Worth Winning

by Elling, Parker

  Charles chuckled again, even though he knew it probably wasn’t helping his cause. “Not at all. My own changes in fortune are entirely my fault, and I take complete responsibility. I only wish that more people would.”

  “How so?”

  “Well,” he began, thinking about his peers at university, many of whom had carelessly, recklessly gambled or otherwise frittered their way through what would probably have seemed a fortune to someone like Julia Morland, “I’ve known quite a few young men who were born to wealth and who did nothing to earn their keep.” Unlike Charles, who had studied, who had paid attention, and learned to manage his estates. He’d learned never to spend to excess and had kept up the family name, managed his properties, fulfilled his duties. He knew there was a tinge of pride in his voice when he continued. “Financial security is something that must be worked toward, that requires hard work to maintain.”

  “Says the man who’s now whiling away his days in the country, surviving on the generosity of his almost-friend.”

  Charles ducked his head, and their eyes met briefly as he acknowledged the hit. “As I said, my situation is unique. And, unlike other men who might find themselves in my . . . position, I take full responsibility.” It was difficult for him to take the impatience out of his tone as he continued explaining. He could hardly tell Julia that he made the prerequisite charitable donations, as any man in his position would, to the local churches and children’s groups and whatnot. He just had very little patience for the hangers-on who wanted to preach forever about their bleeding-heart stories. He’d even seen many a man, perfectly capable of work, begging for sustenance on the streets. “I don’t require the charity of others to subsist and would be ashamed if it ever came to that.”

  “And what of other women?”

  He lost his footing and then had to bite off a curse; he couldn’t remember the last time a mere chit of a girl had made him feel this off balance. “Pardon?”

  “What is your experience with other women?”’

  He swallowed and then stumbled and then swallowed again. She couldn’t possibly be asking him about his previous . . .

  “Have you known women who squandered money and were thus left to their own devices?”

  “Well, I—” He found it difficult to gather his thoughts on the subject. They rounded into a slightly more wooded area, and he used the parting of branches as an excuse to gather his wits. What did he know of poor, downtrodden women?

  Nothing.

  He had mistresses, all of whom could fend very well for themselves. All of whom bartered physical attraction for favors. Or, like Loretta, made ill-fated efforts to trade for a more secure future.

  There was his housekeeper, of course, a gently irascible woman of indeterminate age who ruled over his household with an iron fist and who would probably have died before she let the word charity enter into their conversation or relationship.

  “I suppose I don’t have much experience with poor women,” he ventured finally, certain that a lecture was forthcoming. “There are, I suppose, women who have perhaps made poor choices or have . . . fallen on hard times,” he finished rather lamely, knowing that it wasn’t quite the right thing to say, and not knowing how to regain his previous position, the one from which he was able to tease her gently and steer their conversation toward lighter, or at least more amorous, channels.

  “It’s a shame that you think poverty is a matter of choice. Especially in our society, women often don’t get to make the most important choices. If I were to marry one day, what options do I have beyond whom I choose as my husband and protector? And if my protector were a gambler or a drunkard or had a bad temperament, would you place the blame on me? For picking such a man in the first place?”

  “You’re quite vehement on this subject. Is this a pious, love-thy-neighbor stance? Or do you have other reasons for having such an opinion?” He hadn’t meant to sound demeaning, had meant at least to appear interested in what she had to say. Yet it was a tired subject, one he’d heard argued endlessly, and one for which he didn’t necessarily have much patience.

  “I have many reasons,” Julia said.

  “None of which you want to share with me.”

  “None of which I believe you’d be receptive to hearing, no.”

  “I did just ask,” he said, only a bit defensively.

  “Out of politeness, not curiosity. Know that I’m capable of discerning the difference between the two.”

