And then he continued, “You will make it up to me.”
“Make it up to you?” she echoed. “But I’ve already apologized.”
“More than that,” he leaned forward, so much so that she could smell his scent: simple soap, a tinge of sweat, and something decidedly masculine, unique to his person. He did not wear any of the colognes that seemed so popular these days, she noted, before quickly realizing that perhaps he could no longer afford to buy them.
“I . . . I . . . that is,” she stuttered, taking a small, telling step backward. She disliked feeling crowded and hated that he was intimidating her. From the gleam in his eyes, she could tell that at least a part of him seemed to be enjoying the experience.
She wondered whether he was going to ask for a kiss. She wondered whether she’d allow it.
He lowered his head toward her. He was nearly a head taller than she, though she was considered tall for a woman. His eyelids lowered halfway, and Julia had to fight not to close her eyes. Her more conservative, logical self was fighting a losing battle against her baser instincts, ones that whispered: You’ve kissed before. Would one more kiss hurt?
She gave her head a small shake, trying to clear her thoughts from the sensual and all too dangerous imaginings that were clouding her mind. “What is it you want? Besides my apology?”
He leaned in closer, so that she could see the small flecks of green in what she would have previously classified as cold, slate-gray eyes, and then turned his head abruptly. He reached out and flicked the edge of the cloth she’d placed over her morning gatherings. “What is this?”
“Peppermint,” she replied a bit breathlessly, wondering whether she had imagined the sensuality she’d thought she’d seen in his gaze.
Charles closed his eyes and exhaled, “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that. I’ll take half of your basket, please, as payment.”
“You want my peppermint clippings?”
He took a step back, humor and warmth infusing his features. “Yes, Miss Morland, you’ve no idea how very, very much, I’ve missed having a sprig of mint in my morning water.”
“To drink?” Julia asked, befuddled.
“No, no, to splash my face with. Having no valet, the subpar living quarters, even the lumpy pillow that smells of mildew . . . I can adjust to, and tolerate, all those things. I’ll even polish my own shoes if I must.” He gestured vaguely down at his boots, which, though still slightly dusty, looked to Julia to be in fine shape. “But the cool, almost purifying effect of mint, the refreshing aroma it adds to my morning routine. I’ve missed it, truly.”
Julia laughed. “Are you and aspiring writer?”
“Yes, quite the poet, am I not? About my herbs?”
She handed the basket to him and made a gesture for him to help himself. “Your fortunes have been completely overturned, you’re without any of the luxuries you grew up with, and the thing you miss the most can be replaced with a walk in the country and a pair of semisharp shears. What low expectations you have!”
He was picking the most promising of the flowers and even bringing a few to his nose to inhale, but he paused and tilted his head, as if she had said something truly extraordinary. “Low expectations. There’s something I’ve never been accused of before. But oddly, it seems to be true, for this is the one detail that I’ve found most upsetting.”
“Then go ahead. Take the whole basket, if you like. I can always cut more.”
He looked at her oddly and asked, “No lectures about how to pick the best from the bunch?”
“They’re preselected, obviously.”
“No judgmental proclamations about my priorities? Gender rules of peppermint versus, oh, any other floral?”
Unable to help herself, Julia smiled. “The word peppermint is derived from the name Mintha, so no, I don’t see anything inappropriate in a man being obsessed with a mythological nymph. Besides, not everything out of my mouth is a lecture or a condemnation.”
“Don’t forget inquisition.”
“Yes, not that, either.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Truly. I am capable of normal conversation.”
“Oh yes, aphids and nymphs. Absolutely mundane.”
He picked over them leaves as if they were priceless artifacts and had gathered quite a handful before he found the biscuits Julia had completely forgotten.
“What’s this?”
“Oh.”
She took the small bundle and hoped that he hadn’t noticed the incriminating crumbs she’d inadvertently left behind.
“It’s nothing.”
“҅Nothing’ looks a bit like a biscuit.”
