Worth Winning

by Elling, Parker

  Over the rim of the glass, Charles watched Robeson, certain that the latter would make sure the path ahead was neither easy nor straightforward, and then drank deeply. Like the meal before him, Robeson’s wine was flat and flavorless.

  Still, he’d be damned if he let a man like Robeson win anything. And there was absolutely no way that he would be apologizing publicly.

  He put the glass down gently, complimented its rather astringent aftertaste, and glanced down at his chicken as a rather confused expression spread over Robeson’s face. No doubt, the latter was trying to remember whether astringent aftertaste was most appropriately considered a compliment or an insult.

  Chapter 7

  Charles had never considered himself a picnic type of man. As a rule, he avoided picnics. He enjoyed his fair share of sports: during the season, he attended the requisite number of balls because it was what was expected of him. During the winter months, he retreated to his country estates to get affairs in order and to see to improvements and tenant complaints.

  But for the most part, he avoided the outdoor during-the-day matchmaking extravaganzas that masqueraded as social events. For one, retreat was easier at night, especially during balls with well-stocked card rooms, set aside specifically for like-minded gentlemen seeking a perfumeless reprieve. For another, it was far easier to rendezvous with an interesting woman under the shade of candlelight and in the crush of constantly changing musical numbers and rotating dance partners. So a dance, while inferior in every way to sculling, horseback riding, and other outdoor sports and activities, at least offered a tolerable variety of diversions.

  A picnic (or worse, a musicale) was an entirely different matter altogether. It was during the day, which meant that everyone could see, observe, and gossip about everyone and everything. It was outside, but there were rarely any sports or any kind of organized activity, which meant that people either sat, waiting to become mosquito bait if the humidity and climate were right, or milled around listlessly, waiting for someone to suggest something.

  Which was why, heading into the Munthrope picnic, the foremost feeling Charles had was dread. He smiled as if he were looking forward to it, because that was what he’d gotten used to doing around Robeson and Oliver: pretending that he was enjoying himself and that he had no worries whatsoever about the road ahead. As if he regularly seduced vicar’s daughters for fun and profit!

  Charles shook his head; such thinking would get him nowhere. He was not—not—going to apologize publicly to a man like Robeson. He had to win. It wasn’t about profit: he would have gladly paid for the Rembrandt. It was about pride, which was, not to put too fine a point on it, priceless—one of the few immutable things about his life.

  He was the Earl of Dresford, for goodness’ sake. He was supposed to have pride.

  So Charles waited, outwardly patient, for Oliver and Robeson, who’d enjoyed their normal lazy mornings as if they were still living according to town hours. He didn’t betray, by even the flicker of an eyelash, how annoyed he was by their late start: he had never before been kept waiting. But damned if he’d let Robeson know that.

  By the time their entire entourage had been assembled, and they’d finally walked the short mile and a half to the picnic site, the majority of attendees had already spread out their blankets and unpacked whatever snacks they’d brought. Robeson had rather casually suggested setting up on the edge of the main gathering, fairly close to the Morland family: an elderly man with spectacles who exactly fitted Charles’s mental image of an absent-minded, scholarly rector, a well-preserved matron who was a bit younger than the vicar, and an almost impossibly beautiful blonde, who seemed to be holding court to a variety of men, all of whom were either sitting, crouching, or standing in her general vicinity. Julia was sitting quietly to the side.

  Charles noted all of this, sparing very little thought for Julia’s stepsister other than to wonder whether she was the reason Julia had been so hesitant to invite him in the other day. All the while, Robeson’s footmen were setting up a tent, a few chairs, and a table. It all felt a bit ostentatious in comparison to the blankets nearby, but at least it provided them ample shade and a small modicum of privacy.