  They walked again in silence for a moment. Julia was breathing heavily, perhaps as much from exertion as from agitation. She was walking quickly now, and though Charles, with his longer legs and lengthier strides, had no problem keeping up, he nonetheless found himself surprised at the extent of her passion. “You’re angry with me,” he said finally, after they’d marched rather too quickly for a couple of minutes.

  Julia paused for just a moment before saying, “Well, yes, it was rather a thoughtless remark to make, and it reminded me—well, I don’t know you very well, do I? I mean, you’re charming, and you come on walks with me, and you seem to want to get to know me better, almost as though you’re courting me . . . which is ridiculous.”

  “Why would it be ridiculous?”

  “Because no one ever courts me,” she answered quickly. “They court my stepsister, or they court one of the Clark girls, but they don’t court me. And now that someone finally seems to be almost interested in courting me, well, it’s just, you’re impossible.”

  “I’m impossible because I disagree?”

  “It’s impossible because, as I’ve already explained, no one ever courts me. I’m not . . . used to it, and I’m certainly not, well, particularly sanguine about the situation. And you’re impossible because you don’t even think about what you’re saying sometimes. You’re just so . . . confident about your views that—”

  He pulled her arm roughly, so that her basket went flying, and then turned her to face him. He put a finger to her lips when it seemed as though she was about to argue and said, “Then teach me. Don’t fly off the handle. Tell me what I’m doing wrong. Better yet, introduce me to a new way of thinking and allow me the privilege of possibly changing my mind.”

  Julia’s lips firmed and then softened around his finger, and she pulled her head back a little. “You’d listen to me?”

  “The least you can do is allow me the opportunity. If I prove completely obstinate and obtuse, well, berate me then. But don’t condemn me straight out of hand.”

  Julia breathed in and said softly, “I’m sorry.” They stood there for a moment, shrouded by relative seclusion in the middle of the woods, both of them breathing heavily, both trying, with obvious effort, to calm down.

  When he thought it might be safe again, Charles ventured, “And what makes you think I’m courting you?”

  Julia looked him straight in the eyes with a boldness he found absolutely fascinating; it wasn’t the dripping overconfidence of his mistresses and ex-lovers, but rather the frank openness that was . . . uniquely her own. “Aren’t you?”

  “I am,” he smiled. “Though usually men prefer to declare such things all on our own, without prompting.”

  Julia bit her lip, trying not to let herself get lost in his eyes, in what suddenly felt like an impossibly romantic moment. She forced her more practical self to say, “I’m not very courtable.”

  “Now who’s making up words?”

  Julia laughed and didn’t protest when he slid both his hands down her arms toward her hands, trapping her within a half embrace.

  “I think we should make a deal, you and I.” He pulled her ever so slightly forward, so that their breaths almost mingled. They were surrounded by trees, with only the trickling sound of the stream a little ways off in the distance. The overall feeling was one not merely of privacy, but of seclusion and intimacy. Here at least was familiar territory. He waited until her breath had steadied, until she had gotten used to standing closer to him, and then massaged her arms ever so slightly
. Just a whisper of movement, enough to remind her of his hold on her. And then he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I promise to listen to any lectures, opinions, or anything else you might choose to send my way about everything, from what you consider worthy charities to my limited world view. And in return, you allow me to court you, without fighting me at every turn.”

  “I’m not fighting—” Julia began but was silenced by his glance. After a moment of eye contact, Julia glanced down and then looked up at him again. “I don’t fight you all the time.”

  Charles allowed a small chuckle to escape and then pulled her deliberately closer, giving her every opportunity to pull back, if she wanted to. “Close enough, don’t you think?”

  The words were practically whispered against her lips, though still, their faces were not touching. Another small moment passed, with Charles’s control almost breaking. He wanted her to be the first one to make the move this time, wanted her to acknowledge the attraction between them. And then, a mere half second before he would have closed the gap between them, he heard Julia whisper, “Not quite,” before she settled her lips on his, gently, hesitantly.

