Worth Winning

by Elling, Parker

  Having to sit through a number of musical performances in a stuffy, overcrowded drawing room where fanning herself would be considered impolite and where every shift and shuffle would be noted by every member of the audience, who would be doing their best imitations of Greek statues? That, Julia considered pure, unadulterated torture.

  She didn’t mind music, if it was in the background, especially if she had a book to read or a task to do. She enjoyed humming and had an ear for a good tune. But the sitting still. And the quiet. It was maddening, really. Which was why she’d long ago devised a plan of action, when it came to musicales. She arranged herself in one of the farthest corners and would give up her seat to anyone so that she could stand near the doorway. Then, partway through the first, sometimes the second, number, she’d simply disappear.

  Munthrope was a small village, yes, but not that small. She wasn’t one to attract attention to herself, and her absence was rarely, if ever, noticed. If her stepmother asked her, casually, where she had been during a particularly stirring rendition of Scarlatti, Julia would purse her lips, cross her fingers, and hint that she’d had stomach problems. As Phyllis believed that discussing bodily functions (and especially malfunctions thereof) was an exceedingly unladylike pursuit, she rarely questioned her stepdaughter further.

  Phyllis had not, as of yet, realized that Julia’s stomach troubles and Munthrope’s musicales had an alarmingly high, if slightly improbable, correlation with each other.

  Julia had gotten so used to being able to escape during the musicale and then returning near what she estimated to be the end, that she’d begun bringing reading. She’d sewn a little pocket into her petticoat and would frequently sequester away a novel, a pamphlet, or whatever . . .

  The Clark musicale on Thursday night was no different. Except that she had two reasons for escaping. First, was her aforementioned hatred for musicales and the types of strictures enforced at such affairs. Second was that she was certain, and if such a state had been possible and existed beyond the bounds of literary hyperbole, she would have said that she was beyond certain, that Mrs. Clark would make sure Robeson, Billings, and Mr. Alver would attend. With four unmarried daughters, three unmarried man must have seemed like manna from heaven.

  And while Julia had no particular opinions about Billings, the question of what and how she felt about Robeson was a pressing and slightly thorny issue. As for Charles Alver? He was a man Julia wished she could think of less. Or even think less of.

  Julia smiled and then frowned. Clever wordplay that was stuck in her head always seemed such a waste of time—if only she had someone to share it with. Someone besides Jack, who was forever traveling and would only play upon her puns until they were past recognition. Certainly not Robeson, who had always looked at her with a perplexed expression on his face, a roll of the eyes seeming to be waiting around the corner. For Robeson, any joke he hadn’t thought of, or didn’t immediately get, wasn’t worthwhile. No, she’d never been attracted to Robeson because of his sense of humor. Deftness of wit was more something Charles Alver—

  No, no. Best not to go there again.

  Julia sat as still as she could during the first part of the performance. But it was harder than usual. Not only were there more people (and thus more likelihood that her every minuscule shift and shimmy would be noticed), but also, it was strikingly clear that none of those in attendance had any interest in the music itself. Instead, the unmarried (and even some of the married) women of Munthrope sat politely, listening to the music, while sneaking furtive glances at Robeson, batting their eyelashes while arranging their faces in perpetual half smiles.

  Another of the tricks Claire had tried, but failed, to teach her: how to arrange one’s face so that there was a suggestion of a smile, a promise of something more. To Julia, it had always seemed simpler to match her facial expressions with the appropriate corresponding emotion. When she was happy, she smiled. When she was hopeful, she smiled. When she was sad, she frowned. She liked things simple. Direct. Uncomplicated.

  Julia didn’t understand and, perhaps more to the point, didn’t want to understand, the concept of the promised smile. It was a level of flirtation that was simply beyond her capabilities. Combined with slightly widened eyes and carefully orchestrated indrawn breaths, the slight curve of the lips seemed to be constantly suggesting . . . what? Flirtation? More?

