Charles smiled and ignored her insults. “Ah, I see. You read it to tear it apart.”
Julia blew at the tendril of hair that had somehow escaped and then rather impatiently tucked it behind her ear again. “That’s not what I said.” She pushed her fingers to either side of her temples, certain that she was rapidly developing a megrim, or whatever it was her stepmother always claimed to suffer from when she and Claire had engaged in high jinks.
“And ‘those bits’ that are glossed over?” Julia closed her eyes in mortification as Charles continued. “Do you discuss those with Mrs. Paleski?”
“No, of course not.” She opened her eyes and reached for the book again, but this time, instead of moving the book away, Charles caught her wrist in his hand and brought it in front of him, and his thumb rubbed against the side of her hand, the edge of her palm.
They stared at one another silently. Julia tried again. “You really should return. Please.”
“If you’re unwilling to discuss those particular scenes with Mrs. Paleski, I would be happy to help. While I’ve already admitted that aphids are hardly my forte, here at least is an arena I’m particularly adept in: I’d be happy to provide clarification to anything you might be curious about. I could, if you like, even demonstrate.”
Julia knew she ought not to let him, or her, do this. He proceeded so slowly that in truth, she had every opportunity to stop him, to pull her hand away, or at least give the appearance of resistance. Instead, she stood still, mute and helpless, completely enthralled by his words and actions. She watched as he brought her hand slowly to his lips and pressed a kiss tenderly into the palm of her hand.
She’d had more contact that with men. Yet somehow, the simple caress felt far more intimate than anything she’d ever done.
“All in the name of—what did you call it? Scientific advancement.”
His hands continued to massage her hand as he kissed her thumb lightly, followed by the tip of her index finger. The kisses were so light, so gentle, that Julia felt a dangerous lulling of her senses, and it was with great effort that she pulled herself back from the brink of . . . something.
A dim corner of her brain seemed to recognize and label it: Danger! Danger!
Yet for a moment, she almost couldn’t help herself. She allowed herself to stare into his eyes, allowed herself to revel in the long-dormant emotions his caresses were igniting across not only her hands but her entire body. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she pulled her hand away, cradling it against her as though it had been burned. “I don’t know why you think you can say, and do, such things.”
Charles stood slowly. He looked at her with a slightly perplexed expression before saying, “I’ll admit that I didn’t plan on that, initially. But you do owe me a kiss, you know.”
“What?”
“The picnic,” Charles said succinctly.
“Oh please, because you think you’re the most handsome man—”
He put a finger to her lips and said quietly, “No, because you do.”
She took in a sharp breath. “Why are you so certain?”
“Why else would you have let me kiss you just now?”
“So, may I consider the debt repaid?” She was a terrible person, she knew, for hoping he’d say no and hoping he would demand a kiss, right now, as they were here together, alone.
“Do you consider me a foolish man?”
Julia inhaled and then wished she hadn’t, for it meant that she was even more acutely aware of how close he was, how close they were, their breaths practically mingling. “No.”
“Then why would you suppose I would think your debt repaid?”
“Because you just, we just . . .” she sputtered. “You just kissed me.”
“I kissed your hand. Which is different from kissing . . . you. Besides, the terms of the ‘command’ and thus your debt, were very clear: you have to kiss me.”
He whispered the last words, so close that Julia could almost taste his breath upon her lips. “I’m not going to kiss you.”
Charles tilted his head to his side. “I’m not going to kiss you until after you’ve kissed me.”
They looked into one another’s eyes—a moment that was unbearably intimate. Though Julia was tempted to demur, to protest and say she wouldn’t be kissing him, ever, she couldn’t quite make herself do it. Though she hated admitting it, she was afraid that he was correct.
Not now. Not yet. Not until after . . .
Julia finally looked away and asked, “Is there anything I can say to convince you to go back to the musicale, sooner rather than later? Now, preferably?”
Charles smiled. “Easy. You just have to agree to stop avoiding me.”
She was silent, trying to decide how futile denial might seem. Finally she asked, hoping that she did not reveal too much of herself with such a question, “Why do you want to walk with me?”
“You’re enjoyable company. You already know about the change in my circumstance, and thus you’re unlikely to cast lures my way, trying to angle for attention all while secretly trying to find out how solvent I am.”
“They can’t have been that bad.” Except she was certain, as soon as she had said the words, that they probably had been. He was single. He was new. He was very, very attractive.
Her doubts must’ve shown clearly on her face, for all he said was, “Worse.”
“So you’re looking for unobtrusive company?”
“Hardly. I’m looking for company that’s . . . stimulating.”
He held his hand out, and Julia took it gingerly, not quite trusting herself to touch him again, voluntarily. They shook, and then he slowly sauntered toward the library door, which, Julia noticed rather belatedly, he had locked. How he had accomplished that task while lounging so nonchalantly against its frame, she had no idea.