  Charles allowed himself the slightest growl of satisfaction before moving his hands from her arms to her face. Cupping her face gently, he tipped her head and allowed their lips to mingle. He pressed his lips to hers and then allowed her a moment to get used to the sensation before gently applying the faintest pressure, until her mouth opened under his. He heard, and felt, her indrawn breath and knew a moment of intense satisfaction: here, at least, was one way to quiet her, one way to tame her.

  His lips moved across hers with practiced ease, deepening the kiss gradually, allowing their tongues to touch in a teasing, torturously slow tangle that left them both breathless. Charles found himself engrossed in their kiss, in the tantalizingly sweet explorations of her tongue, in the small hitches and murmurs that betrayed how affected she was.

  He realized, perhaps a bit belatedly, that Julia’s passions, her excesses, her tendency to throw herself into all her activities extended to this arena as well. Rather than shy away from his kisses, as he’d half-thought she might, she threw herself into the experience willingly, even hungrily. Her responses incited an answering passion that he hadn’t expected and thus hadn’t accounted for.

  The more controlled part of his brain warned that this was probably as far as he should take it, at least today. Despite her current enthusiasm, she was a novice, and it wouldn’t do to push too hard too fast, but at just that moment, Julia’s hands, now free, came up and wrapped themselves across his back and neck, pulling him ever so slightly closer. He complied and allowed himself to get lost in the kiss. His hands roamed, and almost by instinct, he edged her toward the nearest tree, a large oak that looked, for lack of a better word, quite sturdy. He kissed her mouth and then trailed feather kisses across her jawline and down her neck, until Julia arched against the tree, leaning against it for support.

  Julia’s simple gown was a loose, uncorseted one, and despite the fact that his more logical side warned him to take things slowly, by now Charles found he couldn’t quite help himself. He trailed kissed across the front dip of her dress and then, the hands that had previously focused on her neck and her face were suddenly cupping her breasts, whose shape was not in the least hidden by the dress, and all the more molded and distinct now that her breathing was so labored. He didn’t allow her a chance to protest but quickly let his lips travel back up her collarbone and then her neck, so that she once again became thoroughly engrossed in their kisses even as his hands explored her curves, skimming her breasts and then her hips, flitting this way and that, lightly, and then more firmly . . .

  “Charles,” she whispered, when he finally released her lips.

  He smiled, his head resting to the side of hers. He liked the sound of his name on her lips, perhaps even more than he was willing to admit.

  “Is this what you call courting?”

  Charles laughed. Only Julia would be able to make a joke at a time like this. “Don’t tell me you’re registering a complaint.” He didn’t give her a chance to respond, leaning forward and nibbling on her lips again, his hand roaming across her body again.

  Throwing caution—and all his carefully laid plans about how quickly they should be progressing—to the wind, he allowed one of his hands to dip into her dress and touch her breast. Her rapidly indrawn breath, her gasp of pleasure and delight, while making no move to slow him or draw away, was reward enough. He massaged her soft flesh, delighting in her breathy cries and gasps, pausing only to change course and administer the same sweet torture to the other breast.

  It was then, and only then, that Charles realized he had a problem.

  Julia, in her inexperience, had no idea how far down this particular rabbit hole they’d traveled. Had no idea that they were headed, surprisingly rapidly, down the path of no return. But Charles knew. And he knew that pushing the matter, no matter what his body was telling him, would not be the right thing to do.

  He would not—would not—bed her in the middle of the wilderness as if she were some common hussy he’d picked up . . . he didn’t even quite know how to finish that thought, actually, as he’d never, not even in his bawdy college days, really enjoyed that sort of thing.

  He allowed his hands to be still and was almost undone by Julia’s small whimper. Unselfconsciously, perhaps even unaware of her own actions, she seemed to be pressing her body into his, in mute supplication and desire. Clearly, she was more than willing to continue, having no idea how dangerously close to the line they were treading. If she knew where his thoughts truly lay . . .

  He rested his head briefly against hers and then whispered, “Trust me?”