  Beside her, Claire did not smile or frown. Instead, she looked serene and at peace. From outward appearances, one would think she was concentrating on the music and was completely unaware of the men who threw glances her way or the men at whom everyone else threw glances. Knowing Claire, Julia knew better and was not fooled by her deliberate nonchalance. Duplicating such a display was a completely different matter.

  Even Nadine Clark, who was one of the starring performers, still managed to throw less-than-subtle smiles toward Robeson. With every turn of the page, the girl somehow managed to raise her eyes and give a small flutter of the eyelashes . . . all the while, never missing a single note. It was simultaneously impressive and slightly sickening.

  Julia was certain that if she really had to sit through an entire such performance, she’d develop a very real stomach ache. So, halfway through the second number, she inched toward the doorway, her left leg only slightly weighted down by the latest gothic novel she’d bought and which she’d promised to Mrs. Paleski as soon as she was finished. They were terrible, she knew it, but she wasn’t above losing herself in what her stepmother loftily called litter-worthy literature once in a while. This particular book featured a busty widow, a sinister not-a-blood-relative uncle whose defining characteristic seemed to be an overly developed leering perusal of the widow’s bosom, and of course, buried treasure.

  Julia shuffled her way along the Clark’s back corridor until the strains of the harpsichord were barely audible and let herself into their secondary sitting room. She was a frequent visitor; the Clarks were a social family with four unmarried daughters, after all, and they frequently needed unobtrusive company—like females who weren’t likely to provide competition to their daughters—to round out the numbers at their dinner table. Julia was familiar with the layout of the Clarks’ home and was certain that this particular room, used most frequently as a secondary library for Sir Jonathan, was very unlikely to be used during such a gathering.

  She arranged herself toward the far end of the room, where a lamp was kept lit for Sir Jonathan. While he often proclaimed himself to be a scholar and even occasionally engaged Julia’s father in debates on what he liked to term the politics of the day, it had always been easy to see that what Sir Jonathan really valued was peace, quiet, and a nice, warm brandy. The back library, where visitors were never shown and which housed a secret cabinet of his best brandy, was his favorite, and in many ways, the most comfortable room in the residence. In fact, Penelope said that her father often fell asleep in this room, a glass of brandy at his hand, an article strewn on the floor (“for effect,” Penelope had insisted).

  Julia was completely uninterested in the idea of brandy, or any substance that might muddle her thinking. She was similarly unimpressed by the magazines and journals Sir Jonathan had strewn around the room to lend the room a more academic appearance. Most were months old, and several were ones that he’d probably borrowed from her father.

  Still, Sir Jonathan’s lovingly worn chaise longue was, to Julia, a masterpiece: a Recamier he’d had custom made after seeing a French portrait of some society hostess. It was perfect, with pillows that could easily be arranged, raised ends to prop one’s feet and head against, and upholstered with a lushly crimson, densely constructed velvet over what felt like the softest padding ever made. Lying on it always made her think she was reclining on a cloud of feathers.

  Julia arranged the two pillows just so and then tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. With everything arranged to her satisfaction, she rather gracelessly flipped up her skirts and was wiggling the latest novel in Minerva Featheringto
n’s series out of its hiding place when she heard a noise behind her. The book slipped out of her fingers and onto the carpeting with a small, but very noticeable, thud, and Julia let her skirts fall, whirling around and smoothing her skirts simultaneously.

  It would, of course, be Charles Alver on the other side of the room, closing the door with a careless little kick of his foot. He leaned against the door in a show of nonchalance, arms folded across his chest, his gaze fixed firmly on her. She could hear the ghost of a chuckle he’d tried to swallow and could see the amused smile he wasn’t bothering to hide. It was impossible to keep the panic out of her voice and the blush from spreading across her cheeks as she asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “I would think that was obvious. I saw you sneaking out and decided to follow.”