  Charles ate slowly, methodically, while brainstorming about ways to approach the Morlands. He was unsure about the exact social rules of picnics; or rather, he was uncertain how much he might be judged now that he was merely Mr. Alver. Being Dresford had always afforded him a certain amount of leeway. When Dresford broke a rule, it was more likely to start a trend than elicit outrage. Now, though, he felt it prudent at least to consider all the possible outcomes and ramifications. He had just decided to ask Oliver to join him in greeting the village rector—for surely, that should have been not only allowed but encouraged—when Robeson observed, “Your bird has taken flight.”

  It turned out to be an apt metaphor: Julia, dressed in a pale yellow dress and looking a bit canary-like, was at that very moment walking spiritedly toward the other end of the picnickers. Her pace seemed determined, and she stopped only once to socialize; with her skirts slightly hitched to avoid the mud, she didn’t pause again until she’d joined a small cluster of largely middle-aged women around the pond and as far away as possible while still technically part of the picnic.

  Charles frowned. He hadn’t said anything egregiously offending, nor, for that matter, had she. So what was she running away from? Surely not him.

  He looked across the table at Robeson’s self-satisfied smile and knew that the answer was in front of him; he thought again that there was more to their history than Robeson had let on. He sighed soundlessly, wondering just how much their past would complicate the present.

  But this was neither the time nor the place to pry. He leaned back in his chair and applied himself to enjoying the repast that Robeson’s servants were laying in front of them. There would be plenty of time to chase Julia Morland later. The picnic, by all accounts, was supposed to last hours, and he was certain that within that time, he’d find a way to approach her.

  *

  A short hour and a half later, Charles was nearly ready to throw in the towel in defeat. He could see Julia, of course. And he could tell that she was talking. But damned if he could extricate himself from Robeson’s growing throng of supposed admirers long enough to get to Julia and actually talk to her.

  Charles had tried to excuse himself no fewer than three times, but it was impossible. They were surrounded by women. And not just gossipy women or sociable women, but tenacious, clutching women who all seemed to have scads of unwed daughters they were just dying to marry off. Which, given the fact that Munthrope really wasn’t that large a village, seemed quite surprising.

  First they’d been approached by Sir Jonathan Clark, his wife, and their four daughters. Sir Jonathan was clearly a mild-mannered man who had been ruthlessly browbeaten by his wife for untold years. After reminding Robeson that the two of them had met once, years before, he introduced his wife, who had taken the conversational reins firmly in hand. She’d questioned the men about the upcoming dance, interrogated them about whether they’d be sponsoring any dances, and had, in turn, questioned Robeson, Oliver, and even Charles. Though there were only three unequally ranked men for her four daughters, it was clear that the mother had decided that any number of semi-eligible men was a boon. As it was currently the middle of the season in London, and they were still here in Munthrope, Charles assumed that they did not quite have the funds to support each girl in a separate London season.

  After that, she’d paraded her daughters in front of them, instructing each to talk briefly about their hobbies and accomplishments. After he’d heard about Nadine-who-excelled-at-viola, Penelope-the-skilled-pianist, Katherine-who-simply-lived-for-the-violin, and Lydia’s talented-and-devoted-embroidery-making—clearly, the funding for music lessons had run out by the fourth daughter—he’d tried to excuse himself, only to be forestalled by Mrs. Clark, who put a hand on his arm and said that they weren’t done, yet.
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br />   Done with what, Charles had never had a chance to ask, for they were joined at that moment by Mr. and Mrs. Stapleton (two daughters) and Mrs. Willoughby (one daughter, and a husband who was feeling under the weather). Another round of introductions later, his departure had once again been forestalled by new arrivals, this time a Mrs. Perry (three daughters, and an unfortunate habit of frequently using what Charles believed was a container of smelling salts that had . . . rocks? . . . in it, rather than hartshorn or ammonia), and . . . well, in truth, Charles had lost track. The past hour and a half had been an endless parade of names and talents.

  He still remembered the names of all of Clark’s daughters, but after that, he wasn’t sure. Was it Sonja or Sophia-who-loved-the-harp? Was Jennifer the girl with the pimply face, Jennifer-whose-passion-was-drawing? Or had they said Jessica? He was relatively sure that the nervous girl who kept twisting at the edge of her sleeve had been named Jean, but it was possible her mother had said Jane, Jane-who-sang-like-the-angels.