  It had come out sounding more like an impassioned command than a true question, which had not been his intention. Then again, none of this had been what he’d planned, which was, in short: that they would share a brief (though masterful) kiss, which would show her how their relationship would be conducted from here on out. Of course, as soon as he’d felt her response, as soon as he’d gotten a real taste of her lips and inhaled that simple, clean fragrance that seemed to be uniquely Julia, well, things had gotten rather preposterously out of hand. He allowed his hands to rest briefly on her hips and then slowly gathered the fabric at her skirt. When he was halfway done, he inserted a leg half under the skirt and in between her own. “Sweetheart,” he breathed. It was not an endearment he’d used often, and he was shocked to hear it fall from his lips now, so effortlessly and naturally. He’d think about the ramifications of that particular, rather telling detail later.

  He kissed her again.

  *

  Julia knew he’d planned on kissing her, maybe not at the beginning of their walk, but certainly later, when they’d stopped in the middle of a secluded area, when he’d placed his hands on her arms and then held his face, so serious and stern, so close to her face.

  She’d wanted it to happen, had been eager for the experience.

  She just hadn’t realized, at the time, quite what kind of a kiss he’d intended or that they would stray so very far into what were clearly deep waters.

  She ought to stop him. She knew that. She suspected even he knew that.

  But the logical part of her brain, the part that had always been clear about her moral code and that had always led her away from temptation, had become curiously muted. The only chorus she could hear, over and again, was her own jagged breath, and the almost wanton encouragement of her body, which seemed to be begging, pleading for more.

  When he whispered, “Trust me,” she’d been tempted to laugh and to reply that she didn’t think she had much of a choice. Neither her body nor her mind nor her emotions—none of the elements she was accustomed to grouping together and labeling as herself—seemed to be obeying her commands.

  She had felt his hands moving lower, into what should have been foreign, forbidden territory but could do nothing more than to cling to him, swept
away by her emotions and the sensations he was introducing her to. She had just enough sense to murmur, the slightest bit alarmed, when she felt him slowly gather her skirt, lifting it higher and then fitting his leg between hers, but the moment passed just as quickly as it came. She breathed heavily and grasped at the collar of his shirt, at his back, at anything that would give her even the slightest sense of balance as she felt his hand skim along her thigh. She would have gasped, if he’d allowed it, if he’d given her even the briefest of opportunities to draw breath, but he merely deepened their kiss, and where he led, she gladly followed.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he eased her into the grass below the tree until she was lying on her back, with his body half-covering hers, his leg still somehow wedged between hers. Her skirts were bunched to one side while his hand roamed up and down her leg, fondling, massaging, and leaving a trail of heat wherever his fingers trailed.

  “I’m not sure I . . .” she started, though even she didn’t know how she’d intended to finish that sentence. He kissed her again, and it seemed to become a moot point.

  Still, he seemed to know intuitively what she was worried about, even though Julia was, herself, unable to articulate it. Charles whispered against her lips, “Don’t worry. I won’t go too far.”

  Any relief she might have felt at these words was belied by the fact that at that moment, the hand that had been resting on her knee was drifting slowly, yet inexorably, toward the thin slit in her undergarments. She could feel the cool breeze of the summer day against her flushed skin; she noted the warmth of the stray rays of sunlight, alighting on her exposed body; and yet, at the same time, she was entirely focused on Charles and what he was doing.

  At first, it seemed as though he would do no more than cup her delicate flesh, but then he began touching her, so softly at first that she could almost convince herself she was imagining it. He stroked her teasingly, and then slowly, tantalizing, allowed one finger to part and then enter the swollen, far-too-tender flesh that had become the very focal point on her being. She moaned and gasped against his lips. She felt her hips rising to meet his hand with a sense of urgency that was in complete contrast to the slow, measured actions of his fingers, which stroked and fondled, entered and retreated with an idleness that seemed designed to drive her mad.