With her stepsister’s naturally artistic flair, her input on everything from label making to approvals of scents could have proven invaluable. By now, Jack’s minifactories functioned not only as businesses but as residences for women in need, offering temporary shelter for women who were distressed and unable to provide care for themselves or, too often, their children. Claire’s naturally social abilities could have been used to smooth over many small squabbles and misunderstandings, often stemming from issues that Julia was simply less inherently equipped to handle—or even detect. But on this point, though she’d asked him explicitly, Jack had been resolute: he was particularly adamant that Claire not know.
Julia sighed and pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders. It wasn’t something she had ever been able to understand. Claire and Jack were the two people she trusted and knew best, and they’d all gotten along fairly well when they’d been younger, despite the eight-year age gap between them and Claire. When Claire’s mother had first married Julia’s father, Julia had thought there would be a period of transition, but Claire had been readily accepted into their group. They’d swum and fished together, taken long rambling walks, and picked fruit together. They’d joked and laughed and told one another everything and anything.
But in more recent years . . .
It wasn’t just that they were less close. There was almost an animosity between Jack and Claire. And no matter how much Julia poked and prodded, trying to get a coherent answer out of them, neither had ever offered a reason beyond, “He (or she) just gets on my nerves.”
Something that was more or less physiologically impossible. A fact that neither Claire nor Jack had appreciated her pointing out.
Chapter 5
“I think it’s time you told me exactly what happened between you and Julia Morland.” Charles was pleased to hear that the note of authority was back in his voice. Clearly, even in disguise, he was capable of reasonable, intellectual conversation. Just not with Julia, apparently.
It was the middle of the afternoon, yet it was the first time Robeson and Charles had crossed paths that day. Robeson had slept late, enjoyed lunch in bed, and had only recently stirred. All of which Charles had learned from Oliver. He’d tried to ask one of the passing maids, who had informed him rather icily that she was sure she didn’t know (in a tone clearly implying that even if she had known, she wouldn’t be telling the likes of him). He’d walked down the hall and up and down the stairs a dozen times, checking and double-checking the library, trying to find an opportune time to corner Robeson.
Clearly, the bet was turning him into some sort of obsessive . . . harasser. A pest. A nag.
“Pardon?” Robeson adjusted his position on one of the chaise lounges ever so slightly, swirling in a cup something that might once have resembled tea. It was milky and almost viscous with sugar, which made it hard to discern its identity.
Robeson’s tone sounded bored and unaffected, but Charles was not so easily fooled.
“Don’t prevaricate. Clearly, there is a history between the two of you.” He paced as he spoke, noting the faded hues of what must once have been a rich Persian rug.
Robeson took the spoon out of his cup and put it back into the sugar bowl, leaving it there to contaminate the entire container. “What has the chit said?”
“Nothing.” Charles moved a chair so that he could sit in front of Robeson and force eye contact. Then he waited. He watched as Robeson looked down and around and then to either side of the room, as if the answer were tucked away behind one of his chair cushions.
Robeson pursed his lips. “She had a youthful infatuation. One that did not end well.”
Charles was quiet. Not for a moment did he believe that was all there was to the story. Julia Morland didn’t seem like the kind of woman who succumbed easily to one-sided infatuations. “She doesn’t seem the type.”
Robeson raised his eyebrows, as if to say: maybe she isn’t the type when it comes to you. But Charles was not convinced. “I’ve only met her twice, but I know women, and I say again: she doesn’t seem the type to make calf eyes at someone without encouragement.”
Robeson put his cup down and then spread his hands wide. “I’m not one to brag, but it was a bit of an embarrassment, really.” Robeson chuckled, as if he’d said something particularly witty. “She made quite the nuisance of herself, babbled her head off any time I was around until I could barely stand to go to the larger gatherings. She was always trying to impress me with trivia about this or that, astrology or astronomy, something along those lines. Apparently she thought of herself as a burgeoning scholar and thought that I would be impressed or perhaps find her desirable for her . . . mind.”
Charles forced his face to remain blank. It was disconcerting that Robeson was painting a familiar version of Julia, and though part of him suspected Robeson was still lying, still hiding something, there was now enough truth mixed in that it would be a difficult mixture to separate.
“It must have been what, seven, eight years ago?” Robeson lounged farther back in the cushions and tried for a look of nonchalance. He waved generally at the room around them. “This particular estate was owned by an eccentric aunt of mine I’d only met a handful of times. The property wasn’t entailed, and she’d never had any children of her own.”
“Yes, yes, you charmed your aunt into . . .”
“Nothing of the sort. According to her, I was the ‘least offensive’ relative she had. So she promised me the estate. She wrote, asking me to visit the estate so she could go over some details. You’ll remember, or perhaps not, that I was a third son. I didn’t think I’d ever inherit anything else. That’s how I met”—there was a briefly, slightly artificial pause before he continued—“Miss Morland. She wasn’t all that young. My sister was only a year older and already had a child, but, well, you’ve met her. I doubt the vicar and his wife ever seriously considered playing matchmaker or anything of the sort. She was, even then, already more interested in constellations than courtship.”