Julia colored a bit, annoyed just as much by his discovery as her blush. “Two biscuits.”
“Ah.”
She wondered whether she should explain. “I become grumpy when I don’t eat. Testy.”
“You become grumpy.”
Julia rolled her eyes, knowing that he was trying to tease her to diffuse her embarrassment and not at all sure whether she liked the way he was handling her and the situation. She wasn’t a puppy. Or a horse! Thinking of him as an interesting but slightly uncomfortable man had been soothing; seeing him as a confident, charming man who also happened not to dislike her company and who was obviously more than capable in all manner of social situations . . . danger lay ahead.
“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll be needing a biscuit, along with the peppermint.” He was looking at her intently, a decidedly rakish gleam in his eyes.
Under his gaze, she could feel herself becoming breathless, which was ridiculous, of course; she was . . . well, long past the age where one became breathless just because one was being looked at in a certain way. She tried to hold firm. “We had an agreement.”
“I’m amending it,” he said with a smile—another of his dazzling smiles that made her forget the rules of propriety and made her want to curl her toes against . . . maybe against his. She blushed. It was terrible, the way her thoughts wandered sometimes. She had no particular fascination about feet, but suddenly, it was all she could think of: them lying side by side, their feet touching.
“Besides,” Charles continued, unaware, of course, of the direction Julia’s wayward thoughts had taken, “My life, as you now know, has just suffered a terrible upheaval. All manner of luxuries I’ve long been accustomed have been suddenly taken away. I feel bereft, and surely you wouldn’t deny me a biscuit?”
Julia rolled her eyes and tried not to smile as she unfolded her handkerchief and chose the slightly less damaged biscuit to hand to him. She ignored his raised eyebrow—questioning, perhaps, why she had chosen to give him the better of the two biscuits—and folded the handkerchief back over: she had no desire to eat in front of him, while he watched, with his too-knowing smile, as crumbs littered the front of her dress. She said a bit tartly, “In case you’re wondering, I will not be walking tomorrow, which means we will not be meeting.”
He took a bite of his biscuit and chewed slowly, nodding in approval before saying, “Of course you won’t. There’s a picnic. I’m invited, you’re invited, everyone’s invited.”
“I’d forgotten. Though really, I don’t know how I could have. It’s been planned since we first got word that Lord Robeson was coming. There’s to be music and, oh dear.” She closed her eyes; it was the last thing she wanted to do at the moment—attend a picnic where the entire village would be there, and where, of course, Archie would be the guest of honor.
“You have something against picnics?”
Julia opened her eyes. “Of course not,” she said, though even she could tell her words lacked conviction. She was trying to come up with something clever to say, something about how she adored such gatherings, simply loved them to pieces, when Charles gently tapped the bottom of her chin, raising Julia’s face and gaze to meet his.
“Until then.” He eyes locked with hers in a most disconcerting manner, and he smiled. Slowly. Every inch the confident, knowingly charmi
ng man she’d been so annoyed by upon their first meeting. Except now she couldn’t find it in herself to feel the least bit annoyed. Rather, she felt . . . quite breathless.
He nodded and then walked away without a backward glance, apparently unconcerned by the fact that he’d left her with half a basket of peppermint (which meant she’d have to pick more), half of her food supply (which meant she’d be ravenous by afternoon tea), and most likely unaware that he had left her with a bewildering array of fanciful thoughts, none of them appropriate.*
Things were going better than he could have possibly expected.
Sitting at Robeson’s table, cutting through the chicken, which was too salty, and pairing it with a bite of the slightly doughy dinner roll that had been provided, Charles couldn’t help but think about the biscuit he’d demanded as recompense. That particular pastry had been flaky and flavored with a touch of honey. It had been delicious: the crowning achievement of a morning well spent.
He frowned, wondering how quickly mint went bad. His frown deepened as he wondered, did mint go bad? Or did it just dry . . . and keep?