  He gave up.

  There were simply too many: all of them dressed in bewilderingly bright jewel shades that would have seemed far more appropriate in a London ballroom than at a small countryside picnic. Their hair piled precariously on top of their heads, their necks auspiciously scented.

  They fanned themselves, ostensibly because it was hot, but most likely to better spread the scents they’d been told were alluring. And Charles sniffed, feeling a bit sickened, and disillusioned about what he’d always heard described as the simple country life.

  The worst part was, of course, the fawning. The endless, nauseatingly obvious, sickeningly saccharine fawning. The way the daughters, and even the mothers, practically salivated over Robeson, and to a lesser degree, Oliver . . . it was almost unbearable. Charles had rolled his eyes and then stopped them from rolling so many times that he had a headache.

  Then, of course, there were the invitations, which had already begun trickling in through the mail but were now being repeated in person.

  “Oh, Lord Robeson, it would mean the world to us if you—and your friends, of course—would join us for just a small dinner.” This from Mrs. Willoughby, with her daughter standing demurely to the side, looking down and trying to hide what looked like a smile.

  “My daughters are more than a little talented when it comes to the harpsichord, and it would be the honor . . . the honorest? Oh dear, I mean the best, just the best, of honors . . . if you would condescend to . . .” Mrs. Perry whispered the invitation, as if speaking in a normal tone of voice might somehow overwhelm her faculties.

  “But Lord Robeson, my daughter . . .”

  And then, of course, there was the flattery. The excessive adulation and heavy-handed inveiglements that made Charles’s stomach turn and churn with suppressed quips and insults.

  “Why, Lord Robeson, that is surely the funniest—Dorothea, don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, the funniest.”

  “Why, my daughter Bethany was just saying what a wit you are, Lord Robeson. Oh . . .”

  “No, no,” someone else interrupted, “it would be too much of a disservice to describe his pun as an example merely of wit. For I would have said that it took not only wit, but an almost scholarly, academic, and almost . . . philosophical understanding of language . . .”

  And so on.

  They tripped over one another, trying to outdo one another’s compliments.

  Thus far, the women had complimented Robeson on his wit, more-than-his-wit, his waistcoat, his cologne, his fobs, his snuffbox, even the tent he’d had the forethought to bring and set up. One matron, whose name Charles had forgotten, even managed to make Robeson’s sandwich-eating seem like a token of his manliness, something about his hearty, virile appetite.

  Charles admitted he was a little shocked by this. Not that he hadn’t heard similarly crass innuendos in the past; he just hadn’t expected to hear them in . . . Munthrope. It seemed naive in retrospect, but he had somehow supposed that country women would have been less forward, more innocent, more circumspect . . . especially with the town’s rector sitting so close by.

  But no, it seemed that women of a certain age, with daughters past a certain age . . .

  Even Oliver had received his fair share of accolades, though most of them centered on how lucky Oliver was to have a friend like Lord Robeson!

  Charles shook his head in disgust. Halfway between Robeson’s tent and where Julia had relocated, musicians were setting up, which meant that it would now be doubly awkward to extricate himself and get to her side. He’d have to wait through the performance, while watching Robeson and Oliver lap up attention from what was surely most of Munthrope’s female population. He’d never really thought of Robeson (or Oliver, for that matter) as a preener, but there was no other way to describe it: Robeson had straightened his necktie, rearranged his fobs, and had even brushed a lock of hair in front of and then back away from his forehead.

  The woman to Charles’s left, whose name he’d also forgotten, squeezed his shoulder and reassured him in a kindly voice, that he, too, was of course invited. Any friend of Lord Robeson’s . . .

  Charles closed his eyes and wished himself in Bedlam.

  *

  Even from across the pond, Julia could see that Charles Alver was not enjoying himself.