Charles snorted. “Except when it came to you?”
Robeson flashed a smile. “I was young.” He shrugged and leaned farther back, stretching one long leg up until it rested on the end table. “Bored. The first few times we met, she always had her nose buried in her books, and it seemed . . . an interesting way to pass time.”
“To make her fall in love with you?”
Robeson’s response was a lifted eyebrow.
Frustrated, Charles said finally, “Yes, yes, I’m the snake, and you’re the crab.”
Robeson looked at him, clearly confused.
“You never did pay attention in history, did you? Fine, I’m the pot to your kettle, the stone to your glass head. I’m accusing you of doing what I’m currently attempting. Now, if you could get on with it.”
There was a brief pause before Robeson said, “I could’ve taken advantage but didn’t. I mean, she is a vicar’s daughter, after all.”
“And you did nothing to actively encourage her?”
Robeson shrugged. “A few harmless compliments, and she was infatuated. I’m sure I would have been flattered, except that’s the summer my father and brothers passed.”
They were both silent for a moment: it had been the news of the season of course—a terrible fever, was the story. The Barrington men had all been in Italy: the only reason Robeson had been spared was because he hadn’t gone with them. What a blessing, everyone had said: that something of the family survived, that the viscounty wouldn’t revert to some distant relation.
Robeson continued, “I rushed back to London to handle the affairs. I inherited a title I’d never thought to have, estates I had no experience managing. And, of course, there were the arrangements. You wouldn’t believe the fuss it was, just to have their bodies shipped back.” His gaze grew distant for a moment. “And the rest, as they say . . .” He made a small spiraling motion with his fingers and seemed momentarily to be lost to his memories.
Charles hadn’t k
nown Robeson well enough to know whether he’d been close to his father or brothers and had had only the gossip to go on, almost all of which had been focused on what a tragedy it had all been, what an unexpected blow. He was silent, as surely a moment of silence was warranted. He tried to digest what Robeson had revealed and found it a bit difficult to imagine a younger Robeson, bored, but ultimately restrained and acting the gentleman.
Still, hadn’t he himself made his own share of mistakes in the past? He’d certainly led on one or two particularly forward debutantes only to drop them, losing interest once the chase was over, dismissing the incidents as worthy lessons learned for the women in question. He’d never taken it further than flirtation, so who was to say that Robeson might not have shown similar restraint? And Robeson’s portrayal of Julia was plausible; clearly she was not a woman who did things in half measures. She was unabashed about the various subjects she enjoyed, and it wasn’t inconceivable that a younger, perhaps less assured, version of Julia might have fallen for a man like Robeson and then have gotten carried away. He could almost see her making a nuisance of herself, believing that being truthful and forward about her feelings was the correct and most appropriate thing to do.
It would be the least painful explanation as to why she’d hesitated and then spoken of Robeson in an almost wistful tone of voice.
“Then what exactly made you pick her for me, if she was such an easy conquest all those years ago? Why not pick someone who’d be more of a challenge?”
Robeson smiled, raised his eyebrows slyly, and said, “I hear she’s gone off men.”
“I see.”
It was all Charles said, and after a moment, Robeson said in a goading voice, “What, exactly, do you think you see?”
“You believe she still cares for you.”
Robeson tilted his head and took his foot off the table. He put his cup and saucer down and then rested his hands on his knees, leaning forward. “I don’t have to explain myself. I don’t owe you anything. I tell you merely because it amuses me, as does this entire exercise in futility.”
“You’re that certain of the outcome, then?”
Robeson shook his head, almost sneering, “You and your arrogance. You’ve always made me sick, you know that? As if your earldom makes you somehow superior. Yes. I’m certain of the outcome. I would not have entered this bet, and I would not have chosen Julia Morland, if I didn’t think the outcome was a foregone conclusion, and if I didn’t believe that I’d come out, for once, as victor over you.”
Charles narrowed his eyes and decided that it wasn’t worth his while to continue this argument. What he couldn’t understand was why Robeson seemed to resent him so. Everything Charles had told Julia was true: he and Robeson shared some common acquaintances and had crossed paths a few times but were not—and never really had been—friends. Certainly they’d never had enough interaction for the man to despise him as he did.
All he said, though, was, “So, that’s everything?”
Robeson lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “Why would I hide anything?”
A brief pause ensued before Charles said, ticking off the reasons one by one on his fingertips as he enunciated them, “Because the truth might paint you in a different light. Because knowing the truth might give me an advantage in this devil’s wager that we’ve agreed to. Because you’re perverse, and you gain some sense of satisfaction from knowing something I don’t know. I could go on.”
Robeson laughed humorlessly and sat up straighter, holding up a hand in mock surrender. “No need, really. Your vaunted opinions of me and my character are widely known.”
Charles stood up, weary of the conversation and the company. He was tired just thinking about the long months ahead of him, trying to seduce a prickly pear of a woman who clearly wasn’t interested, and living with a man the sight of whom he could barely stand the sight.