  “No one ever sees me.” She wasn’t sure whether she should be pleased that someone had noticed or upset that it would, of course, be him, the man who already dominated her thoughts overmuch.

  If anything, he seemed to lean more firmly against the door, as if he’d suddenly become part of the architecture of the room, forcibly reminding Julia that they were together, alone, in a room that was unlocked. Though, Julia told herself, the unlocked state of the door should really be the least of her worries. The library was dimly lit, conducive to all sorts of inappropriate behavior, and Julia shook her head slightly, trying to clear her head of a host of unwanted, uninvited thoughts and imaginings.

  “After being meticulously ignored and avoided all week, I was inclined to notice your whereabouts,” he said to her.

  Julia continued to smooth down the creases in her skirt, which was still a bit rumpled from her own efforts to retrieve her book, and tried to kick the edge of the novel, peeping out from beneath her dress, under the chaise, away from his often too-perceptive eyes.

  She looked around and realized a bit belatedly that, being alone, and in a library, there was unlikely to be anyone coming to her rescue, nor was there really anything she could suddenly notice, to which she could try to redirect his attention. Unless, of course, she wanted to babble something like, “Look! Over there! An old copy of Plato!”

  She wrung her hands and finally allowed the silence to defeat her. “I didn’t ignore you, precisely. I simply made sure that we weren’t together, so that there wasn’t a chance to regard, or disregard, you. More important, far more important, considering the current situation is that no one ever notices, or chooses to notice, when I disappear. But you, you can’t disappear, especially not at the same time as I have. People will notice.”

  Charles smiled, his all-too-sensual lips curving wide, his eyelids drooping as if he were regarding her as prey, or as dinner—a treat he was about to consume.

  “Did you say I can’t?” he all but purred, the words clearly more threat than question. He left the door smoothly, arms unfolding and pushing away as if he were launching himself into the water.

  Julia backed away a half step, not at all liking the look in his eyes. She was, unfortunately, cut off by the chaise she had just a moment ago been admiring.

  “I misspoke,” she said, remembering how awfully Jack, Robeson, and all the men she’d ever known had reacted to being told anything that began with phrases like “may not,” “should not,” or “cannot.”

  She tried to placate him, while mentally castigating herself for not treading more carefully. “I’m simply trying to convey to you the fact that your disappearance will be noticed, which means that my presence, or lack thereof, might also be noted.” She enunciated slowly, trying to keep her words calm and unthreatening. She wished she could shake him and say instead: “Yes, I understand that you’re a man. I did not mean to demean your manhood by using words such as cannot and will not. I will say whatever is necessary, if it gets you out of this room, quickly, and without notice.”

  Mentally she counted down the minutes he’d probably already been gone and set a mental timer as to how much longer it would be before people began whispering and looking around.

  “You don’t have much faith in my ability to be stealthy, do you?”

  “No, no, of course not,” Julia said, stalling a little, hands in front of her, her left foot still engaged in pushing her book farther back. Though how she would have had any intuition about (or faith in) his abilities to slip away from public gatherings was beyond her cognitive capabilities at the moment. She recognized that he was baiting her and trying purposefully to discomfit her, and so she retorted, “I have too much faith in the women of Munthrope to be overly attuned to your every action.” She switched back to a tone she hoped was mollifying. “Mr. Alver, I would truly, truly appreciate it if you went back. If you stand near the back, it’s possible that people will think that you went out for a smoke. Do you smoke?”

  He gave a quick shake of a head.

  “A breath of fresh air, then. A short break is infinitely easier to explain.”

  He approached her slowly, until they were chest to chest, or rather, the top of her head was aligned to his chest. Their bodies were almost touching, and it was an effort to keep her eyelids from drooping. She tried to tell herself that it was proximity, and the dim lighting, that lent the air a charged, sexual tension, but some small corner of her acknowledged that no, there was just something about him, specifically. Some uncharacterizable trait that seemed to muddle all her senses, that made her want to lean in: to think, and to do, wicked things.

