Worth Winning (6 page)

“What?”

“I mean, you seemed to have no problems conversing with me yesterday, rude though I was. But now that we’re actually attempting a more civilized conversation, you’ve resorted to nearly monosyllabic parroting responses.”

“Why would
you
make
me
uncomfortable?” He tried to sneer in his “I’m-an-earl” voice and then realized, a bit belatedly, that such a thing worked better when the opposing party knew you were an earl to be feared and respected.

Julia shrugged her shoulders, unwittingly lifting her well-formed breasts up and then letting them down again, drawing his gaze. “I don’t know. No one’s ever uncomfortable around me. I can hold polite, even meaningless conversations on a variety of topics and murmur soothingly on command. I mean, I’m the vicar’s daughter. Everyone talks with me, walks with me, and sees me as a secondary vessel for their hopes and fears. But no one’s ever uncomfortable around me.”

He narrowed his eyes and shot back, a bit irritated, “Despite your forthrightness? The blunt manner you have of attacking topics and questions head-on? The way you tear apart a question and examine each word to ferret out its specific meaning?”

“That’s more like it,” she said encouragingly, nodding. “Though I think it’d be more accurate to say that people are comfortable around me not
in spite
of my bluntness, but
because
of it. I’m always completely honest in my opinions, and as I see no value in conversational niceties or gossip, I never spread tales.” She paused and then looked at him more closely. “You look . . . almost flushed. Are you feeling quite all right?”

Charles took a deep breath and wondered how to fix the situation. The last thing he needed was for Julia, the girl he was supposed to seduce, to think he was some easily flustered, awkwardly tripping, tongue-tied moron. He had to find a way to converse with her intelligently.

Even if it meant he had to talk about bugs and botany. No, not just bugs in general: aphids.

He took a deep breath and said, “If I may be equally blunt: I have some experience with astronomy, a mere smattering of French, and no particular interest in any of the other subjects you’ve mentioned.” He paused in what he hoped was a meaningful manner, brushing at a stray bug that was flying too near his face. “Aphids, in particular, are a heretofore unexplored topic. I was silent, not because you . . .” he paused and made sure that she met his gaze. He repeated again, “Not
at all
because you make me uncomfortable, but rather, having little interest in, or knowledge of, these topics, it seemed best to let you . . .”

“Chatter?” Julia smiled, a wide, engaging smile that once again revealed neatly lined teeth framed by lush lips. Charles noted with some satisfaction that while she was smiling, her lips didn’t seem too wide but rather just right: utterly kissable. He smiled in return; one part of his herculean task had at least the chance of being pleasurable.

Julia continued. “My apologies. I tend to babble when it seems that people aren’t quite . . .”

“Comfortable?”

“Well, I suppose I should explain that sometimes people are upset in my company—not because of
me
or because they’re uncomfortable around me, but because they’re about to talk about something difficult. People share things with me, difficult things that are hard to talk about, and I’ve gotten used to babbling a bit, when necessary.”

“And you thought it was necessary now?”

“You seemed . . . hesitant. Perturbed. I don’t know, insert your synonym here.”

Uncomfortable. Flushed. Hesitant.

Charles couldn’t remember the last time any of these adjectives had been applied to him. He doubted anyone had ever had the temerity to label him in such a . . . disparaging . . . way, even jokingly, even behind his back.

Next she’d be asking him whether he was about to faint and required smelling salts. Not exactly an auspicious beginning. He squared his shoulders and said in as gravelly a voice as he could manage, “I did not mean to give you such an impression. You do not make me the least bit uncomfortable.” He stopped walking for a moment, tugged on the reins of the recalcitrant mare, and waited until Julia made eye contact. “It’s been a long week of traveling,” he said, rubbing his neck for effect, half-wondering whether he might be overdoing things a bit. He’d never been a good actor. Correction: he’d never before had to act, for any reason. “And Robeson’s accommodations leave much to be desired.”

At the mention of Robeson’s name, it was Julia’s turn to become quiet. They continued walking, Charles leading the mare, Julia leading Charles.

“Have you been friends for long?” she asked at length.