Robeson’s voice stopped him when he reached the door. “There are a number of social engagements I’ve accepted on behalf of all three of us.”
Charles turned. He was used to having a secretary screen his invitations. He was used to turning down almost everything and then showing up, unannounced, simply because he could. He gave himself a mental shake: even in his own head he was starting to sound like a bit of a spoiled, pompous ass.
“Oh?” Charles asked, knowing that he should be grateful: scheduled balls and parties would at least provide him with continuous opportunities to talk with Julia and to woo the chit.
“We’re holding a dinner, of course. That was arranged long ago, especially to introduce you to your prey. But there are quite a few engagements beyond that. Apparently the matrons of Munthrope are all trying to outdo themselves to entertain a viscount and a baron. Billings and I are the most famous, eligible bachelors they’ve seen in years.” Robeson paused. “If they only knew.”
“Luckily, they won’t,” Charles said abruptly. “The whole point of this bet, besides my teaching you a lesson and getting that damned painting, is to escape high society’s matchmaking mamas.” He forced his voice to a more even level; it would never do to let Robeson think he was actually affecting him, that he was anything less than perfectly contented. He smiled. “It’s refreshing—invigorating, actually—to be the hunter rather than the hunted.”
*
Charles would have felt far less sanguine if he had known that Munthrope, despite its almost backwater status, had its own share of ambitious mothers, who were no less devious and had daughters they considered no less marriageable than their London counterparts.
The rector’s second wife, once quite a beauty herself, was every bit as scheming as high society’s most persistent and tenacious leaders. And, just a few hours after Charles had blithely declared himself safe from matchmakers, Phyllis was applying herself to the rather thankless task of cross-examining her stepdaughter, Julia.
As was the family tradition, they ate an earlier-than-usual meal together. It had been Phyllis’s idea. Her husband, the prototypical absent-minded scholar, was wont to forget the first few meals of the day, leaving his tea and snacks untouched. Nagging was of no use: if she interrupted Mr. Morland during his studies and told him it was time to eat, he would usually look up, smear his shirt with ink or whatever he was experimenting with, nod absently, and then promptly forget the conversation had ever taken place.
Phyllis had discovered early on in their marriage, however, that if she sat with him and listened to him talk about his studies, it was another matter entirely. As long as he had a topic that interested him, he would eat. So she’d learned to place food in front of him, to arrange plates of snacks so that there was a variety of options within reach while he lectured.
She’d even had fun experimenting at one point: she could almost get him to gain weight if she just fed him sugary things for long enough. He rarely commented on what he ate; she doubted he noticed, much. She even arranged his clothes. She’d once put the same shirt on top three days in a row and hadn’t been particularly surprised when he’d put it on, day after day, without comment or notice.
Phyllis shook her head. She would never understand how he’d survived without her or how his first wife had managed to . . . well, manage him. She knew him to be completely infatuated with her, that he was as devoted to her as any husband could be, and yet . . . there were still days when she was sure that he didn’t give her a second thought, days when he was so immersed in his studies that he would have to be forcibly reminded that there was a world outside his overpacked, overfurnished study, always overflowing with books.
Early in their marriage, she’d suggested she could help organize his study. Well, she’d never make that offer again. The look of horror on his face would’ve rivaled the expression of a great actor pretending to see a ghost.
She’d relented, and proposed instead that there ought to be some amount of time where Mr. Moland was away from his actual studies, and allowed instead to cogitate in the company of his family. It had taken tim
e, and several awkward, fitful starts, but they had eventually gotten used to having meals together. Dinners where Mr. Morland was encouraged to expound upon his readings and his experiments. Which brought her back to her present mission. Though Phyllis had never been a particularly active parent in Julia’s life—not for lack of trying; she simply had nothing in common with her stepdaughter—she did care about the young woman and felt that it was well past time she married. She was, what, twenty-five, almost twenty-six? Where had the time gone?
She waited for her husband to finish his thought—something having to do with maths or a proof, or both—before cutting into her dessert; she’d allowed herself to be a lax stepparent for far too long. She’d be seeing to Claire’s season next year (delayed already, because of her husband’s illness last year), which meant that it was well past time she married Julia off. If the matter were left to Mr. Morland, Julia would probably grow old and gray at the vicarage.
“I hear that you’ve had a run-in with the viscount.”
Julia’s eyes darted toward Claire, who gave the tiniest shake of her head. Watching the exchange, Phyllis’s eyes narrowed: she hated being kept out of the loop.
After a strategic pause, Julia answered, “I did briefly see Lord Robeson.”
Mr. Morland looked up from absent-mindedly pushing the treacle tart around his plate. “Robeson, Robeson—he inherited Langley, didn’t he? Years ago?”
A shadow crossed over Julia’s face, and Phyllis bit her lip. She’d been so excited about meeting the new viscount—she hadn’t lived in Munthrope the last time he’d come around, before he’d unexpected become a viscount—that she’d only gradually noticed and began wondering about Julia’s lack of excitement. Julia had never spoken of having a previous attachment, and yet . . .
Worth Winning Page 6