  Things she was sure a rector’s daughter was not even supposed to be aware of, much less dream about. And imagine. And yearn for.

  She leaned in, ever so slightly, just a tiny shift of her weight, and Charles smiled at her lazily, knowingly. Julia blushed and stopped herself from shifting back; it was almost as if he’d predicted the direction of her thoughts. His eyes bored into hers for a moment longer, and his smile stretched farther, before he sat down, rather abruptly it seemed, in the middle of the chaise lounge. Fluidly, he reached down and, without fumbling, as if he knew exactly where to find it, he neatly retrieved the book Julia had been trying so assiduously to hide.

  “The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Buxom, Merry Widow,” Charles read from the spine, eyebrows arching, his smile insouciant. “And here I thought you were quite a scholar. An academic. A trailblazing female whose head was full of nothing but aphids and comets.”

  Julia pivoted and reached for the book, trying to snatch it back, only to have him put it behind his back, causing her to fall against him. He caught her deftly, his hands around her arms, one hand still holding her book. She took a deep breath, deep enough to smell the mixture of talcum, mint, and something uniquely Charles, before reminding herself that she was practically wrapped in his embrace. She flushed and pushed away.

  “I’m interested in any number of things,” she said unsteadily.

  He nodded, wisely, a bit condescendingly, Julia thought, if one was allowed to read so much into a bare nod. “Quite the Renaissance woman.”

  Julia pursed her lips and decided it’d be best to remain silent. She pointedly held out her hand, and Charles held the book aloft, behind and to the left of him, just beyond her reach.

  If she lunged . . .

  “Oh, this? You’d like this back?” he taunted, much as Jack had, when they’d been little children, fighting over Julia’s stuffed toy or hair ribbon. Only of course Jack had never made her feel this particular combination of anger, embarrassment, and . . . gad, was that desire? Still lingering after . . . what was wrong with her, really?

  “It is my book.”

  “Yes, what was that title again?” He tapped his free finger against his cheek, as if deep in contemplation, all the while inching the novel back every time Julia shifted her weight slightly, in preparation for an attack. “The Salacious Memoirs and Confessions of a Buxom Barmaid?”

  Julia ground her teeth together. Though he was looking at her and not the title, she was perfectly certain that he was mangling it on purpose. “That’s not in the title,” she said throu
gh gritted teeth. “And really, please, you should return. You will be noticed.”

  She reached out an arm quickly, though not quickly enough, and Charles rather carelessly swung the book away from her and then set it beside and almost behind him on the chaise, with one hand resting on it, guarding it from her.

  He ignored her pleas and continued on the topic he was clearly most interested in pursuing. “You’re right of course, it’s not in the title. Though it’s implied by the ‘buxom’ part, don’t you think? I can’t think of any buxom barmaids whose confessions wouldn’t be classified as salacious. That’s rather the point of confessions in general, isn’t it?”

  Julia’s blush intensified, but she refused to look away. “She’s a widow, not a barmaid.”

  “Well, then, that settles it. They’re definitely salacious. I’ve yet to meet a busty widow who wasn’t filled, overbrimming, with indecent thoughts.”

  Julia took a deep breath and then let it out. She knew she was about to let her temper get the better of her, but for some reason, she just didn’t care.

  “This book has more than just those bits, which always get glossed over anyhow. This particular author happens to have a superb sense of dramatization. I’ve yet to read anyone who can parallel his minute attention to detail when it comes to everything from scenery to architecture, and what’s more, he’s deft at blending action, adventure, and just the right amount of the absurd. It’s a delightful, engrossing read during the fact, and what’s more, Mrs. Paleski and I have a wonderful time dissecting the errors and omissions afterward. Besides, and far more to the point, you irritating, impossible man, you must, must, must return. Even if you care nothing for your reputation, keep in mind that I do.”