable and which he’d never noticed much before, were clearly in need of a polish. And while he’d known that his shoes didn’t polish themselves, it had never before occurred to him that he’d have to
do something
to make the polishing happen.

The fresh basin of cool water containing a sprig of mint—he didn’t even know whom he had to thank for that detail—with which to rinse his face, was also something he’d had to request.

And, to add additional injury to each of these insults, all his questions and requests had been met with a raising of eyebrows, as if to say: A mere mister? Requesting special treatment?

“Mint?” the middle-aged maid had sniffed, giving him an undisguised once-over.
“I’ll see what I can do, sir,” she’d said in a tone that had implied the opposite.

Charles wondered briefly whether Robeson had a hand in this—whether Robeson had told his staff that Charles was a penniless mister, hanging on his coat sleeves. Knowing Robeson, he’d probably told his staff to treat Charles with extreme prejudice and disdain.

But no. Charles shook his head. He doubted Robeson would have done anything to draw particular attention to Charles or his situation. That would only have drawn suspicion. And what they needed was for all three months of this damnable bet to pass in relative silence and anonymity. Robeson had likely said nothing: the last thing he wanted was his servants gossiping.

Which meant there was a hierarchy that even the servants adhered to, to which Charles had simply never been exposed before.

For example, he’d noted already that Oliver had been given a far more comfortable-looking suite of rooms, which had actually made him jealous—
jealous!
—of Oliver! And he doubted that Oliver had had to ask for fresh water as if it were some sort of privilege to be granted.

The first thing he was going to do when he got back to London was give his valet a raise. A big one. And, for that matter, his housekeeper, butler, cook, and secretary—the entire fleet of servants who had kept his life running like a well-oiled machine in a thankless manner for the past few years . . . all of them deserved raises. And better pensions.

He vowed to track down which one of his enterprising staff had thought of adding mint sprigs to his daily morning bowl of water and personally thank that person. Clearly, whoever it was deserved a bonus. Never again would he take for granted the fact that his mail was organized, that his beds were turned down, and that he slept on clean, freshly laundered sheets.

He pulled absently at the reins, noticing that his mare, whose name he hadn’t bothered to find out, had stopped again. “I’m not really that bad, am I?”

“If you have to ask . . .”

Charles turned and smiled: at least one part of this morning was going well. He’d wondered how to engineer a meeting with Julia and was more than ready to share in a joke if it meant he’d finally be able to converse with her peaceably, without argument. “And now it looks as though we’ll have to add eavesdropping to your list of attributes.”

“A misuse of the word: eavesdropping implies that I’m secretly listening in on a private conversation.” She was wearing another serviceable but otherwise drab dress, cleaner than yesterday’s, but still quite plain—made of a sturdy brown cloth. She spread her arms wide, so that her basket, half-full of lemons, again, swung a bit. Charles noted once again that although she was just passably pretty, she had a fine figure, one that was rounded in all the right places.

Oblivious to his scrutiny, Julia continued, “As we’re out in the open . . .”

“Are you always so pedantic?” he teased as he dismounted gingerly from the mare, so that he’d be able to make eye contact without straining his neck.

“That depends entirely on which definition you’re asking about. Overly concerned with minute details? Sometimes. Bookish and academic? Definitely.”

Charles pondered this quietly, wondering how best to proceed. One of the many realizations he’d come to over the past couple of days was that he was wholly unsuited to the particular task of wooing a woman on his own merits and charms. As his wealth and reputation had always been known, the women of his acquaintance had always fallen into two categories:

1. Viperously Aggressive Women who were actively pursuing him (like Loretta), and

2. Willingly Passive Women who were more than willing to succumb, with the barest of efforts on his part.

He’d viewed every performance, ball, or dinner he’d ever attended as a buffet of sorts. He had only to choose: this girl, at this time.

He’d spent more time thinking about how not to pay compliments and how to minimize emotions, so the women wouldn’t get overly attached to him, than about how he might actually engage a woman who wasn’t already half-interested in him. Who hadn’t even heard of him—or, perhaps more to the point, of his title, his fortune.

How did one converse with the opposite gender? He had no younger sisters, no female cousins he’d grown up with; he had no experience with women outside of his mother (now a distant memory) and his various mistresses (none of whom had made a particular impression on him). So what did the Olivers and the Robesons of the world talk about when trying to attract someone? How did one prove himself a worthy, attentive suitor?

“You . . . are devoted to your studies?” He winced inwardly at this rather gauche attempt to engage Julia in conversation. Clearly, his powers of articulation had abandoned him. Perhaps it was better when she baited him; at least then there was a more natural way to extend their conversation.