Charles grimaced. He would not, before this particular charade, have classified his relationship with Robeson as a “friendship,” and he doubted that these three months of enforced cohabitation would change that. “Yes and no.”

Julia smiled widely, her eyes twinkling. “Not to encourage you and your perception of me as a decipherer of words and meanings, but an answer like that undoes centuries of formal logic.”

“Formal logic?” He knew he sounded like a parrot, as she had said, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

“While we might disagree on how, exactly, to define the period of time quantified as ‘long,’ the question of whether you can be classified as friends is ultimately a yes or no question.”

Charles rolled his eyes again. It might have just been the heat of the summer day or the distractingly appealing scent or a stomach that hadn’t been fed a well-prepared meal for too long, but he was almost starting to enjoy himself. She talked too much and liked to argue more than answer questions, but there was a certain logic to her madness. In some ways, her dialogue was almost . . . engaging, which was more than he could say for his own sorry efforts.

He smiled, laying a hand briefly on her arm to stop her. Nothing sensual, nothing forward, just a light touch so that she was forced to stop and look at him. He said, “To answer your previous question: you’re the type of pedant who is minutely observant.”

Julia grinned, an effort that had an almost blinding effect. Her eyes sparkled, her teeth gleamed, and her lips curved invitingly. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Charles paused and finally said, “The letter
w
was initially written as what we would think of as two
v
’s, for there were no
u
’s in Latin. Thus the pronunciation for the letter, ‘double
u
,’ was actually a literal reading of two
v
’s, as the letter used to be written.”

“If that’s true, when why don’t we call it a ‘double
v
’?”

Charles looked at her and chuckled. “You know, I’ve never thought about that. I’m fairly certain it’s true, as it’s what my Latin tutor told me. He said a lot of things, actually, though most of them didn’t stick. Trivia seems to have an adhesive quality, supplanting useful knowledge.”

Julia placed both of her hands on her hips, and her eyes rounded a little, as if absorbing his words. “I did not know that,” she said finally.

“The adhesive property of trivia?”

Julia gave a short laugh. “About the
w
.”

Charles smiled broadly, glad that the conversation was finally more firmly in his control. He started walking again, leading the mare, and for once, forcing Julia to follow his lead, though he had no particular idea where they were walking. “Ah. Well. Just trying to fulfill your request to tell you something you don’t know. I’ve found that you’re quite a literal person.”

Julia smiled again, and they looked into one another’s eyes for a moment. None of the debutantes who had flirted coyly with him, none of the mistresses he’d ever kept, had ever flat-out grinned at him as Julia had. They’d always smiled in a reserved way or a seductive way—in ways that were calculated to entice or elicit some response from him. Julia seemed to smile because it was a natural extension of what she was feeling. She was transparent, joyous in a way that was truly infectious.

She tapped her finger along her chin with exaggerated patience and said, “And still you have not answered my initial question.”

“Ah, yes, add tenacious to the list.” He looped the reins around his hands and absently patted Robeson’s mare. He repeated her question: “Are Robeson and I friends?”

Julia kicked at an unoffending rock that was lodged in the trail. “That’s a common delaying tactic.”

“What?”

“Repeating the question. I used to do it too, whenever my father quizzed me. ‘Five times thirteen? You want me to say what thirteen times five is? As in thirteen times five?’ and so on, until I’d enough time to do the addition.”

“Not a maths person?”

“Oh, I loved maths, just not multiplication. Now my stepsister,” she paused, and shook her head. “Claire loathes maths. Used to feign sickness to avoid maths lessons and was always trying to get me to collude with her. I colored her tongue blue once, to try to help out. You wouldn’t believe how upset our parents were.”

“I can only imagine,” he said, his lips quirking. He admitted that she was an amusing baggage, when she wasn’t busy peppering him with questions, as though they were reenacting the Inquisition.

“You have siblings? Or a stepmother?”

Charles smiled and replied, “No—only child, I’m afraid. It’s just that I, too, have always hated maths. So I can relate to your clever little stepsister, though I never went so far as coloring my tongue. What illness was she trying to feign?”