He opened the door and then turned back to her, “And just in case it comes up—I was heard, and seen, exiting the musicale. But I whispered, I imagine just loudly enough that one, or perhaps two, of the nearby matrons might hear, if they’d been paying attention, that I was walking home early. I don’t know the women of Munthrope as you do, obviously, but my guess is that the tale has spread. I suffered from a touch of the headache, you see. So, as long as you don’t mention this particular interlude . . .” he shrugged and allowed his words to trail off.
“It’s not an interlude,” Julia hissed, her mind grappling with the fact that he’d thought this through, had planned for them to meet, had had the wherewithal to plant some white lies.
He looked at her, as if disappointed, and said, “I too, can be pedantic about definitions.”
“Fine, but the connotation there . . .”
Charles laughed, obviously baiting her on purpose. He closed the door behind him, and it was a moment before she realized: he’d taken her book with him.
*
Claire considered herself a master of social machinations. Though she heard Mr. Alver whispering his excuse about a headache, she’d hadn’t believed it. If he’d wanted to avoid the performance altogether, he would’ve told someone ahead of time, and allowed his excuses to be made. She’d watched Mr. Alver surreptitiously keeping an eye on her stepsister Julia and had noted his escape, shortly after Julia’s. Something she found particularly interesting was the fact that Julia had returned to the performance earlier than usual, looking flushed and a bit out of sorts.
As the performance ended, and Julia joined her near the back of the room again, Claire clapped and then leaned in to whisper, “We have to talk.”
Julia turned wide eyes toward her stepsister, but all she said was, “You have no idea.”
Chapter 12
Charles had slept well.
Despite the lumpy mattress and the pillow that smelled faintly of mildew, the not-quite-warm-enough blankets, and the rapidly diminishing supply of mint, Charles had rested as only those who are deeply contented with life and themselves can.
He could have kissed Julia Morland last night, of tha
t he had no doubt.
He could, perhaps, have even taken it further. She was attracted to him, that much was clear—and it was possible, though not likely, that he could have won the bet then and there.
The other methods: public declaration, a fake engagement, had always seemed too cumbersome. (For example: How did one then go about breaking a fake engagement? And with a public declaration, what qualified? What would happen to the chit afterward? To say nothing of the fact that then Charles would be, once again, embroiled in a scene, something he loathed.)
The garters had been the compromise.
Robeson had suggested it with a show of reluctance, saying that he supposed some token article of clothing might be acceptable. Though Robeson had protested that Charles might cheat by producing any female garters . . . this proposal had not gone over well.
Even suggesting that Charles’s word could be suspect, that he was the kind of man who would produce another woman’s garters in order to win the bet . . . it hadn’t been pretty, and had it been said of anyone else, well Charles might—just might—have felt sorry for Robeson.
Everyone else had protested. Vigorously. Righteously. For a moment, it had looked as though the bet would be called off. Several men, Billings included, mild though his disposition normally was, had warned Robeson that he was dangerously close to what he called “the line” from which there would be no return, and what was more, no sympathy for Robeson.
While most men of the peerage took pride in things like their word, there were some reputations that were held to be unassailable. Their families were simply too old, too respected, too wealthy and influential, to suggest . . .
And, well, one simply did not, ever, question the word of a man like Dresford.
Charles finished dressing and opened the door of his bedroom. There, at the foot of his door, were his shoes, in the exact same place he’d left them the previous night. Still unpolished.
He put on his still unpolished shoes and wondered how his servants treated untitled guests, ones who didn’t employ a valet and had only one pair of walking shoes.
Charles frowned. Did he have any friends who didn’t have a valet?
Not that he was a snob, of course, but the title of Dresford came with certain benefits and assumptions, of which had always been a certain, rather select group of friends.
Dresford. Funny how, just a couple weeks into this dratted bet, even he was starting to forget that he was Dresford. For that man, the much vaunted earl, would surely never have been seen in such drab clothes, sporting unpolished, badly scuffed shoes, courting . . .
And there his thoughts slowed.
It had been so much easier when Charles had been able to think of Julia Morland merely as the faceless, rather amorphous, barely animate entity known as “the chit” in “the bet.”
Robeson had told him only the bare minimum of information: that she was twenty-five, almost twenty-six, and still unwed. That she lived in a tiny village far removed from the rest of society. That she had never, at least as far as Robeson could attest, been courted seriously. That she had, at times, a difficult disposition. “Passably pretty,” Robeson had said.
Charles let himself carefully out the front door of Langley House, nodding discreetly to the man who seemed to function both as Robeson’s butler and his footman.
Charles snorted. Julia was not classically beautiful, and her conversational style, was . . . well, it was different but not necessarily what he’d term difficult and . . . in some ways she was . . .
Charles’s thoughts drifted again. He supposed, ultimately, that he couldn’t blame Robeson who’d been truthful, up to a point: Julia was a spinster, and there had to be reasons she’d remained unmarried.
It was just that Julia was just unlike any spinster he’d ever known or imagined. He’d thought he’d be wooing a mere mouse of a creature, who’d be glad for a little excitement, a summer romance. That he’d be able to leave her feeling . . . gad, was he really that arrogant?
Yes, yes, he was.