There had been lectures that had probably covered these topics, of course, but he’d never paid particular attention in such lessons. He had a modicum of interest in the sciences and had eventually learned to tolerate maths but had focused the majority of his time at university on things that would more directly impact the running of his estates: the engineering aspects of architectural improvements, soil composition as it pertained to crops. He’d also learned (the hard way, through his allowance and by taking on some of the preliminary responsibilities his father had ceded early on) how to pick trustworthy business partners and managers. He now ran not only his inherited estates but several plantations he’d acquired. He was quite knowledgeable about agriculture, on a certain scale . . .
But herbs and plants, their classifications, storage properties, and such, these were the type of minutiae that gave him a headache. If he needed to educate himself about a particular aspect of crop rotation, barley management, brewing, or whatever else, he would study it. That was how he liked to manage his intellectual pursuits: on an as-needed basis. For everything else, all the less important day-to-day reports, he hired people who knew about these things and would make the required decisions—in fact, he was pretty certain his people hired people for things that small.
He shook his head. He was certain Julia would know, and asking her would give him an excuse to engage her in further conversation. True, her conversational style was a sort of elliptical lecture on anything and everything, and half the time she spoke more like a barrister than what he would have expected from a spinster.
Then again, there had to be a reason she’d remained unmarried . . . and how many men really wanted to marry a battle-ax?
He smiled, wondering what she would have said if he’d told her that. No doubt she would have argued that he was wrong, and that her dialogue was more spherical, or angular. Or she would have pointed out something about the history of barristers, to show that he’d once again been inaccurate in his categorizations. Truly, he’d never met a girl who liked to argue and wind her way through conversations the way Julia Morland did.
Still, despite her tendencies for plague-centric anecdotes and interrogative asides, he was practically . . . almost . . . enjoying his time with her.
Not that he was developing feelings for the chit.
A less appropriate candidate for the future Countess of Dresford would be hard to imagine. Even Loretta, who had the morals of an alley cat, was at least beautiful and knew how to hold her tongue in mixed company. Julia, on the other hand, grew on one (much like a fungus, he thought wryly) but would never be considered more than fetching; in the right clothes, with more flattering lighting, perhaps he might classify her as moderately attractive, but she would never be considered a beauty.
Julia Morland, mingling in the ballrooms and drawing rooms of high society? Utter disaster. Nor would Charles ever have considered taking a rector’s daughter as a mistress.
He frowned and cut his meat a little too forcefully, wondering why this realization seemed somehow . . . a sad one. There was no way of prolonging their relationship beyond the short few months the wager dictated. So what? He cut another piece of tough meat. It wasn’t as though he were developing anything close to a tendre for the sharp-tongued little hussy. No, he shook his head. He was thinking about her because of the wager, nothing more, though even he had had to admit that she was such a welcome change from the stuttering debutantes and cloyingly clingy matrons. Refreshing, like the stash of mint he’d obtained from her.
More important, she was clearly enjoying her time with him: the blushes and breathlessness had long ago given away the fact that she found him attractive.
Things were progressing, perhaps slightly ahead of schedule, even. When the time came, he’d win, and then he’d leave. She’d recover, and he’d forget her. As Charles sawed away at yet another piece of chicken, he told himself that this would be the best possible outcome. And, with any luck he’d be back to his town home, enjoying properly prepared meals and resting on appropriately fluffed pillows, one Rembrandt richer, before the summer was out.
“Mr. Alver! I say, Mr. Alver!”
Charles looked up and saw that Robeson had clearly been trying to get his attention for some time. They’d agreed that in the presence of servants, Robeson and Oliver would always address him as Mr. Alver. He grimaced. Apparently he still hadn’t adjusted to his new name and identity.
“Yes?”
“You seem a little preoccupied, old chap.”
Charles forced his jaw to relax and assumed the pose of a well-behaved guest. He knew that the servants were watching and that they probably distrusted him the way experienced servants always did, with a sixth sense about frauds.