Julia shrugged and said baldly, “Bubonic plague.”

When Charles laughed, she continued, “We were both young and had no idea what symptoms should have manifested. My father was terribly upset—said we didn’t understand the devastation of illness and . . . well, he’s a rector. Suffice it to say that we had to sit through several lectures not only about our ability to be sensitive, empathetic Christians but also about what the actual symptoms look like. My father hates it when we’re inaccurate, even in our lies.”

Julia stopped walking and looked pointedly at Charles, eyebrows raised to remind him that she hadn’t forgotten her original question. “You. Lord Robeson. Friends?”

He tilted his head in acknowledgment, saying, “Fine. I’ll admit to stalling. The truth is complicated and a bit awkward to answer: more no than yes. Robeson and I have known one another for years. We have friends and”—he paused; he couldn’t very well say “mistresses”—“acquaintances that sometimes overlap. But we’ve never been particularly close.”

It might have been his imagination, but he could almost feel the tension easing out of her. She started walking again, and the basket of lemons swung to the rhythm of her gait. Charles frowned at the basket. He was certain he ought to have asked to carry it—that it would have been the gentlemanly thing to do. But now, so far into their walk, it felt silly to suddenly break rhythm and ask.

“And yet you don’t call him Lord Robeson. You don’t treat him deferentially.”

Charles inclined his head. That was, indeed, a slip on his part. As a mere mister, he probably should have been slightly more reverential and formal in his address. He forced a fake shrug. “As I said, we’ve known each other for a long time. We’ve never been close, but we’ve never stood on formality, either.”

She didn’t press him further, didn’t question why he was staying with someone who wasn’t actually a friend, and Charles said, a bit tentatively, “I gather you’re not friends.”

Julia smiled. Even to Charles, who admittedly didn’t know her well, it didn’t seem like a happy smile. “In the past, more yes than no. He was younger, obviously, and hadn’t inherited.”

He repeated her words and tone in his head several times before asking, “You make it sound almost like a bad thing that he’s a viscount.”

“It doesn’t appear to have made him happy, does it?” She made it sound more like a statement than a question, and even Charles could tell that now was not the time to press further. Though he hadn’t really marked their steps, he noticed that they were approaching a nicely proportioned but modest-looking two-story. More house than cottage, though just barely.

Julia turned toward him now, opening the wooden half gate that was clearly more for decoration than function, and said, “You’re welcome to come in for tea, if you’d like.”

Charles gazed at the welcoming entrance: a variety of flowers was in full bloom: marigolds fought with hyacinths in a variety of boxes, and a variety of perennials whose names he would have been hard pressed to remember decorated the short path up to the front door. Trees that sorely needed tending had low-hanging branches, making it seem almost as though they were framing the walk to the house. It looked quaint and inviting: nothing like the well-groomed lawns and expansive grounds he employed an army of gardeners to tend to, but still, it was quite obvious that the cook’s vegetable garden hadn’t been the sole beneficiary of Julia’s aphid spray.

“I think I’ve rarely heard a less welcoming invitation,” he drawled finally, wondering why she seemed to have withdrawn a bit from him.

“Nonsense. I’m the vicar’s daughter. I invite people in all the time, and I always mean it.”

She pursed her lips. Charles’s gaze was drawn immediately toward them, and he noticed again how full and almost lush they appeared. Though she was not out of breath from their walk, the mixture of sun, conversation, and mild exertion had added a delightful blush to her cheeks, and now that he had the opportunity to examine her more closely, and in finer detail, he realized that although she was not classically beautiful, there was an allure to her fresh-faced appearance.

He looked down at his own attire, thinking that he was too wrinkled to be presentable, and then realizing that he didn’t exactly have anything more suitable at his disposal.

“Perhaps another day,” he said. This, at least, was a response he was practiced at giving. He’d murmured these exact words countless times in response of a variety of invitations, of which being invited to the vicarage for tea ranked as the most innocent. Never before, though, had his rejection been met with such . . . relief. There was no other way to describe Julia’s breezy smile and almost careless wave.