He’d thought that she’d leave their experience feeling glad, lucky, for the brief taste of romance he could offer. That he’d take her garters, but not her virtue, and come away one Rembrandt richer.
And of course all of that had changed, slowly, after he’d met her.
After he’d had a series of bewildering conversations with her that never seemed to stay on topic and always seemed somehow more interesting, and more involving, than any discussion of garden insects had a right to be.
After he’d held her and heard her quick little intakes of breath whenever he was near, or whenever he’d touched her.
After he’d . . .
He hastened his pace, eager to meet up with her and see her again.
For the bet, of course, he reminded himself. And to make sure that she wasn’t weaseling out of their agreement.
He waited, impatiently, at the foot of the lemon tree and looked at his watch. She should be arriving, any moment now.
*
Charles had been sitting cross-legged under the tree, picking lint from his vest and waiting for almost ten minutes before Julia finally rounded the pathway from the vicarage.
He had been half-afraid that she would find an excuse again, bring her stepsister or mother or find some other way to avoid spending time alone with him. But, as she turned the corner, he was relieved to see that she was alone. She had the basket with her, the simple country dress, and the same half smile that seemed to be shy and inviting and inquisitive, all at once.
She was distinctly, uniquely Julia Morland, as Charles had come to understand.
He stood, schooling his features into as impassive a mask as he could. As soon as she stood in front of him, he said, “I’m pleased to see you’re honoring our agreement.”
“One might say that my acquiescence was only obtained under duress.”
One corner of Charles’s mouth tilted upward. He could almost see himself getting used to her brand of humor. “One might . . . if one were prone to using words like ‘acquiescence.’”
“I like reading.”
His smile widened. “As do I.”
She looked surreptitiously around them, and Charles waited an artful moment before saying, “I didn’t bring it with me.”
Unlike other women of his acquaintance, Julia made no effort to pretend or hide her disappointment. “But I’m not done with it yet!”
“Now that is a shame. I find that it improves upon each rereading.”
“You did not!”
“Finish your book? Of course I did. I found it surprisingly, refreshingly entertaining. My favorite part—”
Julia covered her eyes with both hands, a childish gesture that only made her seem more endearing. “You are not to tell me. I won’t listen!”
He waited patiently and then offered his arm. “Shall we?”
“You don’t even know where I’m going.”
“I’m sure there’s a fruit you have to harvest, an herb you just have to pick, or an experiment you’re in the midst of.”
Julia angled her head at him and said, “And you have nothing else to do with your time?”
He smiled ruefully, thinking about the reports that were no doubt stacking up on his desk in London, awaiting his return. “Apparently not,” he said finally. She linked her arm through his, reluctantly, it seemed, and he anchored her to him before pointing in no particular direction and saying, “So, what is the project today?”
“You don’t think it’s possible I’m just going for an aimless walk?”
“You’ve never struck me as a particularly aimless person. In fact, you might be the most aimful person I know.”
“That’s not a word.”
Charles smiled casually and said, “I know, but I seem to find a particular delight in teasing you.”
“You mean tormenting, as in taking my books and blackmailing me into walks.”
“My, aren’t we dramatic today,” he said mildly, before allowing her to
lead the way.
“I’m headed to . . . I’m conducting an experiment. I don’t usually take anyone with me.”
“Miss Morland, my dear, perhaps no one has ever told you that the more mysterious something is, the more it is shrouded in secrecy, the more intensely interesting it becomes.”
Julia flushed and then bit her lip. As before, Charles felt as though he had stepped into a trap and wondered why none of his more practiced techniques seemed to work on her. Worse, why they seemed to have a decidedly negative effect on her.
“I’m not trying to be mysterious on purpose,” she said finally. “It’s actually, a charity project for . . . a charity project I’m involved in.”
“Charity project. Well, I don’t see how there’s anything remotely secret about that. You’re a vicar’s daughter. Isn’t charity a matter of vocation as much as anything else?”
She stopped in her well-measured steps and turned to look at him. “I’ve never thought so, no. I mean, there are so many less fortunate than I—”
Charles snorted. He hadn’t meant to, but it was such a clichéd thing to say, and something he’d heard often enough, usually just before a woman asked for a generous donation for a particular cause, and once, just before a particularly enterprising matron had dipped in front of him, allowing him an ample view of her bosom, as if believing that her opinion—and apparently her morality—on issues such as the poor and destitute somehow gave her full license to indulge her other proclivities . . .
Julia pinched him slightly, bringing him out of his reverie. “Do you find something laughable about charitable acts?”
“No, no,” Charles countered, trying to recover. He began walking again while his mind raced. “It’s more that I’ve found . . . in my past at least, that people who require charity often have only themselves to thank for such a condition.”
Julia took her arm from his and held herself quite rigidly, though her pace, if anything, only quickened. “It is my belief, then, Mr. Alver, that you haven’t had much experience at all in such matters.” She sniffed. “I would have thought that someone who’s recently gone through changed circumstances themselves would have a bare minimum of compassion for others in similar straits.”
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