“It’s nothing. I’m just,” he gestured at nothing in particular, “thinking through the list of things I have to accomplish over the next few days.”
Robeson said nothing, and Oliver interjected, “You haven’t forgotten the picnic?”
“Bound to be a bit of a chore,” Robeson drawled, as if bored already, “but I was thinking I would put in an appearance. Nothing else to do in this godforsaken village.”
Even though he had thought almost the same thing a few days ago, and while he still mostly agreed that Munthrope was really as quiet an old English village as you could find, Charles still found himself bristling a little, as if he had some personal stake in the picnic. “I’m sure it will be quite enjoyable,” he said calmly. It wasn’t as though he could allude to their wager in front of the servants. “Billings?”
“Looking forward to it, among other things.” Oliver looked at the piece of chicken he had just lifted from his plate. They had discovered at their first meal here that Robeson served only three courses at dinner, and from the look on Oliver’s face, they were both having equal trouble adjusting to the fare, which was lacking in both quantity and quality.
“It’ll be nice not to be cooped up in the house each day,” Oliver continued, after he’d chewed upon his bite of chicken for quite a long time. Though Oliver, being Oliver, didn’t betray any hint of annoyance and merely sighed soundlessly and continued to eat steadily. Politeness, tactfulness—these were things that Oliver was known for.
“And whose fault is that?” Charles asked, knowing that Oliver was a creature of habit and kept town hours—that is, woke up as late as possible—even in the country.
Oliver pursed his lips and shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, Mr. Alver,” Oliver smiled, seeming to take delight in being able to address Charles so, “but I am prodigiously well liked. Everyone thinks it’s because I’m naturally good-tempered, but the truth is I’m simply too lazy to rise to the bait.”
Charles laughed. It was true: they’d always been friends, and he had always been the prickly one, Oliver the malleable, easy-going one. “Or, when in country, rise at all.”
; Oliver chuckled and said, “There simply has been no reason to, my friend. I have no goals to accomplish here, other than to enjoy myself.”
The three men ate silently for a moment, and then Robeson said, pointedly, “You however, have been out each morning. I gather you’re making progress?”
Charles had no intention of letting Robeson know any more than he had to, so instead of answering directly, he cut a bite from the wilted spinach that had been served as a side dish. “I am enjoying my exploration of the countryside, if that’s what you mean.”
Directly to his front and left, Charles watched two of the serving maids exchange a glance and wondered whether his staff had ever been so ill-behaved toward his lesser-ranked friends and guests. Their looks conveyed clearly that, in their minds at least, Charles was not behaving nearly as well as he ought to, given the circumstances.
Robeson, of course, was used to such cavalier remarks from him and even grinned as he asked, “And the mare I lent you?”
“More than adequate,” Charles lied, smiling. He would have donated his prized stables in Derbyshire before ever giving Robeson an inkling of the discomfort he’d experienced, riding that dreadful excuse of a beast. Not that it was the mare’s fault. He deliberately widened his smile and looked up guilelessly. “For that, and your many other hospitalities, well, I wanted to thank you. My trip so far has been, elucidating. There’s an almost pellucid clarity to the air here.”
“Pellucid.” Robeson practically spat the word. “Must you talk like a thesaurus?”
Charles smiled; he enjoyed annoying Robeson. “Would you prefer monosyllables?”
Robeson grunted. “I am every bit as educated as you are.”
Charles said nothing and let the defensive remark hang in the air a moment longer before deciding that it was time to play nice, at least in front of the servants. “Don’t misunderstand. All I’m trying to say is that I am quite, quite appreciative of your invitation.” He held up his wine glass and waited for Oliver and Robeson to comply, smiling as he made a silent toast.
The servants exchanged another glance, and Charles wondered briefly whether he was fooling any of them or only adding fire to what was surely already rampant gossip.
Worth Winning Page 8