  Just as Claire had been surrounded by a gaggle of admirers as soon as she’d sat down, so too had Robeson and his friends been . . . well, swarmed would probably be the most appropriate word. From across the pond, Julia could see all her friends and neighbors, dressed in their brightest, tightest dresses, milling around the three men.

  Butterflies swarmed, though she didn’t think that was quite the right analogy, despite the jeweled tones of the dresses and the fluttering of hands, arms, and fans. Locusts too, swarmed.

  The last time Robeson had been here, he’d been the son everyone assumed was impoverished, inheriting a nice estate, yes, but otherwise too young, too awkward-looking, lanky, gangly and too . . . well, too much of a third son, to be considered a matrimonial prize.

  Now, however, everything was different.

  Even from a distance, Julia could tell that Robeson was enjoying himself, just as she could tell, from the way he kept pulling at the back of his neck, that Charles Alver was not.

  Still, she refused to go and investigate. Refused to be a part of the swarm (for really, that was the most apt description) that engulfed the men. Instead, she forced herself to ask leading questions about Mrs. Leland’s rheumatism, as if it wasn’t a topic about which she’d heard endless details already. She listened carefully about Mrs. Priory’s recent nightmares and sleeplessness. She moved from widow to matron to widow and forced her gaze (as much as possible) not to travel back to Charles Alver, Billings, or Robeson. So intent was she on the task of not looking in Mr. Alver’s direction that she didn’t realize their group had grown until she heard Mrs. Leland say, in that slightly-too-loud voice of hers, “Nadine Clark, how nice of you to join us!”

  Nadine Clark, wearing an almost blindingly bright purple gown that had small faux pearls embedded in the neckline, smiled thinly. Nadine was tall, well-endowed, and, if not for Claire, would probably have been considered the prettiest girl in Munthrope. As it was, she often found herself listed as a distant second, a position about which she’d never quite become sanguine and which had lent her features a quiet air of discontent, which (of course) only heightened the relative disparity between her looks and Claire’s.

  Nadine was accompanied by her sister Penelope, who was been dressed in an equally brilliant shade of green, but who, at the very least, smiled genuinely at the women in front of her.

  “We’re organizing a bit of a game for the younger folks,” she said, shooting a pointed and decidedly tactless look in the direction of Ms. Leland and Ms. Burton to make it clear that the elder ladies were decidedly not-invited, before continuing, a bit airily: “We thought we’d come and invite you.”

  Penelope gave her sister a not-s
o-subtle pinch on the arm before saying, “Actually, Lord Robeson particularly asked that we invite you.”

  “He did not,” Nadine retorted, with a disdainful sniff that was only slightly overdone. “Lord Robeson may have mentioned that we should walk around this way, something about younger women who had wandered away. But there was nothing specific about his inquiry, just a rather general, broad concern that everyone be allowed the opportunity to . . . feel included.”

  Julia pursed her lips, disliking being likened to a lost kitten.

  “Your name did not come up,” Nadine said to Julia with a sniff, while Penelope continued to smile. Nadine was far prettier, which, as often happens, made Penelope the far nicer sister.

  Julia took a deep breath and said, “While it does sound fun, though Mrs. Paleski was—”

  That woman ruthlessly interrupted and finished her sentence: “—was just saying that young people need to have fun. Together.” She clapped her hands over her stomach. “You go. Do as young people ought. Me, I’m thinking about taking a nap.”

  “During the picnic? Here?”

  “Of course here. It’s a long walk back, and I’ll need company,” she said, jerking her head at Mrs. Leland and Mrs. Priory. “They always make me stay until the event ends.”

  “But—”

  “Go, Julia. Don’t stay here listening to us talk about the same old topics.”

  “But they haven’t even said what they’re doing, yet,” Julia protested.

  Mrs. Leland shrugged. “Young people. Games. What’s not fun about games?”

  Julia closed her eyes. Clearly she’d find no help in this corner. She got up and smoothed her hands over her skirts. She said good-bye in a slightly pinched voice, trying to ignore the encouraging smiles the elder women gave her.