She gave him an odd look, raising her eyebrows ever so slightly, and then nodded. Mercifully, she did not merely nod and make him suffer in silence. She extrapolated, “Yes. Though I’m not particularly devoted to any one subject. I’m afraid I’m rather fickle by nature. I love studying things . . . just never the same one for an overly long period of time.”

This at least he could understand. What was more, he neither needed nor wanted Julia Morland’s faithful attentions: a temporary infatuation suited his needs perfectly. He motioned for Julia to continue walking, and she indicated with a tilt of her head that she would accept his company. Their strides matched surprisingly well, and he once again noticed the pleasant scent of lemons mixed with soap.

It was a cool, slightly misty morning. The bright crispness on of the grass made a pleasant contrast to the browns of their attire, and the fresh, crisp air was a welcome change from the clouded London smog. There was a creek at the edge of his vision. Left to himself, he might have been happy just ambling along in companionable silence: he enjoyed the countryside and frequently visited his estates in Hampshire and Oxfordshire. But the constraints of his wager with Robeson, as well as the forfeits that would be required if he lost, weighed heavily on his mind. He had three months to attract this girl to him, and companionable silence, while perfectly fine—even moderately desirable under most conditions—did not seem conducive to obtaining public declarations, temporary (fake) engagements, or . . . garters.

After another minute of silence, Charles tried again, “So what, particularly, have you liked studying in the past?” He cringed, wondering whether he’d really just asked that. He thought back to all the seemingly witless debutantes he’d turned down or snubbed, merely because they’d asked similarly innocuous questions. Remarks that were obviously designed to prolong a conversation artificially. He thought back to the lofty way he’d often responded . . . or rather, the look of utter disdain he’d allow his face to assume when he
didn’t
respond.

He tugged at his collar, wondering if this was how they’d felt when they had approached him.

Julia, however, either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She answered simply, “Botany, astronomy, philosophy, literature . . . French, for a little while. Botany again.”

“That’s quite the spread,” he said before he could stop himself. Inwardly he groaned and admitted to himself that he had the conversational skills of a groat. No, worse. He racked his mind for an inanimate object less scintillating than a common coin and came up with nothing.

He tried to think of something interesting to say about any of the subjects she’d listed: he hated botany, and astronomy had been interesting when he was in school, but unfortunately not particularly memorable. He struggled to come up with something that would sound relevant: Why yes, did you know that Tycho Brahe had a fake nose? He was an astronomer, you know! Of course you know. Don’t you think that’s fascinating! Speaking of celestial objects . . .

No, there was nothing he could say that would be particularly on point or engaging, and he had no way of knowing whether her sense of humor would allow for comments comparing astronomical entities with similarly spherical anatomical objects.

Meanwhile, Julia was still speaking, continuing as if his infrequent murmurs and parrot-like responses were relevant and perhaps even encouraging. “My father considers himself a bit of a scholar and so I, of course, blame him for my more academic propensities. Other women spend their time knitting and painting; me, I devoted four months to learning that watered-down lemon juice, vinegar, and garlic water can all be used to repel aphids and that certain combinations have an almost synergistic effect.”

“Aphids.” His mind scrambled away from astronomical facts that were no longer relevant, and he tried desperately to remember something he’d learned about aphids so that he could finally take the conversational reins back in hand.

He drew a blank.
Again.

Meanwhile, a small corner of his mind was screaming in protest: he was supposed to spend the long summer months seducing a girl who was only passably pretty and who thought that talking about garden bugs was appropriate? Or worse, interesting? “Aphids?” he asked, trying to imbue that one word with as much meaning and encouragement to continue as he possibly could.
“Yes, they were damaging the roots of our garden vegetables. Not that I enjoy dealing with aphids, in particular, but what’s a small sacrifice in the name of scientific advancement?”

He closed his eyes and allowed her to babble. If there was anything less interesting than aphids, it was surely the roots they were feeding upon; still, there was the bet to consider. He pointed to the lemons in her basket, realizing belatedly that he should, perhaps, have offered to carry them for her, and asked, “And those lemons, are they for your freckles or the aphids?”

Julia hesitated ever so slightly before tilting her head a bit and replying, “Neither. They’re for another project entirely. An experiment of sorts.”

“How interesting.”

Charles closed his eyes. He often said “How interesting” when really he meant “Please stop talking” and had developed a certain way of delivering the line. It didn’t help that this time, he really
had
meant “how interesting,” not because it was interesting, but rather because the more she talked, the less he would be required to contribute.

Still, he knew that his tone had probably convinced her of the exact opposite.

He took another step and almost tripped. When he opened his eyes, he found that Julia had cocked her head to one side and was staring at him with a perplexed expression that he found oddly appealing—when her features softened and her self-protective mechanisms relaxed, she was actually moderately fetching.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Her voice sounded concerned—almost kind, as if he were an injured child she’d caught trying not to cry.